An exercise in stream-of-consciousness blogging.
We've taken the plunge: we've decided to commit to a weekly CSA box. No doubt, it will be brimming with all the same produce we're drowning under from our own garden, but that's a small price to pay for supporting our favourite local farm, right?
I mean, right?
(I have nightmares of ratty beet greens taking over our fridge and being forced by frugality to make beet green omelets, smoothies and pies until we all die, choking on our beet greens. I've been...meaning to get in touch with a therapist.) (OHMYGOD ANALRAPIST!!!1!11!!)
So, we've been watching "Damages" recently, piggybacked by "Benidorm" (look it up). I have to say, the preposterouness of this show is spellbinding. I couldn't get over Glenn Close's ridiculousness in the first few episodes, but now I rely on it like the TV mainlining freak that I am. Dearest Husband is out of town now for a few nights, and if we hadn't finished it last night, wrapping it up with the final three episodes in a frenzied fury, bedsheets drenched with the sweat of anticipation and disappointment, I'm not sure that I could have sworn fidelity on that one. I mean, I held the show at arms length until I JUST! COULD! NOT! STOP! THINKING! about just WHAT EXACTLY had happened to...
And Holy Shit, that's it! It's done! The demons have been exorcised for I CANNOT FOR THE LIFE OF GOD REMEMBER ANY OF THE CHARACTERS NAMES! HALLELUJA!
Ahem. This house is clear.
To come: A conversation involving Cydwoq boots and how to pass your own personal Douchebaggery test!
(Hint: Cydwoq boots do not equal douchebag! The equal the opposite! They equal a man of exquisite taste and grooming! THEY EQUAL AWESOMENESS!!!)