Domestic As Hell

Getting crafty up in herrrrrre.  And I'm not talking about hatching evil plans.  (This time.)
Projects:
BAM: makin aprons
BAM: wearin aprons with a smug ass look on my face

BAM: makin cookies
BAM:  eatin cookies.

(I know that it looks like I'm missing the point of the fancy cake stand. I just want you to know that I'm not.)
Like I said: BAM!
Felt Balls:

Felt Balls in action:

I even bought some felt and fucking bakers twine, you guys, and I used them both on an ornament. (See below.  I bet you can find it.)
Also, we don't have a tree.  So I put the ornaments in a giant pasta bowl. 

Got together with a bunch of ladies last week to decorate cupcakes.  Fondant is expensive.  Don't mess with that shit.  Pro tip: lay down a base of regular-person frosting and use your crack pinky to scrape off the parts where you want to have a design of polka dots or stripes or pandas or whatever.  Anybody who complains about missing frosting gets a stomach ache care of your fist.
BAM.

So I've Entered Him Into a Remedial Program for Catholic Adults

I take words pretty seriously. 
They're powerful, so I try to know a lot in case I need to look smart (which happens to be all the time--I keep very critical company).
In 2007, during an episode of The Office, they used the phrase "Pro-Am" and I laughed out loud. "HA.  That's hilarious. Pro-Am. No one even knows what that means!"
Matt seized on this opportunity, this rare and precious gift of my making a word-based mistake: "It means Professionals and Amateurs compete together."
So tonight, he's listening to some Christian light rock (Obviously. It's our pre-bar warm-up on Thursdays) and hears, "We'll beat our swords into plowshares...." He quietly muses, "What does that even mean?"
EXCUSE ME, EVERYONE. STEP ASIDE. I WILL HANDLE THIS.
"It means making your weapons into tools for farming that will benefit the whole."
"Ok, Pro-Am."

Even an Apple Could Get the Job Done

I am in the throes of an Earworm Plague.
Please, God. Send me a melody that my head cannot play on repeat.
Marginally related: does every reggae song last so long that you think you might've already heard it AND another song AND that same first song again? Maybe reggae is the cure to the Earworm Plague.

(Cue descent into madness.)

Oh, hi. Brief year-long blog break.
Back now. Been microblogging on Twitter, but apparently SOME people think Twitter is for the tech-savvy-self-absorbed. To which I say, "Where did I put my first-draft memoirs? No, that's my typewritten autobiography with my CD of covers including vocal warm-ups. What do you think of my ironic dragon tattoo?"

(Just kidding. I don't have a tattoo.)

Speaking of personal information: Over the last week Matt twice thought that we might need a gun for protection at the studio.
Incident 1: Psychotic boyfriend fretting over old photos of current girlfriend. "Take them down and I won't have to babysit you." Yes, sir. Enjoy that thing where you die alone.
Incident 2: Jimmy John's sandwich delivery person getting a little too friendly with talk of mutiny.
I assured Matt that psycho boyfriend and the Jimmy John's guy would come back at the same time and just cancel each other out. I've seen it happen in comic books. Alternatively, let us not underestimate a well-timed unripened pear to the manparts.