Tales from La La Land

This was one of those incredibly vigorous work weeks, which can be both fulfilling and exhausting all at the same time. There’s nothing better than feeling like you’re a part of something big, and that perhaps your small part contributes to the overall success. At the end of each day this week, I definitely felt like my cocktail and bath were both well-deserved.

Sidenote: This is why I did not recap Top Chef. I watched the first half on Wednesday, and finished it last night. All I can say is: Gross. These people are gross. Plastic on a toilet bowl? Really? I’m struggling to pick out whose restaurant I’d actually want to eat at.

Now that it’s Friday afternoon, and the week is wrapping up, I am looking forward to a weekend where Laef and I can spend two days doing whatever we feel like doing. And, if what we feel like doing is nothing, then so be it. Since moving into our new place 3 weeks ago, it doesn’t seem like we’ve had a single day to put up our feet and relax. We’ve spent every weekend since the move getting our place in order. Saturday’s are filled with trips to Target, IKEA, furniture stores, more trips to Target and even more unpacking. Sunday’s seem to be filled with grocery shopping, putting together furniture and doing laundry. Basically, we’ve spent almost a month getting caught up.

I think we’re finally caught up (barely), and this might be the first weekend where we won’t have any pressing house issues. We don’t have any boxes left to unpack, and I think I’ve bought everything there is to buy at Target. There’s nothing on the schedule.

I think I just got a heroin high from typing those words.

Between work and moving, I am exhausted. But, let me tell you about the good news! Our new place has a bathtub! It’s a minor thing, really, but now I’m wondering how I got through long days without the essential 2Bs, 1C (Book, Bath, Cocktail). Upon arrival into the house after work, my routine is such:

1. Drop my shit in the middle of the floor.
2. Run the bath water.
3. Make a cocktail.
4. Make sure the cat is breathing. And fed.
5. Make sure Laef is breathing.
6. Get my book.
7. Disappear for 45 amazing minutes.

Our place also has hardwood floors and one of our new pastimes is throwing The Sanch down the hall on his back (think of yourself doing it in your socks, only it’s a cat.) We also have a balcony, which The Sanch has decided will be his new hang out. It gave me a heart attack at first, but as Laef so gently put it, “Probably he will land on his feet if he falls.” He seems to have mastered it, but the problem is when he sees a bird fly by he gets anxious and contemplates jumping a little too hard for my liking. To which Laef says, “Probably he will land on his feet if he jumps.”

So, anyway, summer is coming to an end. We are one month away from the start of college football and inching closer towards college basketball season. While I do miss Laef when he is traveling, there is a whole new crop of restaurants and shops in Brentwood that are screaming for me to explore.

T-minus one hour until happy hour!

TGIF.

Tonight will be our last night in our little beach cottage. All this time we thought it was a modest 700-square foot dwelling that we made work because we were steps from the beach. It’s easy to justify having no closet space when you see this everyday. However, the other day Laef got out his measuring tape to figure out what the actual square footage.

500 square feet.

That made it even easier to continue packing boxes in anticipation of moving into a place with some real space. Not that our new place is huge, but compared to what we’ve been making work for 3 years, it’s going to feel like we can breath a little. I honestly don’t know how we made it work, but I guess we just like each other a lot to be that close day in and day out.

Despite the size, the lack of air conditioning and the commute to work, it’s a little bittersweet to be leaving. When I ran the Eugene Marathon in May, one of the things that kept me occupied was the fact that by running 26 miles around Eugene, I went past almost every place I lived in when I was in there. Between 1996-2007 I lived on Harris St., Mill St., 18th Street, Ferry St., 245 Marche Chase Dr., 295 Marche Chase Dr., Crest Dr., and Cal Young Rd. I moved almost every single year while I was there.

I have no idea why I did that.

Poinsettia Ave. in Manhattan Beach has been our home for 3 years. That is the longest either of us has lived anywhere since leaving home at 18.

There are a lot of memories.

The Six Man. That was one of the first things we did after moving in. We didn’t know what to expect, and let’s just say it became one of our favorite things to do every year. People are insane. And, it looks like we’re moving just in time because the city is trying to crack down on it big time.

Perfect Sundays. There was no better place to walk out your front door and go on a walk. We could walk to the beach, or we could just walk around the neighborhood and look at all the houses we will never buy. We went on many, many walks. It was also the perfect town to train for a marathon. I think I’ve ran on almost every street in Manhattan Beach. There’s no other place I would have liked to train. I will miss my running routes.

The Check Out Lady At Ralph’s. OK, this is random, but the same lady has worked at the self-checkout line at Ralph’s since we’ve lived here. I love going through self-checkout whenever possible because I really hate the way people bag my groceries. Yes, I am anal, but honestly, when grocery baggers put 3 things in one bag and then double bag it, I hate it. As we all know, I used to have problems with the self checkout. But, I got better, and this lady is always there to quickly save you if things go wrong. Eventually, she stopped asking for my ID (I guess she kind of got used to the wine purchases), and would exchange eye rolls with me when there were people with 700 items trying to go through the self. Randomly the other day I said bye as I was leaving and she said, “I don’t know why, but you always make me smile when I see you.” I already liked her before she stroked my ego, but that was so nice to hear at the end of a long day. I told her that I felt the same way. Then I told her we were moving. I couldn’t believe that me and the Ralph’s check out lady had gotten so close.

That’s the thing about moving. It’s hard to leave your routine behind. I have my favorite grocery store, my favorite sushi restaurant, my favorite bar, my favorite dry cleaner, my favorite gas station, my favorite breakfast spot, my favorite running routes, and my favorite memory of all: my wedding day.

Sanch has his favorite windowsill and his favorite barf spot, so he is also struggling. At this point he has no idea what is going on, he only knows that there is a lot of cardboard to eat, and a lot of boxes to play with. What he doesn’t know is that he’s about to enter a world with an air conditioner. His life is going to change forever.

We will have an extra room, and I won’t miss  people having to sleep on an air mattress on our living room floor.

Will also not miss: The 405, overpriced touristy restaurants and questionable plumbing.

Brentwood here we come!

We are now in our last month of beach living and trying to enjoy every second of it. Unfortunately, June Gloom is not cooperating with our desire to spend every waking second at the beach. Couple that with the fact that it took me 1 hour, 10 minutes to make the 12 mile drive home from work yesterday, and we are actually really looking forward to moving closer to UCLA.

Because it is summer, and UCLA student-athletes are not around much, Laef had this entire week off. I believe he spent Monday on the couch. I also believe that he has not worn underwear all week, but I try not to ask too many questions. However, I did shed a small tear when I called him on Tuesday and he was outside in our storage shed organizing things to prepare for the move. I shed 6 more tears when I came home and saw the trash cans filled to the brim with random shit that he had finally decided we no longer needed to keep.

Feeling super accomplished after Tuesday’s events, my sources (Sanch) tell me that Wednesday was spent on the couch. On Thursday, Laef had to stop by work for something, so he decided that while he was showered and wearing underwear, he would go look at some apartments.

We had a short list of top choices near UCLA.

We are seeing one of these places on Sunday, but he decided to do a drive by to check out the area. He liked it, and across the street from the apartment complex was another building that had a for rent sign, so he called the number. Apparently, a 70-ish year old lady answered and hit Laef with a barrage of questions. Are you alone? Is it you and your friend? Oh, it’s your wife? Do you want to wait for you wife?

Eventually Laef cut her off to let her know that he wanted to see the place, and also tell her we have a cat so if that’s a deal breaker, no need to waste her time.

Laef: “We have a cat. Is that OK?”

Cat-Eater: “Um, oh. Does it run around outside?”

Laef: “No. He stays inside.”

Cat-Eater: “Do you have to bring it with you?”

No, bitch. We are leaving Sanch in Manhattan Beach to become a surfer dude and pay his own rent.

Besides, who would play Cribbage with Laef if we abandoned The Sanch?

It only got better once Laef was actually able to get inside to see the place. When she showed Laef the bathroom she said, “A perfect place for your kitty”.

So, yeah, whatever that means.

During the day, I called on another place that was in a perfect location. I asked the guy if it was available right now because we won’t be ready to move until July. He said yes. I said I’d keep an eye on it, and if it’s still vacant when we’re ready to move, I will call him back.

Creepy Landlord/Hustler: “Oh, you’ll watch it like Wall Street, heh?”

Me: ….

CL/H: “Why don’t you pull the trigger. Put a deposit.  I’ll hold it for you.”

Me: “Ihavetogobye!”

It’s not so much what he said, it’s how he said it. I pictured him in a wife-beater with mad amounts of black chest hair protruding and a gold Rolex that he picked up on Canal Street. He was super pushy wanting to get confirmation without us having seen the place or met him.

In a sense, we are interviewing landlords as much as they are seeking good tenants. I don’t want to be hustling with my landlord every month or worried that The Sanch’s mug will end up on a milk carton. But, there are a TON of vacancies all over the place and it seems with the economy the way it is, landlords want to find people to fill those empty apartments. So much so that they’re willing to consider a cat even though it’s obvious they hate cats.

After meeting with creepy lady who hates cats, Laef went to our top choice to check it out. I called him later to get the scoop and see if he liked it.

Me: “What did you think?”

Laef: “It doesn’t have a shower.”

Me: “Say what?”

Laef: “It only has a bath.”

Me: “How? What? I don’t ….”

Laef: “You like baths.”

Me: “Not in the morning at 6:30 when I have 5 minutes…OK, we are not even having this conversation. I’m not taking baths everyday. Who takes  a bath?”

As my friend Erin said, Ernie takes a bath. That is who takes a bath.

Or Kate Winslet.

So, yeah. I’m not a Muppet, and therefore we are not moving to a place without a shower.

To Be Continued.

As Laef and I near our one-year anniversary, I am learning all sorts of things about marriage. Yes, it’s about the usual things that people tell you – compromise, partnership, love, fighting for covers, debating at Blockbuster for 30 minutes, disagreeing over American Idol finalists, and major debate over what constitutes good television.

It’s also about the little white lies we keep. I’m talking about harmless things, not “I just bought a $300 Coach purse and am not telling my husband” lies. I don’t know what little white lies Laef keeps, but I know his ass gets per diem on every road trip, yet he never seems to mention how much or show me where he keeps his secret stash. I can respect that. Everyone needs a secret stash to do with what they please. (Laef will tell you that he ends up spending his secret stash on me, but really, he will treat me to something in hopes of some kind of sexual something, so technically, he is spending his secret stash on himself. Hold up. Did I just call myself a prostitution whore?)

So, anyway, I might have woken up to a giant pile of Sanch barf yesterday morning. And I might have pretended to not see it. I might have left it for Laef to wake up to.

Sidenote: Before you start calling me mean names, let me quote Lt. Col. Matthew Markinson: “I don’t want a deal and I don’t want immunity. I want you to know that I am proud neither of what I have done nor what I am doing.”

I really hate Sanch barf. And I know leaving it for Laef to wake up to was an uber-shitty wife move. Of course Laef called me on his way to work, asked if I saw it. I fumbled around a little, kind of dodging the question. To make myself feel better I said, “Doesn’t matter because I would have left it for you anyway”. Then he goes on an on about how I will need to start learning to deal with barf. Somehow I feel like a baby that comes out of you doesn’t have nasty barf like a cat who licks its ass. I could be wrong, but I’m banking on it not bothering me quite so much.

Fast forward to last night when I’m talking to Sanch (um, yes, all people with pets talk to them) and I say something like, “Let’s not leave a pile of barf overnight for us to wake up to”.

FUCK.

I IMMEDIATELY got the evil squirrel eye from Laef. (Thanks for the video, Erin!)

I felt like an asshole.

I tried to justify it because the night before, Mr. Perfect Husband made a bag of popcorn. We were settled in to watch the 24 finale (check that, I was settled in to fall asleep to the 24 finale), and Laef cozies up to me on the couch with his popcorn. So, of course I reach for the bag and Laef yells at me: “My popcorn!”

The fuck? Who doesn’t share a giant bag of popcorn? When the butter is wafting in front of my face? It’s almost like the time he instructed me to eat AROUND the giant chunk of brownie in HIS ice cream tub.

So we both do things that are questionable, right?

OK, yes, I know. Leaving a pile of barf > Not sharing popcorn on the Fucked Up Scale.

And, BTW, I fell asleep the other night and Laef took this picture. Why I allow a barfing, asslicking, litterbox using cat to get up in my grill is a question I constantly ask myself.

UCLA is shut down this week for Spring Break. And, because of furloughs, they actually closed most of the departments in the school. Therefore, I am home drinking lime vodka and soda, sunning my gams and mentoring The Sanch. To be honest, The Sanch is not playing along with my Spring Break bliss. He is normally on a very tight schedule: Up at 6:30 a.m., fed at 6:31 a.m., licking the shower door at 6:43 a.m., perched on the windowsill at 7:10 a.m. to say his good-byes.

Today started with him crying at the bedroom door at 6:30 a.m. I exercised the “let him cry until he falls back asleep method” and he was quiet for a while. Eventually we all fell back asleep, but at 9:20 a.m., The Sanch was starving. I was also scarred by my morning dreams, which included Laef engaging in a private volleyball match and super secret text messages, both of which he told me I couldn’t know about. (When I  told him about my dream, he informed me that there’s a cease and desist order on my reading coverage about Sandra Bullock and Tiger Woods).

Anyway, I woke up relieved to know that my husband is not Jesse James, but that my cat doesn’t appreciate change. I fed The Sanch and he then proceeded to walk around the house meow-ing. Non. Fucking. Stop. It’s like he was messed up by the fact that I was there and couldn’t do his super-secret Tiger Woods shit (lounging on the counter, drinking from the toilet, texting the skank next door). Or, he wasn’t tired enough to nap.

I’m a nerd and so my first order of spring break was spring cleaning. Then I made a fruity drink and sat in the sun. Then I watched a double feature of Swingers and The Proposal.

Basically, I was killing time until March Madness starts up again. I finally revisited my bracket today to figure out where I’m at and if I even have a chance to win. It’s still too hard to tell, but I know this: If West Virginia loses, I am fucked. It would be great if Kentucky lost to Cornell (doubtful) or to West Virgina. Even then, I’m not sure if I’d be in it, but I have WVU in my final so it beating Washington is a must. (Sidenote: Money and pride aside, I would love to see the Huskies win).

So, day 2 of Spring Break will be all about the hoops. I would love to be in Vegas again, but I’d probably lose my ass AGAIN so it’s better to be on my couch high-fiving The Sanch if WVU wins.

My last post was two weeks ago and something about being pregnant and going to Target on a Friday night?

Well, let me tell you, things have only gotten more exciting since then.

Not.

Laef has been gone a lot over the past two weeks, which is normally great news for me (shopping, watching crap TV, eating). The first weekend he was gone – Valentine’s Weekend – I celebrated by myself at the 3rd Street Promenade. The weather was nothing short of spectacular, I found amazing sales and indulged in a dark chocolate crepe and champagne.

It was a good substitute for spending the afternoon without Laef, but as the weeks press on during basketball season, I’m definitely missing my partner in crime. Sure, I don’t laugh at his ridiculous jokes and he takes up way too much space in the bed, but isn’t that the whole point of marriage? Having someone to talk to besides your cat?

The Sanch and I are getting tired of each other. I know he appreciates my lack of discipline and the fact that his nails have not been clipped since basketball season started (I make Laef do all of the jobs that would lead to the cat liking me better), but he also appreciates it when the litter box is cleaned more regularly.

We’ve run out of things to talk about.

Laef was gone again this past weekend, but I was pretty much shopped out and had honestly run through my entire list of “things that keep me occupied and happy while Laef is gone”. I have painted my nails no fewer than a dozen times over the past two months, colored my hair, gotten a facial, gone out for sushi, made three trips to Pinkberry, watched The Notebook, watched marathons of 16 & Pregnant and Keeping up with the Kardashians, reorganzied the closet and watched the entire Season 4 of Friday Night Lights online.

So, now all that’s left is preparing for this marathon.

That leaves me with running as my “fun thing to do when Laef is gone”. Except that it really isn’t all that fun sometimes.

My hips are wondering when exactly I turned 74. My toenails are no longer on board with marathon training. And my iPod can not believe that I downloaed LA Candy by Lauren Conrad (I won’t even try to justify it or give you an explanation other than to say that I don’t want to be bogged down with Homer when I’m running 13 fucking miles. I have enough to worry about).

My body seems to be holding up fairly well, but I am also working really hard to make sure I do all of the right things. Which means when I got a text on Saturday from a girl I recently met through a UCLA carpool system asking me if I’d like to go out on Saturday night, I had to decline. OK, if I’m being honest, it had more to do with the fact that her text said, “I can pick you up around 10 and we can go have a few drinks before heading out around midnight.”

The fuck?

As lonely as I am, and as much as I need human convo when Laef is gone, I would need 6 Adderall’s to go out according to her schedule. I suppose I would have taken a nap and gone, but I honestly can not go out and drink and expect to run 13 miles the next day.

So, I’m kind of boring right now.

I have only 10 weeks to go until the race and I just keep picturing myself crossing the finish line. All the lame Saturday nights and Sunday’s where my hips creak will be SO worth it when I am done.

Once again the Culinary Throwdown has led me down a road I’ve not ventured before.

This is my second throwdown, and it brought me as much excitement and confusion as the beet challenge.

This time around, La Diva Cucina is hosting. She won the last throwdown, and thus, got to pick the theme: Salt.

Obviously, I use salt to cook. But, I’ve never once made dish centered around salt. Which is weird because Cup ‘O Noodles is pretty much my favorite thing to eat.

I contemplated making some noodle dish with salty broth, but when I started googling around, I learned that there are actual techniques one can use to cook with salt.

In the end, I settled on Salt-Roasted Pork Loin. This is not an original recipe. Because this isn’t something I was familiar with, I figured I’d need a guide.

I have to say, I was skeptical throughout the entire process – how is dumping an entire 3 pound box of salt all over the pork loin not going to make it taste like ass? How is it NOT going to seep in?

So, with all of my confusion…I went for it.

I prepared my ingridents with a little help from The Sanch.

It was so disappointing to learn that you should hide bits of pancetta within the meat to prevent from drying. I HATE delicious chunks of pork hidden within pork! NOT.

That was pretty much all it took. I sliced holes in the pork loin and stuffed pieces of pancetta that were mixed with sage, nutmeg and mustard. Again, I was confused. I didn’t put anything on the pork loin. But, I have to say, the sage gave a really nice flavor.

Once the pork was stuffed with more pork, I buried it in salt. This is when I started questioning everything and started to think we’d be ordering a pizza for dinner.

As it was baking, I made the spicy apple creamy slaw thing that goes with it. I was thrown off by the horseradish. I love horseradish, but I normally eat it with beef, so I was unsure how it would go with pork. Um, it was delicious. Maybe it was the 5 tablespoons of heavy cream.

Finally, it was time to check the damage.

It was amazing. The salt formed a cave, never actually soaking into the pork loin.

After cutting it out of its salt womb, I sliced the pork and served with the apple slaw. It was super moist and an amazing revolution.

Spicy Salt-Roasted Pork Loin
2 1/4 pounds (1 k) bonless pork loin
A 1/3-inch thick (1 cm) slice flat pancetta (see link to photo), cut into half-inch sticks
3-4 leaves fresh sage, chopped
A pinch of freshly ground nutmeg
A teaspoon ground mustard
A green apple, peeled, cored and grated
The juice of a lemon
5 tablespoons heavy cream
3 tablespoons grated horseradish
Pepper
6 1/2 pounds (about 3 k) coarse sea salt or kosher salt

Preheat your oven to 460 F (230 C).

Make as many cuts into the top of the meat as you have sticks of pancetta. Mix the sage, nutmeg, and mustard in a bowl, seasoning the mixture with a grind of pepper. Roll the pancetta sticks in the seasoning and stick the meat with them.

Line the bottom of a baking dish deep enough to comfortably hold the meat with a 3/4-inch (2 cm) layer of salt. Put the meat on it.

Cover the loin to an even depth of 3/4 inch (2 cm), using as much of the remaining salt as necessary.

Roast the pork loin for an hour and 15 minutes.

While it is roasting, squeeze the lemon, collecting the juice in a bowl. Peel and grate the apple, stirring the apple into the lemon juice immediately to keep it from discoloring. Stir in the grated horseradish too, and next lightly whip the cream. Fold it into the sauce too, cover the sauce with plastic wrap, and refrigerate it.

The salt crust will be browned, and may even look burnt because of the reaction between the heat and the juices drawn from the meat. Don’t worry, but rather crack it open, remove the pieces of crust, and brush away excess salt.

I am now t-minus 8 hours from touching down in the state of Oregon. I haven’t been back to Eugene in forever, so I’m heading up this weekend to see Oregon play Cal.

And, in the back of my mind, I can’t help but wonder: What Will The Boys Do?

As in Laef and The Sanch.

I have this really strange game I play with myself when I have lots of chores to do. I will put on one of my shows and during the commercials I will get up and put away five things, or wash five dishes, or put away five pieces of laundry.

Or refill my wine glass.

Last night I had a mountain of laundry to put away and still had to pack for my trip. I also wanted to make a batch of spaghetti for Laef so that he doesn’t eat frozen pizza and six boxes of CheezIts for dinner while I am gone.

I swear to you, if Laef could eat CheezIts for dinner every night he would. My favorite is when he comes home from work and I am in the middle of cooking dinner. Clearly starving, he will ask, “How long will it be?”

If it more than 10 minutes, he immediately grabs a box of CheezIts. Anything under 10 minutes and he’s secretly pissed.

Anyway, last night was the 2-hour season premier of Grey’s Anatomy. (BTW, I am NEVER going to be able to watch ANYONE make ceviche on Top Chef again).

This sets up perfectly for lots of commercial breaks.

I explain to Laef the game, and he frowns immediately.

“I hate chores. Commercials are for relaxing! When are you leaving?”

So while I was putting away laundry and packing, The Sanch was climbing in my suitcase making sure that everything will be covered in fur by the time I wear it and Laef was going on and on about how excited he is about Bud Lite’s new wheat beer.

They wanted no part of mommy’s commercial chore game. Laef has been trying to contain his excitement about having an entire weekend to himself to lay on the couch as much as he wants.

The Sanch is happy because he’ll have someone to do this with ALL WEEKEND LONG:

When I was in junior high I used to make extra cash by babysitting. I grew up in a tiny Northern California town so I was basically the only babysitter within a 20-mile radius.

I was good at that job. I don’t think I’ve ever really grown up, and therefore have always related to kids. Back in the day, I was in competitive gymnastics so babysitting consisted of me trying to teach little kids how to do back hand springs and cartwheels.

That was a good way to keep them occupied AND make them tired.

It was also a good way to make myself tired.

One night, I fell asleep on the couch after lots of cookies and fruit snacks (BEST part about babysitting is eating stuff that you don’t have at your own house). Apparently, the parents arrived home to find all of the doors locked. Seeing as it was a small town, nobody locks their doors.

Which means nobody carries house keys.

Anyway, they spent the next 30 minutes banging on the door, knocking on the windows and ringing the doorbell.

I never budged.

That was my last stint as the town babysitter.

Word gets around in a small town, yo.

That also appears to be one of my last good night’s sleep.

Nowadays, if I so much as hear the refrigerator hum, I am awake.

Nowadays, I’ve got the cat sleeping on my head and Laef suffocating me with his cuddling skills. (His cuddling skills include one hand down my pants and one arm putting me in a choke hold).

I’ve also got The Girls Next Door who are currently not working, and therefore keep very odd hours.

In the past two months the following has occured later than 3 a.m.:

- Playing bongos
- Fighting
- Sexing

I hear every noise in a two block radius. I hear the cat the minute he starts doing naughty shit in the middle of the night. I hear the newspaper man launch the LA Times at every house on our street.

And what kills me the most is that as ALL of this is going on (including the bongos), I can be assured that Laef is in hour 6 of REM sleep, oblivious to everything.

He hears nothing.

Lucky bastard.

It is official.

We are old, married, boring and consumed by lists of shit to do.

Laef has to work very minimal hours during the summer.

Last year I am pretty sure he spent his time at the beach playing video games and watching PTI on ESPN.

This year we had the whole wedding thing. I am sure he would rather have been at work massaging the groin of a 215-pound basketball player, but instead he was home doing things like: Reserving two limos (don’t ask how this happened, but sometimes when Laef is in charge of certain things, stuff just goes all ARoss on him and gets messed up), getting fitted for a tux, making phone calls, writing vows, etc.

Now that the wedding is over, I was thinking that we would revert back to the insanely boring existence we had before.

However, now there are things for Laef to do on his day off like: Throw away excess flip flops from the wedding, find a place for random tiki torches that we now have no use for, find a place for all of the boxes of dishes that we can not fit into our house, FURminate the cat because it’s summer and every fucking time I eat something there is cat hair stuck to it, write thank you notes…and so on.

I am scared to think that we are now in the stage of life.

The LIST stage.

Seriously. HOW is there always shit to do?

When I was younger and had a chore list, I used to huff and puff under my breath as I inhaled Scrubbing Bubbles that I would never do chores as an adult.

Yeah right.

Laef was totally saying how we should wait at least 5 years to have kids because they aren’t in the budget yet.

But seeing as the only thing The Sanch is good for is eating plastic and shitting four times a day, Laef is ready to have kids tomorrow.

He claims he can have a 6-month old doing dishes and vacuuming.

And, seriously, this is what happens to Sanchez’s toys. He eats them (old one on the left, new one on the right).

Fat ass.