Loratadine + Dr. Pepper = The Keys to My Heart

That is, contrary to appearances, a key. "Penis to my heart"sounds painful.
Unless you're one of those women who can swallow a sword.

Today Scott went to get his haircut and came home with 2 surprises for me: a 60 count bottle of generic Claritin and a 24 pack of Dr. Pepper. I was so happy I teared up.

Lessons to be learned:

1. Guys, impressing a woman is really quite simple. Pay attention to the little things that make her happy. Take me for instance -- my day doesn't get off to a good start without a Dr. Pepper for breakfast and since I'm apparently allergic to life, I'm a snotty, red-eyed, carries-a-roll-of-toilet-paper-around-the-house mess if I run out of allergy meds. Of course, it's entirely possible that poor Scott was just tired of seeing a roll of toilet paper perched on the back of our couch as well as listening to reasons why Dr. Pepper from a 2 liter bottle is just not the same as the good stuff in a can and decided to end his suffering along with mine. But I'm choosing to believe that he just loves me and wanted to make my weekend better. Either way, mission accomplished, sir.

2. When a 24-pack of caffeinated, sugary deliciousness and a 2 month supply of antihistamines brings tears to your eyes because it's the best thing that's happened to you all week, you're officially a hot mess and should really find a hobby, or maybe volunteer somewhere. Or just watch Jersey Shore and feel pretty good about most of your life decisions.

A Thanksgiving Tableau

Attendees at my parents' house this year for Thanksgiving dinner were my parents, of course, my aunt Sue and uncle Victor, and Scott and I. A traditional holiday feast consisting of turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, dressing, veggies and rolls was served. Conversation began with the usual topic of midget wrestling* then moved on to co-workers my dad has had at various jobs, including but not limited to Fish Eye and Broke Toe. Eventually, my dad worked in his schpiel about how men are inherently greater than women. At this point I began clearing the dishes, followed shortly thereafter by my mom and aunt. My dad continued to regale my uncle and Scott with his opinions on women, how they should be kept** and their uses.*** He then tried to help us finish clearing the table and was met with dismay. My mom insisted that he join the menfolk and that they could talk about manly things that we poor women just wouldn't be able to understand. She also told him that the next time he got hungry he could just go to the reservation and hunt him up a new woman.

On Saturday before we left, my dad apologized to me and said he had his medicine and would start taking it again.****

I love family holidays. Only three more weeks to go until the next one!

*If my dad doesn't bring it up, Scott will; he loves hearing about the glory days of the aforementioned "sport."

**In case you're wondering, as I'm sure you are, women should be kept on reservations, then when a man needs one for whatever purpose (see note below) he can just go and hunt one up. Who knows, this could turn out to be more entertaining than midget wrestling. After all, no one said we can't carry our own weapons.

***Sex, cooking, having babies, cleaning, sex, laundry and, obviously, sex.

****Which means that Christmas will be much less offensive but also much less entertaining.

Why I will never keep a food diary.

1. A can of Dr. Pepper.

2. St. Louis Bread Co.'s You Pick Two - I picked the Fuji Apple Chicken Salad and Chicken Noodle Soup, with a sourdough roll and a Dr. Pepper.

3. A Butterfinger and a 20 oz. bottle of Dr. Pepper.

4. Two cold pieces of the Colonel's Original Recipe Kentucky Fried Chicken, left over from yesterday's dinner.

Only 35 calories per serving.

5. A can of Del Monte Stewed Tomatoes. Straight from the can, to a bowl, to my mouth.

6. Two Marshmallow Peeps. (Moderation is key here, folks.)

They only come around this time of year.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

On the upside, the Vending Machine Challenge returns tomorrow, live from the WULAW Commons.