Friday, August 13, 2010

Festering Neck Wounds

      I would have written more lately, but I've been kind of busy. I don't know if I have told you yet, but my relationship with my mother is well, odd. It's not the normal mother daughter relationship. I ask her how I look and she tells me my "rear end" is huge, but she doesn't really follow the fashions these days. She tells me my breasts are disgusting and to put them away (like I have tassels on and I am swinging the tassels independently of each other). I tell her I am pregnant. That was yesterday. She wanted to pick us up from the airport with our 6 large suitcases by just circling around the airport while we waited outside with all our luggage and two small dogs. We got to her house, and we were greeted by my childhood dog Rozlyn. She's pretty much a living ghost. Her legs are too stiff to walk normal, so she walks like a zombie dog. She wears a diaper 24/7. It drops terds out the side of it onto the floor in the kitchen. She has a festering neck wound and she forces you to pet her. I'm pretty much scarred. I finally told my mother that on vacation, I am not really looking to hang out with a dog with 3 paws out the door. She didn't understand that we have choices on where to stay. I am staying here out of duty, not choice. Festering neck wounds while combating morning sickness is not as easy as it sounds. I have a 4 day limit on neck wounds, poop, and excessive panting.

       Wish that I had more to tell everyone right now, but there has been a bit of sleeping and a bit of shopping going on. We went out last night with my sister and brother in law. We looked at the local red necks. I decided that I want a truck. For real. With the big pipes on the side so I can take it swimming with me. I will write more in a few days. Gunna go to a comedy show tonight. Let's hope for some funny.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Here I Go Again On My Own

      I thought that when I became pregnant, life would suddenly make much more sense. That things would magically fall into place and it would be like a light that switched on. Instead, I am dealing with a load of "eous." More on that in a minute. I have romanticized being pregnant because for so long I have wanted nothing more. I am thrilled to be at this point, and I am not complaining that I am pregnant. I am merely stating the things I didn't know. I am pretty sure there is a motherhood club out there, where they have discussed all these things. Then, they all get up and push their strollers home and vow never to tell mother's to be about anything spoken in that room. Or, maybe they are so busy they just forgot to mention it.

      On a side note, I was recently scarred. Do NOT tell anyone. I own a pair of knock off Crocs. (Which, in reality, is WORSE than owning an actual pair.) I know what they are. I know how tacky they are. I hate myself a little bit every time I put them on. In the process of moving I was wearing the crocs to clean out the house and whatnot. All my other belongings got packed up. So, for 3 days after I moved out of that house the only shoe options I had were stilletos, and crocs. For 3 days I walked around looking like an idiot. They aren't just black crocs either, they are barbie doll pink. While I am no fashionista, I would like to think that I don't partake in too many faux pas. Crocs are to fashion as clubbing baby seals is to PETA. I am that girl right now. Today, I am going to take the first step to a new "hipster Mom persona." I am going to throw the dead baby seals away.

       Back to the "eous." Lately, I have been feeling at least 3 "eous." Nauseous, gaseous, anxious, and crankereous. For the sake of the English language, we will go with cantankerous. I know they aren't all eous. I am writing this. But, it's my blog. I can make spelling mistakes and terms up as I go, because I am wild and I live life on the edge. I think that my biggest adjustment is trying to have that "new pregnancy glow," when all I really feel like doing is eating pudding and telling everyone to go F themselves. I don't feel pretty. I feel bloated, and gas filled. I am extremely tired ALL OF THE TIME. I feel like I just got over the flu and the "back to normal" feeling is nowhere near me on the horizon.

       Since there isn't much I can do about my physical state, let's move on to more important things. What I will wear as a Mom, and what I will wear when at school functions. I remember when I was in elementary school. I was in Stiffany Schmockman's (a fake name was used to protect their real identity) class every year. Stiffany came in every fall with a fresh apple blossom perm (if you are younger than 28 please google.) This perm would have the very tight curls that allowed it to be teased to twice her own 8 year old height. I always thought her hair was cool and weird all the once. She looked ridiculous on the play ground. She was a mini-vixen from a White Snake video, and there she was playing red rover. Her hair always appeared to have a fan blowing on it. It was pretty much all I remember from elementary school...except for Stiffany's mother. Cue music: "Here I Go Again On My Own" by Whitesnake. 4th grade Thanksgiving party. Sitffany's mom came walking in. She was wearing snake skin leather pants, and a corset. Her hair was teased to the ceiling. She must have just gotten off work shooting the latest Poison video. We were all dressed up as settlers and Native Americans. Stiffany had to be a Native American, because she couldn't fit her bangs inside a pilgrim hat. She wore a head band instead, around her forehead. It created the appearance of butt cleavage around the perimeter of her head. I am going to try really hard not to be "that mom." She is forever etched in my brain as the the Mom that clearly couldn't let go. Now, I must try to find a happy medium between leather pants, and Crocs. This is such a confusing time. Such a confusing time.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Stealth Farts

       I've tried really hard not to have this blog be all about poop and farts.

       Somehow, it always comes back to it.

       I'm pretty sure I'm actually a 7 year old boy.

       Chad and I got married 2 years ago. It was perfect. We eloped, and it was magical to us. We set up a small list of parameters of things we wouldn't do around each other. I took a page from my Aunt Gail's play book. I remember her telling me a long time ago that she doesn't let her husband (my uncle) fart in front of her. It helps to keep the romance alive. I saw the sense in that. Something about farting makes a man lose his sex appeal. I, in return, agreed to do the same. This was an easy agreement, since I don't fart.

        This isn't a new thing, but it's a much more frequent thing these days. I have gas. A lot of it.  Brussels sprouts, cabbage, and beans got together in there, and decided to set up a lemonade stand. It's terrible, and they say it's part of the joy of pregnancy. Really? Farting is not a joy to me.

         It takes me forever to fall asleep at night. I go to bed with Chad every night, but I read in bed for at least an hour before turning off the light. When I lay down at the end of the day, things readjust. It's possible I have somehow subconsciously trained my body to hold in all the gases of the day until I lay down for bed. When I was younger, I could hold it in. Now, it feels like glass shards are everywhere if I hold it for longer than a minute. I had to develop a "technique" to tackle such a dilemma. What's a perfect housewife to do? Don't bother getting up out of bed, that's for sure. Instead, you try to make sure your husband is asleep. Then, spread your cheeks apart and let loose. It's what I have termed "the stealth fart." By spreading them apart you keep it from making any noises to wake a sleeping bear. Then,  keep arms over covers at the top of the bed and poke a foot out near the end to expel the gases safely incase the husband wakes up or rolls over.

          Why am I telling you this? I'm really not sure. Sometimes, I think that someone has to be the Martha Stewart of farts. When you go to sleep tonight, just think. Somewhere out there, I am pulling my cheeks apart to fart.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Grilled Chicken Sandwich Anyone?

         I have a dog. Her name is Gigi. She weighs 5 pounds and her poop has a stronger smell than any other poop I have ever encountered. Gigi is not a good traveler. It makes her very gassy. You would expect a Chihuahua fart to be almost cute. Like a little poof of air with no real punch to it. Let me assure you, that is not the case.  I can only describe her gas like this; It is like crawling inside of a public bus with 25 body builders eating eggs and diarrhea and bench pressing weights. It is like crawling inside of a fart volcano. It is like 7th depth of the New York subway system in August. It is like the valley of Akron, Ohio when they have to release the build up of methane gas at the poop plant, and even the water tastes like actual poop. 

         The same trip I talked about a while ago that made me into an honorary poop Monk, also involved this story as well. Let me preface the story by starting out with the Oregon trail that Chad and I blazed during our month long trip. We went: North Carolina-Ohio, Ohio-Virginia, Virginia-Connecticut, Connecticut to Virginia, Virginia to North Carolina. There are bad travelers, and then there's me. I am so bad, I don't even have comparisons. It's sort of like being trapped in a box with a cat, and bunch of bees, and 3 kids with ADD. 

         I rarely change out my contacts and I wear cloudy ones for like 2 months until they are really no longer useful to even homeless people. Do homeless people wear contacts? I don't know, but they should. I like to wait extra long to change my contacts, because when you do, it's like being born again. On the Ohio to Virginia leg of our Oregon trail, we picked up Chad's sister Juli, and my close friend. She gets car sick, but that has nothing to do with this story. I just wanted everyone to know that. 

         Andddddd we're off! Headed to Virginia. Chad, Juli, Gigi, and myself pack into our rental car. This trip takes place in December. If you grew up in a cold climate, this was one of those weird December days where, its windy but it's like 50 degrees outside, and it feels like Scooby Doo town outside when the sun sets. We have to travel thru all of Ohio, West Virginia and a good portion of Virginia as well. If you have been lucky enough to have never been to West Virginia let me tell you about the mountains. There will be a highway with a guard rail made out of toothpicks, and a 5,000 ft drop, being protected by said toothpicks. The wind was blowing like crazy. It was pushing our car toward toothpick town again and again. Gigi was getting more and more nervous and with every curve we would take on the mountain roads she would let one rip. It was like death came out of her butt hole. Then, with my fresh contacts I started noticing how BEAUTIFUL everything was around me. It was a harvest moon, the leaves blowing by in the wind looked so crisp and clear, the moon was orange, it was really beautiful. It was really beautiful if you weren't: driving in that crap, easily car sick, or a Chihuahua  IBS. I kept saying how "clear" everything was. I sounded like a stoned hippy that night, until we got to Roy Rodgers.

        We all started getting hungry. We stopped to refill for gas, and there were signs for sushi at the gas station. We decided this was a land locked state, and gas stations aren't know for their sushi. We drove on. We were starving by the time we found the next rest area with food. Chad was given the task of staying with Gigi, while Juli and I went for food. When we got out of the car, it was seriously one step away from getting blown over. We get into the service station and our choices are: TCBY, Quiznos with 4 menu items, or Roy Rodgers. Juli and I talked it over and neither of us though quiznos was a good idea. This is when I made the single worst decision of my life. We got Roy Rodgers. I ordered something for Chad, and myself and ran back to the car to eat. I took 3 bites of my salad and then, I smelled it. WORSE that Gigi farts, it was Chad's sandwich. Chad was so hungry by this point, that he pounded this rectum of a chicken sandwich, while Juli and I looked on in disbelief. We got back on the road. The rest of the mountains were ahead of us, but that was the least of our problems. About a half an hour later, the burps began, and so did the Gigi farts. Chad would burp up the colon smell from his dinner and then Gigi would return fire with a burst of rectum fury. It seemed to die down after about 2 hours. Then, the dueling butt smells kicked up a notch. Now, I'm not sure, but I think that Gigi refused to be out stank on this trip only making her little booty work that much harder. 

         Roy Rodgers almost killed me.

         That sentence deserved its own paragraph. 

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Side Station Meltdown, A Close Cousin to Tuesday Morning Meltdowns

      I couldn't leave you the way we ended things earlier. I was left to remember waiting tables in college. Why was I thinking about this? Well, being pregnant makes you want food that you are no where near able to get. I was craving food from the place I worked at in college. It was called "The Cooker." The Cooker closed down 8 or 9 years ago. Why do I know this? Because they placed a sign on the door that said IN CRAYON "We are closed FOREVER." Good to know, also good to know that when I put The Cooker on my resume, I could say I was the President of The Cooker, head chef, and co-founder, and no one would be able to say otherwise. We all got lucky in the end. Except for The Cooker.

       I remember working for a General Manager named Brian (it must be something with the name), who would scratch his balls through his pockets in the dining room, and yell at servers for standing at the front of the resturant waiting for people to come in. I worked in a restaraunt for like 5 years, and TO THIS DAY I cannot spell it. Restuarant, that's about all I got. I decided when I proof read this I am going to leave every misspelling of the word restuarant because I can.

        I would go into work every now and again hungover, PMSing, and coming down with a case of rabies. I waited on these two people every Sunday. They wanted water with a ton of lemons. They were going to sit at my table for 4 hours, asking for refills, and eating a wedge of lettuce with blue cheese on it. They would tip me $1.12 Thank you bitches, for giving me the money to start my own business selling used tampons. (Factoid: Start up for used tampon business costs next to nothing) Every now and again it would all be too much. Filling up drinks, bringing food to tables, bussing tables, being super happy and polite, rinse and repeat. I would loose my shit, and out of nowhere I would be filling up a Mountain Dew and thinking two things, where had I gone so wrong, and that I couldn't possibly keep going. Tears would stream down my face, I would get the little hiccup things, and my throat would feel like it was closing off. I would take the Mountain Dew refill back to the table with the kids grinding biscuits into the carpets, smile and return to the side station for another tearful refill.

        Then, it hit me. It was just food. Yes, people were hungry and wanted their food, there were lots of people there all in that same boat. In the end, it's just food. You ask for it, they cook it, I pee on it, I bring it to you, you eat it, you pay, and you tip me. It's just food in the end. What would cause me to melt down was that I was completely dependent on the hillbilly white trash "takin his rats out fer a patty melt and an ice house, the bitch don't eat" for my income. All it would take was for these people to come in and it was like clockwork. There I was filling up a Mr. Pibb, wiping my running nose on my shirt sleeve.  Meltdown.

       In the end I think that my side station melt downs prepped me for this dispute with shitbag Brian. (I have decided not to censor myself today. Tomorrow I will go back to using my amazing vocabulary, but every now and again a day of cussing indulgence is necessary.) When I stopped waiting tables I vowed to never let myself be in a situation where there was no high authority to convene and be the voice of reason. Brian was The Cooker and that house was my side station. It was just paint, and he is who made it more than it had to be. The house talk is over. Stay tuned for my tale of Roy Rodgers, new contacts, and a Chihuahua with very bad gas.

This Is How We Do It!

     I have called 911 twice in my life. The first time, a house 2 doors down from mine had 30 ft flames jutting from the back of it. The second time, happened today. We rose after 3 hours of sleep. We painted into the wee hours of the night, we hung curtains, we got the house done. On a side note, while painting I was in my favorite bathroom, and I finally had access to a real ladder. I got up above the door frame, to see that someone had WIPED BOOGERS on the top of the door frame. I wished it had been me.
     I had just made Chad breakfast, like the perfect housewife that I am, and got a couple of messages on FB from our fantastic neighbors and friends. Her car is in the shop, so there were no cars in her drive. Brian can see our driveway and the neighbors drives around us, as he lives less than 100 meters away from us. He knew we were not there. He let himself into our house today, without permission. Our belongings were still in the house. He proceeded to have workman trample thru the house that we just had professionally cleaned. He was not at the house when we arrived and we were on our way to walk to his house when he drove back down our street. We met back inside the house. He wanted to speak to us upstairs away from the workmen. I wanted to workmen to hear. There we all stood on the landing. Me, two steps below Brian and Chad on a  step below Brian. He was trying to create superiority within our dwelling. We told him we had not authorized this, and it was illegal to be in our house without our permission. He wasn't satisfied with our painting, and was going to try to make life harder on us by making us apply a 5th coat. I confronted him. I stood there on the landing, shaking with anger and fear. I told him he was trespassing, and that he hadn't told us people were coming into our house. It is still our house until the 10th of August. He started SCREAMING at me. Chad, doesn't take kindly to people yelling at me for discussing a legitimate concern. He stood face to face with Brian and told him not to talk to his wife like that. Brian finished out this first portion of the conversation by saying, "It is terrible what you have turned into since you've become pregnant."
       The conversation begins to escalate, Brian says a few more things and it heats up. Brian put his hands in Chad's face and I decided it was time to suggest calling the police. It continued to escalate, and he wouldn't leave our house. It was time. I called, and before I had to call the local police department he fled from the house, and peeled out of the driveway on two wheels.

       The end of this story isn't that great. It ends with us getting out of that house at 1 in the afternoon after paying 80 GBP and calling housing to come out and deal with it. The end, you cranky old wierdo. Glad to be done with it. We left 2 weeks worth of dog poo in the back yard. Tiny nugget land mines of pure stench. As I said earlier today, Brian and Jo may have won a battle, but we won the race. Yea. It doesn't make sense. In the end, they tried to take our money and what they got was a yard full of dog shit, and a bad taste for Americans. They assumed because I have been so nice to them in the past i would accept whatever they said as truth and pay them close to a grand. Hell no, I fight and 75 year old ass hole gets cranky when women get involved. This is how we do it! Suck it you old douche bag.

       We got rid of our car today as well. A lovely woman wanted to take Hans off our hands. We went to a service station, and while we were eating dinner I saw a dude with a bald head and a mole on top that was the size of a golf ball sliced in half. It was like a skin mole hat. I named it Thomas. Thomas likes  tea from KFC.

      I know this isn't one of my better posts. I've had 3 hours of sleep and gas station fake sushi today. I'm not on top of my game. They can't all be gems.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Emotional Meltdown on a Tuesday Morning

    I stayed behind today while Chad went back to our old house for the walk thru and the movers. Apparently, light bulb Brian really is that damn cheap. Chad called me after the inspection was over. We painted the landing/stairwell/downstairs poop bathroom. They have been thru the house several times and seemed happy with it. They were not bothered by the painting that we did. Said to leave it. Today, they changed their tune. With 2 days to go. They wanted to charge us 400 GBP to paint it back. We asked them about 30 times if they wanted us to repaint it before we moved out. The answer was always no. The reason: we want to screw you out of money because we are old, cheap, and shitty. They were also outraged about having dogs upstairs. They gave us written permission to have the dogs. Never specified where we could or couldn't have them. When I called them to find out more about all this new information at one point they said they wanted us to acknowledge it and contribute towards the fixing of the problem. Acknowledge my fist in your old british face ya old wierdo. Now, with like a day left to go, we have to hurry and paint everything back.  The phone conversation, all the information that Chad told me, the pregnancy all melted together for an epic meltdown. I cried. On the phone. With two old people. That are English and don't particularly like emotions. I cried hard.

   The phone conversation went something like this:

(this may be a BIT of an exaggeration)
Me: Hello Brian, I am calling because I feel sick about all the information I just found out. I am saddened to find out that you stretched the truth about the painting issues, and that you had problems with our dogs being upstairs.
Brian: Ummm yes I am old and wierdly British. I make things up as I go because I am crazier than a box of hammers in July. I am so blind, even though you pointed out those walls, I never really noticed it because I was probably having a small stroke or peeing in my pants.
Me: You never specified that dogs couldn't be upstairs and getting all upset about that comes as a surprise and a shock.
Brian: Umm yes there, I just peed in my pants. What were you saying?
Me: Why did you wait to tell the housing people about the paint and not just tell us to take care of it?
Brian: Ummm yes, I have a pet pigeon (that isn't allowed upstairs) and I still eat semi solid foods.
Me: I want to leave this situation with good feelings and not bad ones.
Brian: Ummm yes, sometimes I wear a monocle, not because I need it, but because it makes me look like the Monopoly guy.

   We are staying at Aaron's house, and I took a shower here this morning. It seriously made me think, wtf were we doing paying nearly $2,000 a month for a house with a shower that's so small you can't even turn around in the shower booth? Everything about that house sucks. Take our 80 GBP fine and go fuck yourselves. (sorry for the bad language)

Goodbye to My English House (poo will be missed)

    I may or may not have a legitimate poop disorder. You may not know this about me, but I am a very shy pooper. Everybody does it, most just don't talk about it on a public blog. Except me. I can talk about poo for hours, but when it comes down to it, I have real problems. When I invite guests over for dinner at the Siegrist house, you can expect 2 things. Good food, and ridiculous conversations about a plethora of inappropriate topics. It's a continuation on from my family upbringing. I didn't even realize it was odd dinner convo until my bro-in-law Fred started coming over for family dinners and nearly punching us and vomiting all at once. My mother is a really good cook, so he would look ridiculously torn. You could see the longing to eat the food on his face, and the inability to block out the convo. Sorry Fred! (I'm not really sorry it was awesome)

   What does dinner have to do with poop? Everything, my dear friend, everything. It is the logical time to talk about said disorders or talk about my parents basset hound Roco that eats other dogs poop like chocolate truffles in the back yard. He stands there, and you can see him thru the window, his long muzzle is carefully cradling a Giant Schnauzer delicacy. The sides of his mouth are moving in and out as he savors the flavor while mouth breathing. Then, just as you start to say NO ROCO he quickly swallows and you can see his throat quiver in enjoyment. That has been a dinner time conversation at the Fulmer house, and probably at mine as well. 

   Some people know me as the stealth pooper, while some know me as the world's fastest one. That is for 2 reasons. I hold it in until the last possible moment, because call me crazy, I don't like to sit around in my own filth and hope for something more magical to happen in there while reading a book. I also don't announce when I have to go, I just disappear for around 60 seconds and then reappear. Here's my real problem. I have bathrooms that in my head I have deemed "special." Inside my mind I head into the bathroom with the scrubby thing, and deem that bathroom worthy, and wave the magical disgusting scrubber brush wand. That special bathroom then holds the power to allow me to poo at lightning speeds, and the ability to poo at all. 

     What do my poop problems have to do with my English house? Well, despite the fact that most of the bathrooms were, as I have said previously glorified out houses, I had a pooping love affair. The downstairs bathroom had me at hello. This bathroom is no larger than a SMALL coat closet. If you are sitting down (which you tend to do in a bathroom) and lean forward (which I tend to do a lot) you will smash your forehead into the pedestal sink. It is that small in there. I have come close to knocking myself unconscious many times over. This bathroom wined and dined me into falling for it. I have gone for over a week without doing a number 2. True story, while traveling with Chad before we were married. It was Christmas time, I was growing more cranky by the day. I can't share a bathroom with other people, that are actually present in the house when doodie calls. People started to wonder if I was pregnant, I started to wonder if Monks were able to do this. 

      So, with this, I say goodbye to my English house. The highlight of my experience there was pooping in you. 

PS What does this have to do with being pregnant? That house helped lure it out of me. You get hella constipated and start eating prunes like old people. Then, you start asking people for used light bulbs. 

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Brian the Landlord, and the Light Bulb.

For several months I have been becoming more and more annoyed with our landlord. He started out awesome and Dick VanDyke-ish when we would interact. When we first moved in he and his wife practically invited us in for tea. Then, about 6 months ago Brian started to lose it. He started coming over during the day unannounced to look at random things, or ask a question that would have been better asked over the phone, However, that would mean, I wouldn't have to answer the door and awkwardly cross my arms over my chest to cover my floppy boobs and protruding nips because I put a bra on under my own terms of use. Unexpected guests aren't a good enough reason for me to wear one at all times. Ok back to the story at hand, we are moving back to the 'Merica! and we are beginning the process of getting everything sorted for that. We allowed Brian and his wife to pop thru the house and look around at their own archaic sense of taste to see what "updates" they might want to make to the house. How's about you install light SWITCHES in the bathrooms? I mean, I like to pull on a string and feel a little bit like I am using an indoor outhouse, but it gets old after the first week of rubbing the wall pointlessly while doing the pee-pee dance. So, around the house these two old people walk, they sit down with us and ask for us to give them their broiler pan and the keys to the windows before the movers come thru. That makes sense to us, because we have seen movers pack. Under military orders, we are not supposed to pack a darn thing. That way when the stoners that unpack our stuff mess it up, we can get reimbursed for it. However, they have no common sense and pack things that stay with the house. Now, I can understand a broiler pan and certain keys.

This house has been angering to me for about ohhhhh 1.5 years now. Right after the novelty of living in England wore off so did the sheen on this house. The biggest complaint I have is that Brian used to be an electrician, I am assuming sometime during the 1930's. When something electrical in the house breaks, he stops over and uses his trade knowledge from the days of Moses to fix things. They then work for a day and stop working again. Our lights in the kitchen are the worst. He stopped by one day because we told him that there was a light in the kitchen that didn't work. He came by with a new light bulb. Yes, Brian, we didn't think of just buying a new bulb to see if it would work then. So, he came over, screwed it in, and it still didn't work. It still doesn't now.

On Friday afternoon, Chad and I were getting ready for our going away/birthday/human creation dinner. There was a knock at the door and there was crazy old Brian. Our dogs lose their cool when he comes around. Maybe they sense my blood curdling, and my only thoughts ever of punching a geriatric old man. I hear him ask Chad, "Ummm yes, I stopped by to pick up that lightbulb I dropped off a few months back, I don't want your packers to pack it." Chad then tells him he doesn't know where it is and he would have to look around. Brian then says to Chad, "Liz said something about a drawer." Chad gave it to him and Brian then left. This is the letter I had to hold back from writing.

Dear Brian,
  In the future, if you are still alive, could you please call before stopping over? I know you are old and therefor cheap, but a singular lightbulb is not going to make or break you. If a lightbulb is what's keeping you from going under, sell your electrical hell hole of a rental house! For clarification we will not allow the packers to take any of the following items: the stove top or the oven, the walls or flooring, doors or hinges, the stairs, or the drawers in your crappy kitchen.

PS Stop being so old and weird. Ya old weirdo.