secretagentmama

About the Writer A.M. is a truly unique, versatile creature. Standing about five feet tall, she can be found roaming the wilderness or scouring the mall for a clearance rack. When at home, she procrastinates by writing her blog, anthropomorphity, which is about clothes, music, animals and life, or by posting meaningless but entertaining tweets on twitter.

An example of an Artist Trading Card

One great thing about crafting is being able to grab a few supplies and spend an hour by yourself or with your kid to create a small piece of art you can share. It’s not hard. Honest. If I can do it, so can you.

There’s a little piece of art you can share called an Artist Trading Card. They are 2 1/2 x 3 1/2 inches and can be designed around any theme.

What you’ll need:

• Glue or Mod Podge
• Scissors
• Colored pencils/crayons/markers
• Thick paper or card stock for base
• Fun tools for adding details, like stamps and ink pads, interesting pieces of paper, pages or images from books and magazines, playing cards from incomplete decks, or game pieces.

Tip: Thrift stores are great places to score supplies for these cards (or altered books) because they have tons of reading material for cheap. Add in some clearance supplies from your local art supply store and you’re more than ready to make a trading card.

Why would you want to make an Artist Trading Card?

Glad you asked! The number one reason would be so you can share a piece of yourself. Think about it like a greeting card.

Share one for happy or sad occasions. Share one just to let someone know you’re thinking. You don’t even have to know who you are making it for so feel free to be creative!

Directions:

There aren’t really any directions. Just cut your base paper to 2 1/2 x 3 1/2 inches and then draw or glue on whatever you want! The only real rule is that you sign each one–you know, just like a real artist!

Ready, set, go and create, yo! Share the love. And the card. Because it is a trading card after all.

I swore I'd never let my kid do gross stuff in public. Like pee in a lake. Or drink water from the same lake. Note to self: Do not drink lake water.

Before I was lucky enough to have children (SHUT UP) I thought I knew it all. I saw how my parents and other relatives parented and thought, “I’ve got this.” I also had lists of things I’d never, EVER do when I was a parent.

How completely stupid naive I was.

Look, I was a cocky twenty-something. I mean, my future kids would NEVER misbehave and they’d certainly NEVER do _____ (insert completely out-of-touch-with-reality parenting thing here). I had PLANS, PEOPLE. I read books! From parenting experts and stuff! I wasn’t going to mess this up.

Ha. HAHAHAHAHA!!!

Naturally, I have photographic of every EPIC PARENTING FAIL. I even polled my friends, and it turns out I’m not alone in the Worst Mommy of the Year Category. Without further ado, I bring you the top 11 things I SWORE a blood oath I’d never do as a parent:

Let them use computers, television, video games, etc.

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That lasted about five minutes. He's two here.

What have YOU done as a parent that would make your twenty-something self die of humiliation?

When I was nine, I was strong and beautiful. No one was better than I was.

When I was nine, I knew what I wanted and what I was going to be.

When I was nine, my whole life lay before me, filled with adventure and laughter.

When I was nine, everything was simple.

When I was twenty-nine, I was small and plain and unsure. Everyone was better than I was.

When I was twenty-nine, I was lost and wandering, not know what to do next or what I should be.

When I was twenty-nine, I thought my life was almost over, that it would never be anything special.

When I was twenty-nine, life was so full of twists and turns that I couldn’t see the road ahead of me.

Now I am forty-four, and I am strong and beautiful. No one is better than me (although they are certainly just as good).

Now I am forty-four, and I know what I want and what I’m going to be (at least for today).

Now I am forty-four, and the rest of my life lies before me, filled with adventure and growth and lots of laughter (I think more about now than what’s to come).

Now I am forty-four, and everything is simple again (Knowing what’s important makes it so).

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So, it’s almost Memorial Day, which basically means it’s summer. Know how I know? I just got my WHITE DENIM SHORTS out of their hibernation spot in my plastic underbed storage rectangle, which is like a hyperbaric chamber for bad ideas (also in there: a cashmere halter top and a jersey romper).

Don’t get me wrong, I love jean shorts… in theory.

In theory, as soon as I put them on I instantly look exactly like Giselle Bundchen from the waist down.

In theory, my skin turns from the color of tracing paper to a golden tan the color of fine scotch, and my legs grow two feet, like Inspector Gadget’s did when he needed to climb over tall things.

However, theory only gets me so far.

In reality, I am a bottle of Wite-Out. Apparently.

That’s the thing about summer: It’s so easy-breezy-frozen-margarita-time!, it tricks you into thinking certain things are okay. It’s like Matthew McConaughey in Dazed and Confused. “Hey man. just keep livin’. And try some gazpacho. Wanna play some Ultimate Frisbee in a crowded park?” (I’m paraphrasing.)

It’s time I finally stand up, resplendent in my ill-fitting maritime-themed capris, and say, “Hey, summer–I don’t care how nice it is outside; some things are just NOT COOL?” For instance:

People Who Play Sports in Public Areas

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When I walk through the park or along the beach and see a group of people throwing a ball around and laughing, I don't think, What good, clean fun, or even, Wow, that guy really needs to put his shirt back on. No, I think, I am going to get hit in the face.

Okay, let me have it: What do you hate that I neglected to mention because maybe I thought you might all gang up on me (*cough* watermelon *cough*)? And please don’t use the comments to tell me that you actually look great in capri pants, because then you are just asking me to hate you.

Photo Credits: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Have you noticed how weird people are? Think about it. We express ourselves through cutting our hair into different styles, wearing different colours and shapes of cloth, sticking shiny things into various parts of our body and permanently inking other parts. We like to kick balls into nets, watch people pretend to be other people and listen to different sounds. But this, at the same time as seeming slightly odd, also creates amazing, brilliantly unique diversity in the human race.

We are all so different, not one person is the same as the other and not one person has exactly the same experience, even when at the same event. But most people tend to spend their whole lives trying to look exactly the same as everybody else. I witnessed a group of friends, all female, walking down the street the other day all wearing the same outfit in differing colours. People set trends that are considered ‘cool’, and then the sheep of the human race follow these, therefore making sure they are socially accepted by their ‘friends’ and not made fun of.

But isn’t this boring? I can’t imagine waking up to a world where everyone was wearing the same thing, everyone had the same opinions and the same interests and the same stories to tell. Standing out from the crowd is an amazing thing, and it gives you so much more knowledge, strength and so many more interesting stories to tell. And who are the most interesting and respected people in the world? The weird ones. The ones who were different and not afraid to be themselves, even if that meant being completely different than everyone around them.

‘To wish you were someone else is to waste the person you are.’ – Buddha

About the Writer Unstoppable Nerd (the name kind of explains it all) is a sixteen-year-old school student who spends most of her life on the internet or playing one of her instruments. Most of that time on the internet is spent looking at funny pictures of cats, but she writes on her blog sometimes, too. She also ponders about what food to have next and why Justin Bieber is constantly trending on her twitter page. The most important things to her in life are food, sarcasm, and music, and she would not get through the day with several cups of tea with a lot of sugar in. You do not want to know how much sugar she has in her tea.

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Figuring out whether a relationship is going to last is tricky.

People make a lot of promises to improve themselves, become better listeners. But those kinds of changes are hard to measure. I think what people have to do is work the math in their favor.

Like this:

X = B*U*(L)^2/ (S+H^I)*T

Where

B = Amount of time dating/married U = Number of annoying things the other person does daily L = Number of times the reasons said annoying things are annoying  must be explained S = … I don’t know…

Look, the formula spells bullshit. That’s funny, right?!

Anyway, the point is that any relationship’s success involves some degree of bullshit exchange. It is not, as many amateurs suspect, about minimizing the bullshit. It’s ensuring that the bullshit scale isn’t tipping too far to one side. That’s what we call the “The First Law of Relationship Bullshit”. This principle, which I just now thought of is this: “When two parties engage in any relationship, the level of bullshit each party inflicts upon the other must be relatively equal, otherwise that’s going to suck.”

For example, if your level of bullshit equals “X” and your partner’s bullshit equals “Y”, the mathematical relationship of your respective bullshit should be:

X/Y = 1

The closer this number is to one, the better off your relationship will be.

It is critical to note that an equation in which both parties exhibit supposed zero bullshit results in the mathematically improbable situation in which zero is divided by zero, and thus we determine that whoever claims to have that kind of relationship is, well, definitely bullshitting.

Have you read Bram Stoker’s Dracula? Here’s a recap: Jonathan and Mina are the couple. A foreign guy moves into town from eastern Europe. He retains Jonathan to take care of “business” back home. Meanwhile, said foreigner makes the move on Jonathan’s girl while Jonathan is slowly driven mad by demon whore spawn. The guy, Dracula, turns out to be undead and subsequently evil in that he sucks people’s blood or turns them into soulless demons. Then, everyone figures it out and kills him.

Now, you would read this story and you’d think, Whoa, WHOA, WHOA? Work with heavy travel, Victorian based sexual mores, English people, Eurotrash, really disgusting hickeys, evil incarnate?!! This relationship has so much bullshit in it, there’s no way it’s going to survive!

But you would be wrong. Because math says so.

Jonathan Harker’s bullshit (on a scale of 1-10): 8

(Seriously? I’ve read the book and seen several movies. His stupidity alone merits an 8.)

Bullshit exuded by Mina: 9

(You’re making out with a dead guy. A DEAD GUY. BEFORE breath mints were invented.)

Now, plug in the values of our formula:

Jonathan/Mina= 8/9 = about .88

People, this is a seriously excellent relationship, despite the infidelity and stupidity. Because they get it. It’s not just about being nice to each other.

It’s about being equally mean.

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I don’t care how well you think you know the person you are married to/in love with/living in sin with, the day will come when you look at that person and think…Who is this freak?!

I’ve been with my significant other for over a decade and I’m used to him and his ways. For the most part, I got what I bargained for, but every once in awhile he will surprise, shock, or horrify me. For example, I had no idea that he suffered from a certain affliction when I committed to him.

The only reason I’m telling you about his “condition” is that I’m sure he is not alone. I’m sure many others and their loved ones are affected by this disorder. It is obviously stigmatized, because until I discovered this malady in my husband I never even knew it existed.

What is this infirmity you ask? I am not sure what the official or medical term is, but I refer to it as…

SANDPAPER BALLS!

It’s true. My husband has sandpaper balls.

Don’t worry, it’s not contagious and my nether regions are not affected. In fact, to the touch his balls feel like normal balls, not at all scratchy. That is where the insidiousness of this plight lies. It hides or incubates and an outbreak only occurs when the afflicted person wear jeans.

Case in point:

The real victims of my husband’s scourge are his jeans. They always end up with holes in the crotch because of his abrasive balls.

Tell me, have you ever been in love with someone cursed with sandpaper balls… or are you yourself packin’ a pair?

As I’ve mentioned before, my children fight a little bit. They try to play together but, at 10 and 7, they have very different interests and abilities which makes it hard for them to agree on an activity. There are no kids on our block for them to play with so, when they play outside, they have to play with each other and one or both of them will inevitably storm into the house, throwing his or her hands into the air with the kid equivalent of “I just can’t work under these conditions!”

The one time they played quietly in the back yard, I went out to find that they had dug up a two-foot by six-foot section of pristine grass to plant a garden–and by “garden” I mean that they planted random seeds they found in a box in the garage. As I was yelling, my son interrupted and said, “But mom! We actually worked together on something! You should be proud!”

A couple of weeks ago, we insisted that they play outside and this time told them that they were not allowed to plant any more gardens. They came in and out of the house countless times in the first 15 minutes with questions.

“Can we have a water fight?” Too cold.

“Can we make a lemonade stand?” No lemons or lemonade.

“Can we borrow a hammer?” I don’t even want to know what you’d do with it, but no.

Shortly after that, I heard loud banging noises and ran out to find them smashing rocks on the patio with a bigger rock they had plucked from the landscaping. I calmly asked them to stop before they cracked the patio. They agreed and put the big rock back where they found it.

A few minutes later, I heard them bickering and decided that I would just ignore it. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but I assumed they arguing about which annoying thing to do next. The bickering eventually stopped and I figured they had worked everything out and I enjoyed the peace and quiet.

I got distracted and then realized that the peace and quiet had lasted for about 30 minutes which is a world record in this house so I went outside to check on them once again. My daughter was swinging happily on the swing set and her older brother was nowhere in sight.

“Honey, where’s your brother?”

“Oh… I locked him in the garage. I got tired of arguing with him.”

I unlocked the garage and there he was… sitting in the dark… fuming.

It turns out that she who laughs last has the key to the garage.

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A week ago, Joseph’s school sent a letter home reminding parents of Staff Appreciation Week. While I do appreciate his teacher and the staff at his school, I didn’t actually receive this letter from my ex until today. Three days prior to the event. Three days during which I’m also throwing Joseph’s sixth birthday party and hosting Garden Group.

Obviously, my ex and I need to work on our backpack mail delivery system.

In a panic, I racked my brain, searching for a simple craft project that would be something a teacher and school secretary would appreciate. Little did I know, the answer was staring me in the face. Literally on my fridge. Samples from a craft tutorial I did two Christmases ago.

Glass Bead Magnets

You’ll need:

• Glass beads
• Glue dots or glue gun
• Decorative paper
• 0.5″ magnets
• A sponge brush

Directions:

Step 1: Select your paper.

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For this tutorial, I used a piece of scrapbooking paper with cute little trees. In the past, I’ve used Target ads, Martha Stewart Living pages and even pictures of my children.

Now.  What are you waiting for?  Go get your Mod Podge and get crafting!

I don’t go out to the movies often. If I am lucky enough to secure a sitter, movie-going is about #18 on my list of things I would rather do without children.  It is sandwiched between showing up stag to a pap smear and attending an obligatory baby shower.

I can count on my fingers the number of movies I have seen in the theater since my children were born–and my oldest is 13. If I do venture to the theater, it is usually not my idea.

The birth of the “living room”-style theater and the ability to order food and alcoholic drinks has made the experience slightly more attractive. For the same price as a large popcorn and two sodas, for example, I can order a whole bottle of wine. Though a bottle of wine may not make Schindler’s List funny, it sure upped the ante on 21 Jump Street.

My neighbor purchased tickets through Groupon to our local living room theater that she was not able to use and gifted them to me.  My husband and I had a short window in which to use the tickets so we chose a late morning showing of The 5 Year Engagement without much research.

SPOILER ALERT: It sucked.

Also, given the time of day, we chose not to drink it funny. We were only in the theater 30 minutes before we considered leaving.  Since we didn’t purchase the tickets ourselves, we didn’t have much invested. I just kept thinking of all the things I would rather be doing with my time. Most of them, however, didn’t include my husband.

For whatever reason, we persevered and complained about the 2 hours and 15 minutes we wasted on our ride home. Between the two of us we could only come up with 4 movies that were so horrible that we actually remember abandoning the theater. (That number would grow to five if I counted leaving Porky’s with my single mother covering my eyes.   It wasn’t the last time she brought me along on a date, but I think it was the last rated R movie she took me to in the 2^nd grade.)

I think it will be a while before I return to the theater and gamble with my time again. I will make sure the movie has damn good reviews before I sacrifice a sitter and a Saturday. Or, at the very least, it must star Channing Tatum.

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In the blog world there’s a mission to always be interesting. Thought-provoking. Creative.

But I think people forget that “creative” is a trait you can strive to bring into your everyday world. Whether you’re photographing nature, painting a masterpiece, or finding a new use for cheese with dinner.

Make your efforts creative.

Make your results creative.

Don’t ever forget there’s no wrong way to be creative or awesome.

For some, creativity comes naturally. Others need to realize they’ve been creative this whole time.

These are 10 tips for being awesome with your creativity

Write Things Down

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Always carry a notepad (or start a list on your cell phone) to jot down things that strike your fancy.

WHAT ARE THE WAYS YOU FIND YOUR CREATIVITY? Photo Credit: Abby Lanes via photo pin cc

I have a dance performance on Thursday.

I think these things are usually called ‘recitals’, but I don’t know because I haven’t danced in anything resembling a recital since I was eight. It’s going to be in the auditorium of my school in front of everyone. When I was eight and dancing in a recital, I didn’t really care about anything and I thought I was literally the coolest person on the planet. Nowadays, I still know I’m the coolest person on the planet, but sometimes my brain tricks me into thinking otherwise. I’m freaking out.

This is my first time doing dance this school year. I’m not a great dancer. Yet. People have told me I have natural aptitude, but I’m nervous. I just don’t want anyone to be disappointed in me, and I especially don’t want to mess up. I’m terrified of imperfection. But I’ve slowly started to realize as my brain kick-starts my newly learned defense mechanisms in place of my all-consuming panic, that perfection isn’t really possible. It’s not possible for me, an untrained dancer who’s doing this for the first time in ages, and it’s not possible for anyone.

It’s been a great realization. I’m going to practice nonstop the next few days. If I still mess up after that, I know that there was literally nothing more I could do. I will have tried. I will have put myself in the right mindset. I will have focused. I’m still going to look like the whitest, nerdiest girl you’ve ever seen doing our (fantastic) hip-hop dance, even though I took hip-hop lessons over the summer with my friends. And it’s not because I suck. It’s not because I didn’t practice enough. It’s simply because I am a nerdy white girl, and that’s a part of me that’s here to stay. But dancing is going to be another part of me that will be here to stay too. They’ll just have to learn to live with each other.

And your medley of different parts can coexist, too – I promise.

About the Writer

Gracie is a fifteen-year-old with a lot of ambition who loves cats and her friends and Joy Division. Writing is her sport, and she’s on varsity.

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Is your womb in its geriatric phase?  Fear not.  There’s always a silver lining….

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If you’ve ever flipped through a fashion magazine, you’ve probably had one of those moments. One of those “Oh man, I could NEVER look like that” moments. And the truth is, you couldn’t. Not without real life Photoshop.

The dirty little secret of the fashion industry is that even though these women workout three hours a day and employ personal trainers and chefs, makeup artists, hair dressers, and fashion consultants, even they cannot measure up to the ideal of the magazines.

Thus, the Photoshop snip here, snip there, blur here, and distort there. All they really snip at, though, is your self-esteem and what they really distort is your body image.

Scroll through for some great examples of how Photoshop can transform your body to meet those ideals.

Thighs Don't Touch Ever

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Everyone knows how important the elusive thigh gap is. All the pro-ana sites feature it as a goal. Now you too can reach that dream without diet, exercise (which won't work) or surgery (which might)--just shave a little here and there via Photoshop and a square crotch can be yours! Photo Credit

Of course, the other possibility is that we could realize how ridiculous these ideals are and embrace a real world with real women and their real bodies instead.

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So, if you Googled this to get the lyrics to Common’s song, Misunderstood, sorry. You’re shit out of luck. Don’t get me wrong, you did good to get here, it’s just that I don’t like using adverbs in my title, so my bad there. Because this is a post about lyrics that are commonly misunderstood.

And by commonly, I mean one time by me or someone I knew. Maybe you, too. Who knows? Regardless, here they are. Five songs whose title or lyrics were comically misunderstood.

Prince,

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So, here's the deal. I never got this one wrong, but my friend Frank did. He thought Little Red Corvette was Please Evette Come Back. Which I think is really sweet. Prince being so vulnerable, that is. Photo Credit: Flickr

So, hit me up. What are some of your misunderstood lyrics?

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Years back, I went home over Fourth of July weekend to Peoria. Aside from Caterpillar and the birthplace of Richard Pryor, Peoria also has a strip club that is reasonably well-known, named Big Al’s.

What’s really amazing about this joint is that the women will take off all of their clothes and you can drink liquor. From what I understand this is relatively unique; however, I only have the 2011 Fodor’s Guide To Peoria Boobhouses, so I’m not totally up to date.

I was with a large group of friends at a nightclub next door, and you could walk to Big Al’s (which was connected) without going outside. The leader of our group announced it was strip-club time. Naked women are a good thing.

There’s this lobby in between the two places with couches and chairs. I stood in line with my group near the back.

All of sudden…

“D.J.!”

Out of nowhere, a naked woman with a light dusting of body glitter came bounding over with a great smile.

I did not recognize her.

She threw her arms around me. I took this opportunity to press against her, held the embrace a few seconds longer than socially acceptable, and kissed her on the cheek. (I had to. I’m sure you understand.)

Now, who was this wonderful, wonderful woman?

We released our hug and I gave her a real thorough visual exam. When I finally got back to her face, I came up empty.

“It’s me!”

Me, who? You know what… I don’t care who you are, naked woman! Just don’t leave me. Ever. I need this!

I had no clue who she was or how she knew me.

Then she said her name and I remembered.

This girl is one on whom I developed a massive crush on the first day of high school. We were in science class and since I really didn’t know anyone all I could do was sit and stare at the girls. I had graduated public grade school and decided to go to a Catholic high school. I was also not Catholic.

Naked Stripper was my first high school love. I felt totally inadequate and didn’t even speak to her as that would have been way too frightening.

As I think back to those feelings, I don’t dismiss them as silly or immature. This was love, and I honor it. True, we never kissed or even went out on a date, but those feelings were real.

So there was tremendous satisfaction is seeing my first crush naked, smiling, and excited to see me.

Note: Not that you care, but I did actually get this woman’s permission to write the story. She was thrilled.

Photo Credit: mockstar via photo pin cc

Delfin Paris is a humor blogger from Chicago who attempts to write funny stories on his blog Thoughts from Paris about stupid crap that happens to him. He’s currently #3 on Google for funny blogs and wishes ill for #1 and #2. His most popular story is about the time this past year when he saw his dad’s dick.

Spring is here. The sun is coming out and the winter coats are being put away.

Your BFF is asking you to come along on a spring time shopping spree because when temperatures get higher, shirt sleeves and pants legs get shorter.

Being the awesome friend that you are, you go with her to the outlet mall. But what happens when she invites you into the dressing room to ask you what you think about the coral capris and the white cap sleeve T-shirt she’s tried on?

She stands before you and wants your opinion, and really… you only have seconds to answer before it becomes an awkward silence. She asks, “How do I look?”

We’ve got a handy guide of immediate responses right here for you. Mark it, because stuttering and stammering and a red flushing face will do nothing to convince your sweet BFF of any feedback you give.

1. Make it all about the connection. No one-upping but an “Oh, it’s not you. NO ONE looks good in tangerine. Really. I read it in Cosmo. Not even Giselle. That’s why you never seen her in it.”
2. Embrace her weakness as a strength. “You know what’s really cool about your body? How it was MADE for black. Most people look sad in black, but not you. You rock the black. Hang on… let me run out and get you some black.”
3. Play the flattery card. “You look A-mazing. Too good. Your man/woman won’t be able to stand how good you look. Better not get them, last thing you need is a jealous fight.
4. Be tactfully taciturn. “Oh, man. It’s just too hard. Let’s go to some other stores and see what else they have. Bet you’ll look good in anything today!”
5. Distract them with the emotional route. “Gosh. You’ve always been so brave. Wearing orange on your ass. Wow. You’ve never been afraid of anything.”

The greatest gift you can give your BFF when she’s lost her mind thinking she can work coral capris, is an out. Just imagine her, standing there,  just a girl with orange splayed across her ass and cap sleeves cutting off the circulation in her arms in front of another girl, asking her to love her.

Pull her away from the Summer Boat Collection and tell her you’d rather spend this time together over a caramel macchiato. Remind her she already has clothes she looks good in at home.

Help her step away from the coral by telling her that coral is the first step to a dysfunctional closet, and you love her too much to have anything to do with that.

Photo via Flickr cc

It’s starts so young. When we’re children, even. We judge.

Why do we pull each other apart with judgement?

About our looks.

Our clothes. Our jobs. Our choices.

What we have instead of who we are.

We do it against each other–when we should be on the same side.

We gossip, we pit one friend against the other.

We judge, we laugh, we scoff.

Why don’t we make the choice to help each other?

Protect each other?

Stop the mocking. The gossip. The hate.

We have to stick together.

We need to help each other grow.

We have to help each other reach our goals.

Without our sisters of the world, we stand alone.

We have to keep each other safe from harm.

The women of our past stood united.

Moved mountains.

Together.

They were on the same side.

Let’s make the choice to be on the same side.

To protect, lift up, stand beside.

Believe.

We can.

I died and went to heaven and then came back and ate this cheese- and bacon-stuffed potato skin. OH MAH GAH.

Food. I haz obsession. I pretty much think about food ALL DAY LONG and when I’m eating one meal I’m already thinking about the next. Fortunately, I have the awesomest genes on the planet because I manage to stay in good shape and health.

But I often eat like crap.

For example, my favorite food? Potatoes. Mashed taters, especially. Tater tots. Also? Potatoes with cheese. And bacon.

You know, stuff that’s all fattening and high-calorie and TOTALLY HEALTHY. I have a knack for taking something innocuous and turning it into a 3,000 calorie meal.

I typically eat tons of salad and veggies and soups for lunch but sometimes I engage in some weird eating habits.

For example, If I have leftover mashed taters? I’ll eat a bowl of ‘em cold for breakfast. Or warm with butter. Or fried into potato pancakes with more butter. OR FOR LUNCH! I just dump gravy on them and nuke it. Yum.

Sooo healthy.

I do the same thing with rice. Hey! I have gravy and a leftover mystery meat! LUNCH!

But perhaps my all-time favorite lunch?

Potato chip sandwiches.

Yep, I’ll have some lunch meat and cheese and make a roast beef sandwich with pickles topped with either sour cream and onion or plain chips. Or if I have a turkey and provolone cheese sandwich, it gets barbecue chips. If I have leftover taco stuff I use corn chips for a Mexican-style sandwich.  Tuna also gets plain chips. For ham and cheese, any flavor is suitable, as long as it goes with mustard.

Yes, I’m aware that’s gross. But not as gross as eating ham and cheese with mayo. Ew.

And there’s something about ice cream–I must have pretzels to dip in it. Some folks around these parts like fries dipped in ice cream but I’d never do that to my beloved potatoes.

Because cheese or gravy belongs on them.

Mmmm… gravy fries.

When I was preggers the food weirdness was at an all-time high. I had a different form of potato EVERY SINGLE NIGHT for dinner. The Hubs would come home from work and be all, “Oh look. Potatoes. Big Ben, Parliament. Again.” My second pregnancy, I ate a turkey sandwich with pickles and chips every day for nine months. And for some reason after I had the kid I couldn’t eat that again for a year or two.

Weird.

I’m lucky because I live in the disgustingly-fattening-but-totally-tasty food capital of the world, The City of Brotherly Love, Philadelphia, PA. We’ve got hoagies and cheesesteaks and stromboli and all kinds of good, disgusting stuff. And scrapple. Have you had scrapple? You must try it.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m out of chips and headed to the store.