Definitely not cut out for wilderness survival.

Definitely not cut out for wilderness survival.

Two days ago, I was grocery shopping. I bought the usuals: tomatoes, a mango, one box of rice pasta, a liter of soymilk. And then I decided to go all out and buy some fish. The only fish they had that I recognized was a fillet of salmon (Tilapia? I haven't met you before!), so, hey! Salmon is good. Mmm, salmon. Into the basket it went.

Last night I was finally ready for dinner at 7, so I took all my foods down to the kitchen to cook. I prepared the pan with some herbs, olive oil, and garlic, and opened the package of salmon. It was beautifully, well, salmon-coloured, and then I turned it over.


ALL THE SCALES. ATTACHED. SMELLING LIKE ALGAE.


And I almost threw up.


I don't like to see which part of the animal my food comes from. I know which part it is, but I don't need the visual! It's like serving a steak with hide and hair still on it. Or mutton with the cute white wooly fur attached. It's just not done (please, please assure me that it isn't done). I like skinless, boneless stuff. Anonymous meat!

I know, I'm a wuss.

John will have a blast when he takes me out camping in the wilderness; I'll be eating Luna bars and not watching as he skewers a few freshly-caught fish for his dinner.

new evidence in the case of my twisted mind:

new evidence in the case of my twisted mind:

As I was walking down the stairs to the basement gym just now, pondering the rise of pole-dancing classes - and thus thinking of how I could never muster up any fiber of my being that would want to, as I find everything about strip clubs utterly abhorrent - my mind came up with the perfect name for a business.

The business:
part strip club, part martini bar.



The name:
"Movers and Shakers."


Groan and move along.