Livin' a world of reheated restaurant leftovers...

...and it’s got me so’s I just can’t see !
However, Mr. Buddy Holly Danger Cat’s pawing at something that evidently just crawled under our stove, so for now, it’s probably best to subsist on food cooked in someone else’s kitchen.

Unless I decide I need a protein boost.

I’m eating some sub-average Indian food from Sunday night. (You're intrigued, huh? It is lyrical prose such as this that keeps you praising the miracle of Internet Free Speech, huh?)

It smells so freaking good though; it's easy to forget it did me (ever so slightly) wrong, the first time. Oh Indian food, Indian food: why you gotta do me like you do? (Note to anyone who was previously thinking of to taking me out for Indian cuisine: This is not All Indian food, just food from the middling Touch of India in Toco Hills Shopping Center.)

Anybody else remember that old public service announcement with the pregnant woman sitting on her bed trying to light a cigarette over and over again, but the matches all go out when she touches them to her cigarette? Then this deeply authoritative voiceover comes on and says, “Maybe someone is trying to tell you something.”

Well, I was trying to get our gas stove to light, to reheat this food, and I kept lighting matches and holding them up to the burner, which would light up, and then immediately go out. This happened no fewer than three times. And I swear I heard that voice-over. Only that “someone” is my stomach.

But I ignored it, because I’m a bad girl. Reckless and uncontainable and a bad mommy to my own digestive system. I shouldn’t be allowed to decide for myself what I eat; someone should strictly monitor that. Clearly, I can’t handle the responsibility.