It’s 1:08am, so this counts for Thursday.

I’m up late. TOOOOOO late. But you know that manic, crazy, evil-genius energy you get when you’ve been up late working/ creating? Okay, that I get when I’ve been up late working/ creating? Even if it’s just writing the newsletter for the botanical garden? It’s like I’m avoiding going to bed because then it will be a for-real thing that I’m up this late. I’m crazed! No rules! No bedtimes! No shit!

Here is what I want to say:
Birdy is rubbing off on me. I was just thinking about all of this madness with her (though she had a MUCH better afternoon today) when I realized I’ve pouted excessively AND thrown a tantrum in the last few days. Read on:

Pouting: When Andy picked up Thai food for our little family Sunday night, my Priaw Wiarn had some suspicious-looking Tofu in it, which some people like to call STRAIGHT-UP-CHICKEN, which I fished out and became so, so sad over. A. kept asking if it was going to be okay, if there was anything he could do to fix it, and I just kept up my big girly pout over the Priaw Wiarn while he offered to “Maybe steam some broccoli for you to put in it,” because he is the type of really good guy who understands the importance of deep-fried tofu and the role it plays in happiness. But I just sat there in my chair, pushing my cucumbers around in the rice, and said , “no, (puhhhhhhhhhh) I’ll be okay.” (The broccoli was actually a pretty good solution and the dinner was about an eight on a scale of one to ten, but I pouted anyway. Puhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. It did not change the chicken to tofu.)

Tantrum: At Kroger, I was desperate to find some butternut squash to make this delish-looking thing in a magazine to take to a dinner gathering. Because I am no good at most domestic entertaining and attending I was really taking this thing seriously because I was going to do it RIGHT and not bring something store-bought from the deli but something I had baked up REAL NICE AND HOT in my own oven, even if I did use a Boboli crust.

In any case, we no longer go to swanky Kroger because now that we’re on a budget and the Starbucks is off limits, the drive across town was deemed “total bullshit” by one husband o’mine, and let’s face it, he’s right, so we made up with Ghetto Kroger and we now shop locally. So the GK—surprise—has no butternut squash. I scooted some other squashes around in the display, nice and dramatic-like, and threw my hands up in the air—feh!—and said to A, through my clenched teeth, “THIS is why I say FUCK THIS KROGER.”* So then A. says, “uh, why don’t you ask the produce guy over there?” Which I did, to appease A, and look like a grownup, and further prove that the GK is shit-tay. And whaddaya know, the produce guy appears with a cart-effing-load of butternut squash.

Putting myself in Birdy’s tantrum-throwing mindset, I’m thinking I can view this two ways: either my tantrum was an embarrassing and irrational slip over nothing and I will learn from this, or my tantrum actually produced the butternut squash in a cosmic-universe-give-and-take-manifesting kind of way.

*When I say I said it “through my teeth”, I am serious when I tell you that A. was the only one who heard it, because I kind of seethed it out there. I did not yell “Fuck” in the Kroger. I have a crude vocabulary at times, but I am not a redneck.

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