I got a good chuckle out this one. It might be because my mother never taught me how to tolerate a piece of string up my backside (or spiders, as my mother is known to call them). That’s probably more than anyone needed know, but it should give you a bit of my perspective when watching Sister Myotis.
And I now feel the need to clarify that, while butt floss isn’t my personal fav, I’d chose it over “Sanctified Godly Panties” ANY DAY!
I had to share this link just because the imagery is spectacular. How this could be considered “The Great Debate” is beyond me since there really is only one correct answer and it’s not A.
Thank you to DH for sharing!
I arrived home from work today to hear about The Kid’s day at school. Apparently, they had a small party in class to celebrate the Chinese New Year. I’m not sure what exactly they did learn, but she came home with 2 special treats – a fortune cookie and a large package of Nissin Chicken Cup Noodle. That’s right, a giant cup of just-add-water ramen noodles!
I’ll pause to allow you to gasp and grab your desk for support. I know I did. This blatant distasteful racial stereotype WASN’T my doing.
Don’t be fooled – I checked and there are absolutely no indications of anything but American influence on the packaging. No Chinese characters, “made in China” labels, etc. In fact, the warning label is printed in both English and Spanish. (Don’t get me started). It appears, the teacher picked up a bulk pack of soup from the Cosco this weekend and threw a class party.
When asked what the year was, The Kid couldn’t answer – after all, she learned that in kindergarten (private kindergarten, I might add). After some research at home, she learned that it’s the year of the ox, she was born in the year of the snake, and she can now list the Chinese years for all immediate family members.
I guess we should be glad the Wal-Mart calendars have the holiday marked. Otherwise, the teachers never would have had an excuse to empty that fast food drawer next to the fridge in the teachers’ lounge.
As long as I can remember, we have named our turkeys for Thanksgiving. Probably because of how long we’ve done it, there’s no stigma associated with eating a named food at an annual celebration. That, and I never actually knew the bird by it’s name while alive. (Minor details – I know).
Anyway, this year, Maurice will be joining us for dinner. I occasionally refer to him as the “Space Cowboy.” A few even call him “The Gangster of Love” – I’m not into frozen turkeys. Names aside, I hope you all enjoy your Thanksgiving celebrations how ever you choose to celebrate (named, anonymous, or no turkey). And if you’re hungry, Maurice is more than enough to feed a crowd so come on over!
A big ‘Thank You’ goes to Six for this gem!
Assisted Procrastination 
The Peanut Gallery