*monday. bloody monday.

I love:



Gack! Oh, this one was love at first sight. It's a kitchen timer shaped like a chicken who appears to be screaming. And it's inexpensive, too, thanks to the genius that is Books-A-Million.

And I would like some credit for not making the "it was cheep" joke that originally occurred to me. To be fair, I didn't get a lot of sleep last night because watching a movie that started at 11:00 pm seemed like a terrific idea. Turns out I'm 104 and I need 12 to 15 hours of sleep per day. I'm a 104-year-old cat. Needless to say, I wore my cranky pants to work.

GD it, it's 11:00 pm again. HOW does that keep HAPPENING?

So thank you, T! I adore my screechy hen. Although I suppose some credit is due to Manuel.



Gracias, darling. Your instruction is illuminating. I'm sorry J stole your thunder. He was determined to stoically make an appearance in that shot. He finds my crouching in the floor rather curious.

I loathe:



Children's menus. I know I don't have any children, so I don't have any grounds to have an opinion, but I'm a huge fan of groundless opinions. I absolutely appreciate that items on the youngsters' menu cost less and mean smaller portions, but take a gander at this one, from an upscale Mexican restaurant near the Woodside. Hamburger and chicken fingers. What the hoo hah is that ABOUT? Why don't we ask kids to eat the same things grownups eat?

I mean, I get it—palates change. Ask 12-year-old K if she wanted an olive, or sushi. And some things never do change (witness the parsnip furor). But kids will eat more than we give them credit for. You know what pops up on almost every kids' menu, from Ruby Tuesday to California Pizza Kitchen? Buttered pasta. Butter. With Pasta. GROSS.

If I were a kid, I'd be offended.

As it turns out, I am offended. By the fact that in 25 minutes that's the best I could post. That's not even loathing. It's mild irritation at best.

Sorry, lovers. There will be mucho blogging this week, scout's honor. I'm going to collapse now.