After Sunday’s finger chicken fiasco, I’ve found myself subconsciously (or maybe consciously) avoiding all things sharp. Scissors, knives, machetes, axes, cheddar, Bubba’s teeth.
I made sure to make a dinner last night that required no slicing or dicing. Spaghetti anyone? But the scary truth is I’m going to have to face that inner beast called pansyism and get back in the game, especially since there are things piling up that require cutting. Like the hundreds of pounds of apples we bought to dehydrate (cuz we’re fancy like that), the thousands of pounds of chicken I bought on sale that need to be cut up and frozen (cuz I’m prepared like that), and most importantly my finger nails . . . okay and my toenails too (cuz I'm hygienic like that).
And now that I’ve revealed my swooning situation to you all, I fear that I have seriously tainted the image I’ve tried create for myself via the internets. You know the one where I’m akin to Chuck Norris, of the female variety. The one where people realize that this here redhead is not actually blogging; the words are just assembling themselves out of fear. Yeah that image.
Here’s my explanation. It’s the only thing that may have the power to pierce through my mighty shield of awesomeness, and that thing can only be created when a three year old boy pairs up with his one year old brother and together they simultaneously roundhouse kick their mother’s sanity to some far off galaxy.