I KNOW I AM BAD AND A PINK SOCKER OF THE LOWEST VARIETY. In my defense I am stuffing everything I own into boxes. WE CLOSE ON THE NEW HOUSE TOMORROW.
Here are two SLIPS, like a bookie would hold, and if I do not make good on these you can print them out, wad them up in your mouth, get some sort of tube and then SPIT them at me at Decatur Book Fest.
I.O.U. Cussing, Part 2, Maisy Says the B Word.
I.O.U. Sloughing Part 2, When Your Dogs Will Not STOP Being Metaphors.
I must go throw most of what I own at GoodWill now, but first I have to share two pictures. One is a fruit pig. LOOK!
I LOVE the fruit pig. I had a fruit BASKET with pears on it, all wicker and nice, and then last year we went out of town for 9 days and FORGOT about some oranges and they deflated and bloated and died in the basket, creating fuzzy FRUIT ROT SPOTS on the wicker, like a PERMA MOLD that could only be cured by amputation. BUT! If you amputate the bottom of a basket you get a sort of woven wicker ring with a handle. That’s nice. I guess. But it does not really HOLD FRUIT so much.
So since then we had to set our fruit all naked on the counter, or in a BOWL, like SAVAGES, for MONTHS.
As I prepped to move, I unearthed this CLAY BAKING PIG I bought AGES ago to bake special things in and then never once used because I apparently do not bake special things. I just bake REGULAR crap that can go in a non-farm-animal-shaped pan.
I unearthed him from some hideyhole or another and now he is fruit pig. Baskets are SO last year. (Yes, I know not to put the bananas by the apples—it ripens them too fast. The bananas usually sit separate but Fruit Pig looked sad with only apples, so I let him hold the nanners for the picture.)
(Also, look how he anthropomorphized himself into Fruit Pig, with caps and no article, in the course of a few little sentences. What an EXCELLENT brave sentient friend and guardian of produce! GO FRUIT PIG! FRUIT PIG FOREVER.)
Also, prepping to move. I had to order new return address labels. Which was VERY fun. I got kinda moddy spotty ones for the whoel family and little grean and yellow apple streaky things for me. Here is a label I did not choose. Because it is unfortunate:
I cannot tell which way that woman is FACING, even. The skirt and legs look like her backside, and the blouse looks like her frontside, her arms are ambiguous at BEST (is her hand on her hip? or does her lower BACK hurt?) and her malformed head does not help orient. But none of this matters, does it. NO.
because you cannot look away from her…protuberance? Ze Frank would know what that was. But we do not. We must take a vote. Does she have a huge square pink penis or is she is putting a ruler in her butt? YOU DECIDE! But either way, this is not the statement I wish to make about myself on my return address labels.