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Chicken: it’s what’s for dinner.

Poof and I have this tendency to go out on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. It’s our default. I’ll put on nice shoes. We’ll take photos for her blog. We usually head to our favorite local coffee shop, MADCAP COFFEE

…because it’s local, it’s delicious, and they do that thing where they make my Mocha look like a heart, and it’s nice to feel loved.

Well, since this is the rule, here is the exception:

L.A.: Coffee?

Poof: Not in the mood.

L.A.: Mall?

Poof: Sure. I want a root beer float.

L.A.: …

L.A: …

L.A.: …pregnant?

Poof had this thing when she was pregnant with LittlePoof where she always craved root beer floats. It was her food. My weakness when I was pregnant?

The good kind, not like the awkwardly shaped nuggets.

Cue to eating lunch yesterday.

Me: I’ll have the chicken tenders basket, please.

Mom: Didn’t you just get chicken tenders the other day?

Me: Yes.

Mom: And you want it again?

Me: I like chicken.

Boo: I like chicken too!

Mom: *Forceful Gaze*

Me: I’m not.

Mom: *Cynical Squinting*

Me: No, but really.

Mom: *James Marsden’s Character in X-Men*


Mom: *Jedi Mind Trick*


Ladies and gentlemen, I give you “Why I have added giving up Chicken Fingers to my lenten promise.”


You got a little schmootz right there, and other things I’ll probably hear today

Two years ago, I wrote one of my most embarrassing, albeit favorite blog posts since I started blogging back in 2010.

The Poonch-Key Diaries.



I’ve tried to write various other posts regarding the paczkis and the fattiness of Mardi Gras, but nothing comes close to the Poonch-Key post.

So instead, to follow up Fat Tuesday…

Ash Wednesday.

It’s perfect, it’s chronological, and I get to tell you about this guy seeing me with my ashes and being all…

If you feelin’ like a Pope, Catholics, do not brush your forehead off.

Bitches be sinners, Catholics, do not brush your forehead off.

I hope this guy didn’t give up being awesome for lent.

"Ashies are the new selfies." -@hey_itsjenna

“Ashies are the new selfies.”

Pope John Paul II must be so upset with me.

Earlier today at Poof’s:

“Poof,” I ask. “You’re Catholic. And Polish.  Can you spell paczki.”

Poof ponders this for a moment. “P…a…zc…cz…ki? No. I can’t.”

Captain comes out.

“Spell paczki.” Poof orders him.

“What’s that?” He asks. “P…U…N…C…?”

Here’s a small fact about L.A.: Catholic school girl.

Seriously. When I say Catholic school girl, I mean LIFE LONG Catholic school girl. Since age 5, I have been enrolled in the Catholic schools systems. Grade school, high school, even some college. All Catholic. And yes, I was taught by nuns.

What does this have to do with anything? Well, non-Catholics, this means that during school hours, I was allowed to celebrate Fat Tuesday. We would get our Mardi Gras on by eating piles and piles of…


Now, when you’re in a Catholic school, lots of times on Fat Tuesday, we’d do little Catholic activities…like learning to spell PACZKI (See Poof and Captain’s attempts above). So since I was young, I’ve been able to spell this word. Seriously. I got extra credit in 3rd grade for spelling it right. Spelling? CHECK PLUS.

And because of all this, today was especially embarrassing.

While driving to Poof’s for coffee and merriment, I was reading twitter. She lives far away from me, people. And really, like you don’t tweet and drive. There were tons of tweets about #FatTuesday and #MardiGras and #ShroveTuesday and the like.

And there were lots of people tweeting about the paczkis. And they were all spelling it incorrectly. So, like the little grammar gremlin I am, this is what I did…

@LA_thegirl: If you can’t spell paczki, I’m unfollowing you. #fattuesday (the original tweet was removed due to embarrassment)

Anyway. I get to Poof’s and I’ve received a reply from JukeBox.

Please note that you can see the original embarrassing twat.

I don’t really read it over, just notice that he is saying I spelled paczki wrong. Which is impossible. Me spell pazcki wrong? That’s unpossibleSo, the smart ass that I am, I immediately do a search for an image of paczki to prove that I am correct and that he can go douche-tickle himself.


Haha, I think to myself. I’ve got you now, you music lyric-loving-twatterpants! WHAT NOW?!

By this point, I’ve sat down in Poof’s kitchen and questioned her and Captain’s spelling capabilities.

“Look,” I tell Poof. “JukeBox doesn’t think I can spell paczki. What a douchecanoe.” I open up twitter and scroll through to show her the tweet.

Oh no. I read my first tweet. Oh, the humanity.


Although, on the positive side, I did tweet maybe 30 seconds after my angry at bad spellers with incorrect spelling tweet. And I spelled paczki correct. I TOLD YOU I COULD SPELL IT. I do wish I had spelled it correctly in the angry twat, rather than the “GIVE ME PACZKIS OR GIVE ME DEATH” tweet.

PROOF I can spell this word. I wish there were more of a time stamp to prove my point.

You know what we’ve learned, readers? Polish people spell things funny. Also, there are reasons that they tell you NOT to text and drive*. It’s to avoid embarrassing moments such as these. Hope you had a fabulous Fat Tuesday.

You win this time, JukeBox. Game On.

*I don’t really condone texting and driving. Be safe, people.