My initial thoughts on the Taco Bell breakfast menu
This menu looks like it’s from Bob Evans. It’s embarrassing.
Where are my huevos rancheros? At least, at LEAST, they could have put chorizo in the sausage and egg burrito.
A hashbrown? A HASHBROWN? Jesus.
I expected better, T Bell. I really did. I mean, you put spicy Fritos inside a burrito! You made a taco shell out of a DORITO. Now that’s what I call a game changer. Not this bullshit.
GVOYW: Thank you, my babies.
N: I can never remember with Chris and Tracie, who’s Poops and who’s Peeps?
S: Here’s how you remember —
N: Wait! Tracie’s Poops because she shits herself?
S: No, but now I’m gonna Tumblr this.
Poops and Peeps: The Only Married Tumblr Team
(The way to remember it is Tracie’s brain is made of marshmallow peeps.)
Here’s a new mash-up that’s perfect for getting ready for Friday night! “Till The Dream Ends” by DJ Lobsterdust:
Someone finally figured out that the only way to make Stevie Nicks palatable is to mash her up with some B. Spears.
Britney 4-eva.
One more. Should I call this “Ivycans” or “Infinite Poops?”
Just found out my husband has been to a John Mayer concert.
YEAH! FUCK BOSTON!
But seriously, if anyone feels like running this or the half-marathon or just getting drunk and eating hamburgers with me at Tassero’s after the race, send me some fanmail or something.
I signed up for this, too. I’m not wild about Pittsburgh, but, hey, there aren’t that many marathons that have the word “dick” in their title, so fine.
When you register, they let you type in the name you want to appear on your bib so people can cheer for you, I guess. Chris put CHRIS, so I’ll be the only T-BONE running the marathon.
Tassero’s is great and all, but for what it’s worth, I’ll be at Primanti Brothers after the race.
Our graduate student employee: I hope nobody else walks in and sees you eating over your trashcan like that.
Elton John - “Funeral For a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding”
The summer after high school, I worked at the same place as my dad. The most direct route to the office was four miles away from our house, but the majority of the drive was down Main Street, a two lane road that was often stop and go during rush hour. There was also a back route you could take that was almost twice as long but there was never any traffic so sometimes it was faster, or at least it felt faster since you were moving the whole time.
We usually drove separately to work since Dad went in earlier and stayed later than I did, but every once in awhile we’d drive together, and on the way home, we’d pop in Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and race home, trying to pull into the driveway before “Funeral for a Friend” ended. We never made it if we took the back roads, but on days when traffic was light on Main Street, we’d roar into the garage, windows down, the final notes of the song blaring triumphantly as we sat in the car until the song ended. I wonder if our neighbors were ever puzzled by our manic celebration to what I assume is meant to be a sad song.
Things I’m not very good at:
- staying out late
- dressing nicely
- understanding what people are saying in loud places such as bars
- drinking champagne responsibly
- dancing
So New Year’s Eve is not my best holiday. (I’m very good at eating barbecue and drinking beer in parks/on rooftops, so I am aces at the 4th of July.) But this year was super fun. We went to the Abbey, like we always do, because it is across the street, and after the year I called my dad in Ohio at 3:30 in the morning to ask if he could come pick us up in Fort Greene and drive us home, I instituted a walking radius rule. I wore my New Years Pants and a t-shirt that said “I can’t wait for the FUTURE.” Megan and Chris and Amy met us there, and Amy goes, “Do you like my pants? GUESS WHAT? THEY’RE SWEAT PANTS. I just put on nice shoes and a sweater with them, and no one notices!” You’re never too old to have heroes, kids.
The bar cleared out after midnight but we stuck around because the bartender kept playing Whitney Houston songs and, after all, it’s a NYE tradition that the five of us are the only people in the Abbey who stay and dance in the back alone until 2:30 am. We ended the night trying to do the lift from Dirty Dancing. It went about as well as you’d expect.
On the way out, Megan went up to the doorman, grabbed his face, said, “MERRY CHRISTMAS!” and kissed him on the lips. It’s not New Year’s Eve if Megan doesn’t kiss a doorman.
If you get a mysterious text about hot dogs 99 times out of 100 it’s from me.
Fancy main course: roast chicken and fatty drip potatoes.
