They should call 'em "Crack Bagels" or maybe "Your Dealer Ain't Got Nothin' on These Bagels" or "You Should Prolly Go Ahead & Get a Full Dozen Bagels"

I can't stop thinking about that Asiago bagel I had the other day.

Daaang, y'all.

I lunched (<-- is that a word for real?) with a girlfriend Wednesday at Einstein's because, hi, if I'm in charge of picking a restaurant, I will surely pick one with the most carbs per square foot. And because I've been craving Asiago bagels since, like, birth or something.

I think I have a problem.

So I ordered my turkey sandwich, leaned in a bit to the guy and said as alluringly as possible, "On an Asiago bagel and make sure it's a really good one." And then I winked! WINKED!

He did pick out a good one for me. And it was delicious.

That, my friends, is what is called Having Game*.





*Heh, heh, heh. If you know me at all, then you know I most certainly do not have game. I have whatever is the opposite of game. I think it's called Ability to Make Everyone Uncomfortable by My Awkward Behavior and Social Ineptitude**.


**Wait, no! I mean--that's not--I don't . . . I AM AWESOME! SHUT UP!

le French

My roommate Liz and I are alike in many, many ways including our complete lack of ability to control ourselves around carbs. Wait, maybe that's just me. But who, my I ask, shoved 2/3 of a bag of Salt & Vinegar chips into her mouth yesterday?

Oh, yeah, that was me.

But whose desk is currently scattered with empty Dove Promises wrappers? Hmm?



Oh. Still me.





Okay . . . . moving on.



My point is Liz and I have similar tastes and habits. One of our more charming propensities is our customary practice of falling into certain accents when the need (I'm using that word quite flexibly) arises. Yeah, we're "those" people. We're the girls who don't drop our British accents for hours after a viewing of Bridget Jones. We're the ones who insert a "Right, mate?" into every conversation about Australia and I am apparently unable to make spaghetti without sounding an awful lot like Pavarotti. And do not even think about mentioning Nazis around us unless you want an earful of "Auch der wieder! Mein Kampf! Sauerkraut!" (It's a good thing we're not annoying or anything.)

The other day we saw a couple on House Hunters International looking for an apartment in Paris. Obviously, Liz and I had exaggerated French accents for the remainder of the evening. (I ended up supplementing my accent with a sprinkling of Spanish words and Liz sounded more Russian than anything by the end of the night, but that's beside the point.)

At our encouragement she join us, Karen whined, "But I can't do accents!"

"Zis es too baid for yooh," Liz responds.



And we wonder why so much eye-rolling goes on in our house.

I've already contacted the U.S. Patent Office.

You know what's fun?
Dancing around to Usher while getting ready in the morning.

You know what's hilarious?
When you trip (because you're so damn graceful) and crash into your vanity and hit your flat iron and it falls to the floor and lands on your foot and scorches a hole in the slippers you were (thankfully!) wearing.


So my next great idea: fireproof slippers! Totally brill. They would also be very useful if your house was suddenly surrounded by a great deal of lava or hot coals or something.

Pretty bubbles in the air

In a wildly inappropriate movie that I'm not even going to name because I'm so ashamed that I've actually seen it and also do not recommend you see, a character watches his kids playing in the yard and laments, "I wish I liked anything as much as my kids like bubbles."

Me? I don't seem to have that problem. My thing is I get too easily excited over trivial things. I enjoy things too much. Everything in my life is bubbles.

Last night I bought one of those mini muffin pans at Walmart. Dear heavens, I was psyched. So psyched I was up until midnight making little baby cupcakes and cooing at their teensy, rounded tops. So psyched I told all my coworkers about it this morning.

"You can make like a hundred cupcakes with one recipe and they only cook for like 10 minutes and they're daaaarrrling!"

"Yeah, Kim, we know what mini muffins are."

"But, they're so itsy-bitsy! I filled them with a tablespoon! A tablespoon!"

"Yep. That's cool, Kim. Uh, next up on the meeting agenda . . . "

For me, mini muffin pan = bubbles.


And the other day I bought some high-fiber, low-sugar oatmeal and was so surprised it was actually tasty that I couldn't stop chattering about it.

"Mmmm! This is good!'

(bite)

"This is delicious!"

(bite)

"This is the best oatmeal I have. ever. had."

(bite)

"Oh, man. Mmmmm."

For me, tasty oatmeal = bubbles.

What do you like as much as kids like bubbles?

It's alarming how often this happens.

A quick shout out to Cheetah, whose bloggy-style I am shamelessly ripping off. You should probably go read his blog. Like now. Heavens, that boy makes me laugh.

Great Idea #437

We should incorporate Journey's "Don't Stop Believin" into the LDS hymnbook. Not only is it a great song but it teaches an important lesson about enduring to the end. And just imagine how much fun the organist would have with those riffs!