At least according to Kraft.

I had experimental breakfast this morning. It was a breakfast wrap, some sort of tortilla thing, frozen and in a plastic wrapper.

The instructions on the box say to open one end of the plastic pouch. Put the wrap in the microwave for 1:45 on a paper towel or microwave safe plate. Remove wrap from microwave. Remove pouch before eating.

Ayuck ayuck. Good thing they tole me not to eat plastic! It looks so gosh darned tasty! Yeehaw.

Oh, there’s nothing quite like the feeling of having your wrist go pop! a few days after your husband’s third wrist surgery and then feeling said wrist and finding a lump on it the size of a pea. A pea that hurts like a sonofabitch.

My husband is a man of fortitude. Therefore, when his body goes wrong he can have surgery to fix it.

I am not a man of fortitude. I am a nothing of fortitude. I am jelly. And the thought of surgery is nauseating. Pop.

If this thing gets the size of Sheboygan I’ll consider having it taken off. But I want to be unconscious from three days before until six weeks after. And I want a pony.

Whenever we go to a supermarket, I prowl the cheese case like a… thing that prowls cheese cases.

I’m looking for Red Dragon. It’s the entire point of the prowl. But because I’m there, and because Red Dragon isn’t, I often end up buying other cheeses. Something on sale, or something beloved like a Havarti or a Port Salut.

But in any case (ha! Stand back and watch me pun) for some reason I had never had a Gorgonzola. Never until last night. And my god, what the hell was I waiting for? This stuff is sharp and creamy and buttery and sweet and now I’m hungry.

So I have a new cheese to buy when I don’t find Red Dragon. Someday I’ll find Red Dragon and have to find a new cheese not to find, just to make the hunt worthwhile.

My brother just dropped off the Girl Scout cookies I bought from my niece. Samoas for me. Tagalongs for Steve.

I hate peanut butter. He hates coconut. If we switched cookies, we’d go on a diet.

But we won’t. No one touches my Samoas, dammit.

A fight has broken out on a non-poetry board over the scansion of a single line of poetry in Keats’s “On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer.”

Please mark your scansion of this line:

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

And also, if you want to, answer a couple of questions:

1. Why did Keats say “Cortez” when the real explorer was Balboa?

2. Could he have put “Balboa” into this line?

3. Are other scans of this line possible given your knowledge of Keats?

I’m reading a book set in the 20s in Australia and the damned author has mentioned “Turkey lolly” five times in the first 30 pages.

Note to authors: This is annoying. This is really really annoying. You know that I don’t know what Turkey lolly is because I’ve found a website defining your vocabulary including Turkey lolly. It’s weird sounding, so I remember it, and every mention is etched on my brain.

It’s like Stephen Donaldson using the word “argent.”

Cut it out, you wieners.

… the long knives come out.

What is it about poetry that turns fairly reasonable people into horrid beasts?

It’s the fame and fortune, right? RIGHT?

I didn’t just call Steve a fat pig, did I?

In any case, we have returned, the unconquering unheroes. The grumpbutt is still grumping, despite being given pancakes. The grumpbutt’s cell phone stopped working. Woe.

In any case, when he’s grumpy, he’s healthy enough. It’s when he gets listless and compliant that I worry. Oh, who am I kidding? I worry all the damned time.

The call came. Steve’s surgery is at 3:30. He can’t eat or drink anything until then.

He’s going to be a big fat grumphead. Loverly.

But now I can go back to bed and he can grump at the cats.

I like this plan.

I sit here at my desk waiting. We don’t know yet when to go in for the surgery. They are to call this morning. So I’ve been up since six waiting.

A few days ago, we switched our phones to Vonage. Goodbye SBC, you morons! Goodbye cruel world!

But that means that for the moment we only have one phone, and it’s right here on my desk. My desk is right here in the office. The office is right here downstairs. The bedroom is up there. *points*

So I began to fret that I wouldn’t hear the phone. I would have. There’s little doubt about that. But fretting is a major portion of my personality. If I didn’t fret, I’d just stare at the wall and drool.