There are things I don’t trust.
High waisted camel inducing jeans.
My love for Ke$ha and Nikki Minaj.
People who you see running in normal clothes.
That Mr. Noodle isn’t a creepster.
Any diet that tells you that you can’t have alcohol. Aka. Paleo.
Paleo madness. It’s everywhere. It’s all I hear about. Paleocrosffitcrazysunshineymusclebs.
Yesterday I made some paleo cookies (meh?) and some "spaghetti" which was actually really good. I paired it with a glass of wine.
Man. I thought I was going to lose 300 lbs by eating 25 paleo snickerdoodles and my "spaghetti" (which my child LOVED, btw. And so did the hubsters—once he confirmed that it was, indeed, real meat in there.) General basic recipe for my normal sauce only with tons of greens added and you couldn’t even tell. On top of a bed of zucchini "noodles." G did ask me… Mama, where the spaghetti? Whatever, I feed him lies all the time. Like when he said, "mama, are you crazy?" the other day and I told him "no." He caught on though because he replied back, "mama, you’re crazy." Crazy is his new word. Not my new demeanor. (right?... maybe.)
Now I’m down for eating clean and healthy and all that jazz. Not that I do all of that, but you know, I’m down with it. However, once you take away alcohol? I’m going to have to say no deal. I mean, I am already in bed by 10:30 and up by at least 7 what else do you want from me, life? I’m not giving you Ke$ha or Nikki either. I’m keeping them. And Britney. And Kanye when I run. You can own your Capri pants and high waisted jeans—but I’m going to look at you with squinty eyes. Especially, if you are paleo.
Can’t you feel that boom ba doom doom boom da doom dom bass.