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G.O.B...and I Don't Mean the Cookie


Actually, these are Macroons but I would kill for one of those too.


Dear reader, allow me to lament on my morning thus far. I slept in and did not awaken until 7:30. Sleeping in sets back my entire day and makes me feel off the whole day through. Upon drowsily stumbling down the stairs, I am met by my bean. Who has the volume control of Dora the Explorer. I regret ever permitting her to watch said show when she was small. The Bean bellers at my newly awakened self that she has not one baby goat but two in my living room. Sigh... She then demands I check the baby goat for her. I soon discover my living room looks like an American Girl Doll closet has exploded upon my living room along with every beach towel I own. I find every heating pad and my good hairdryer strewn across the living room floor. To check the baby goat in question, I must stick my finger in her mouth to see if she is warmed the whole way through. Upon picking up said baby goat, she proceeds to pee on me. There is pee on my sock monkey pajama shirt, running down my leg and puddling on top of my new wool slippers. Sigh...I haven't even had a cup of coffee yet.


Speaking of coffee, I have none. I like my coffee made in the Keurig machine. I like blonde coffee in the morning and medium roast in the afternoon. I always have coffee. I buy coffee and store it in my pantry, so I never run out. I ran out. I don't have a regular coffee maker in the house because I thoughtfully took my traditional coffee maker up to the studio for The Bibbed Wonder. That's just the kind of good wife I am...insert wink. The Bibbed Wonder likes his coffee STRONG-like curl your nose hairs STRONG. I refer to the coffee he makes as sludge, tar, or a biohazard. His coffee isn't even good with a half cup of flavored creamer...his coffee makes me sad. In order to make it through the day of baby goats in my living room, a bellering bean, and a husband who finds nothing but humor in my current disgruntled state, I am going to need coffee. So I walk myself up to the studio, not even bothering to change my now peed upon sock monkey pajamas and urine-stained wool slippers because at this point, what is the use?


On my way to the garage in the above stated ensemble, my big red B-dog comes charging down the snowy path out of nowhere. Always happy to see me, he jumps and dances around me in circles. In the process, my urine-stained slippers get filled with snow. Sigh... The Big-B then discovers I smell like goat pee. That is a whole new level of excitement. In his unbridled joy to sniff me and goat pee at the same time...does it get any better for a dog?...he makes me lose my footing, and I slip on the unshoveled path. As I clamber to my feet, the Bibbed Wonder yells from the house and asks if I need help. My response is, "No, I need f!@#&%$ coffee!" Finally, I make it to the studio, fill my cup with biohazardous sludge, and stomp back to the house with the Big-B inhaling me and my sock monkey pajamas the entire trek.


You are probably asking, dear reader, where are the positivity and sunshine? What tale of woe turned inspiration is coming down the pike? The answer is none. I have no inspiration. I am going through sugar withdrawal. My commitment to not have a heart attack requires me to cut sugar from my diet. I am on day two without sugar, and it hurts. I mean literally hurts. My head is killing me. I feel like I have the flu. Not to mention, my mood is horrible. I have been through this before. I know what it feels like and how long it will last. It is going to be a long weekend. If you are inclined to pray, please pray for The Bibbed Wonder. He has no escape. The Bean, she is safe. She is taking her two baby goats and going to GramBarb's house for the weekend. Dear reader, you know it isn't good when GramBarb allows The Bean into her newly built home with two baby goats. Also, it's The Bean. GramBarb would let her do anything she asks. That's just one of the many reasons I love my mother-in-law. However, I digress.


In normal circumstances, I would just roll with any of the above scenarios. However, the lack of sugar makes everything seem preposterously annoying. Sugar withdrawal is like PMS on steroids. It doesn't help at all that Eric laughs and makes up acronyms for me. Currently, his favorite is to call me G.O.B. Like a sweet, delicious, decadent cookie I would kill for at the moment...NO. It stands for Grumpy Old Bag. If he doesn't watch his P's and Q's, he's going to get hurt. Sigh... As if a pandemic, cyber school, a diagnosis of heart disease, a snowstorm, two sickly baby goats, and an acronym creating husband isn't bad enough, let us add sugar withdrawal to the mix. Even f%$#@!& Job got a break! I say all in jest...mostly. The truth is, by Monday, maybe Tuesday, all will be right with the world again. Not only will I be through sugar withdrawal, but I will be one more step on a path to healthy living...an emphasis on living. All will be well; I know this. I just wish gobs were as nutritious as broccoli or kale. Sigh...


On this cold February weekend, may you stay warm, comfortable, happy, and not have some smart a$$ making up acronyms for you-and of course, stay safe, stay smart, send your prayers and good vibes to all those around our country who genuinely need it, and wash your hands.


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