This could be exciting, if you have a low threshold for excitment.

Note:  This post was taken down and re-posted.  It also has been edited.  Heavily.  I don't know what was (is) wrong with me, but I posted without proofing.  I also got kind of weepy at the end.  As I recall, I was kind of weepy for the rest of the night about a great deal of things, including: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, people being nice, how much I 'L-word' ManFriend, how much I 'L-word' people reading my blog, how much I 'L-word' the texture of the couch I was sitting on, and about being weepy all the time. It wasn't pretty.  I'm leaving it in because being pathetic is funny.  Maybe not laugh with funny, probably more laugh at funny. 

Why hello there.

The exciting news is really not all that exciting.  You're probably going to feel ripped off when you read it.  I feel a little bit bad about including the word 'exciting', not once, but twice in the post title. 

I tried to make this blog even more awesome by rearranging the entire layout.  It was great for about two minutes until I realized instead of making me feel like I was at a dance party, it made me feel like I was stabbing myself with a paring knife.  In a moment of confusion, instead of hitting cancel like a smart person, I twitched out and hit save.  WHAT THE HELL?!

After I finished throwing everything in arms reach and using swear words that hadn't been invented until I screamed them, I tried to return it to the way it was before.  There's something off about it now.  Like a diarrhea fart in the room, it may not be clearly visible, but there is something definitely not right.  I give up. 

Now to the mildly exciting part.  I've added new pages to the blog; an 'about' page and an 'FAQ' page.  And then, equally exciting, I've added better formatting for mobile phones, for all those who like to read Take With A Grain while driving.

PS - don't read and drive.  Or if you do, make sure you are a follower, so I least I know who's death to mourn.  

Note: This is the weepy part I warned you about.  

One of the first rules of blogging is not apologizing for long absences, the 2nd is not having long absences.  I am not in the position to not post for a long time and expect people to want to read what I have to say.  Truth time?  Jen the Bloggess and Allie from Hyperbole and a Half.  They are amazing.  So good.  Pinnacle of supreme awesomeness.  Their talent is overwhelming.  And they get sad, and they can't write.  How can I possibly expect to even be anywhere near as wonderful as they are?  It's overwhelming and intimidating.  Trust me, I know that I will not ever be on that level, but you know?  (insert something better expressed by a sober person).  Anybody? 

I have funny things to say about exploding eggs, but can't even tell you right now.  And they aren't even hoo-ha eggs, they're real eggs.  Which, now that I think about it, is probably less funny-slash-graphic then exploding hoo-ha eggs.  That would be a weird ass super power.  Think about it.

T

The Colour of a Muppet with a Terminal Illness

Last week I posted about a sneaky pen in the laundry in the Hidden Pen in the Laundry post.  Didja see that plug there?  Pretty subtle wasn't it.  Just like me writing this.  And this.  

Meg pointed out that there was some ambiguity with regards the specific colouring of a Muppet with a terminal illness.  She, very correctly, pointed out that Muppets are a multi-coloured bunch.   

Well Meg, in answer to your question, a seriously ill Muppet is this colour:

This Muppet is seriously ill.  He also has a hand up his rear end, which has nothing to do with anything,
but we should all probably be grateful that I didn't try to draw that too.

 And to prove that Muppet is not just hung over, here he is in the hospital with his terminal illness. 

Notice the copyright?  That's cause this drawing is so good y'all is going to try to steal it. 
But copyright symbol says, "NO!" and makes fun of your mother.

This is how I spend my time people.  I dare you to question my usefulness now. 

Teresa

PS.  You may have noticed the letter 'u' appearing in the word 'colour' throughout my post.  This is for two reasons.  One, I am Canadian, and that's how we spell it.  And two, that's how it's spelled, because I said so.   

Dinosaurs: Now With Helmets

Yesterday, I drew this instead of writing all the splendiferific stuff I had planned.  It turned out pretty crappy.  I don't know how much better this actually is.  What is he tripping over?  A pterodactyl turd?  At least he has a helmet now.  So what if it is a shitty helmet.  At least he has one.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a dinosaur helmet?  Or, any idea how awesome I felt getting the spelling of pterodactyl right on the first try?  Do you?  That's right.  You don't. 

Dinosaurs: Now With Helmets (and dentures)

Also, I forgot about to give him teeth yesterday.  So now he has dentures.  Problem solver, that's me.


TWAG

of Having Drawing Accidents

I had good intentions of writing more often than I have.  Did too!  Honest!  There were all these ideas pinging (let's imagine the sound of pinging for a moment) around in my head about what I could share with my one follower, things that would vastly enrich her life, and make all other blogs pale in comparison.  My ideas would make her fart sparkles and burp butterflies.

Didn't write them down, forgot what they were, so drew a dinosaur expressing itself instead.

Fucked that up, so it looks like it's tripping over something.  I don't know what it's tripping over, but if it's anything like me, it doesn't need anything to trip over.  I'm independent that way.  Maybe tomorrow I'll give it a helmet.  Maybe tomorrow I'll give me a helmet too.

TWAG

of Salt.

You might need a whole salt lick if this blog sticks around for a while.

My name is Teresa.  I just turned 30.  I moved in with a man-boy for the first time 5 days ago, which may say a lot about me.  I don't know what.  Probably that I am a unfortunate looking heffalump with an extreme case of halitosis and anger issues, who just now intimidated a blind guy with a sinus problem into letting me crash at his house, then shrieked at him until he agreed we were in a relationship.  Probably. 

I work in a boy dominated industry, which has been very influential in my life - both the industry, and the men-folk that I work around (not in a filthy-slut-whore way.  Jeeze, look at you, drawing conclusions and you don't even know me.  Typical.)  I don't want to talk too much about it, cause I have a feeling I'll be saying not nice things sometimes, and not nice things are way more fun when said behind backs.  You know it's true.

It has been many years since I've written anything, so please forgive the poor grammar and all that shatner.  I'll try to improve if you try not to be an asshole about it.

Swearing.  I do it.

Drinking.  I do that too.  The old liver threatened divorce once, we went to counseling, and are still trying to work things out.  It's having it's revenge now though.  Instead of just a morning of hangover, it says, "NO! No longer shall you recover in a spry like fashion.  Now you shall lay about doing your best impression of a Salvador Dali clock, all the while bemoaning how you've treated me for TWO days.  HA! HA!  TWO!"  And I say, "Liver, did you google melty clocks just for that reference?"  And liver crosses arms, and haughtily says "I knew it the whole time.  I read books."

I am an impossible klutz.  A can't-have-nice-things klutz.  A will-break-it-in-ways-you-didn't-know-were-possible klutz.  For instance, the first complete day moved into man-friend's house, I got bleach on his shirt and smashed my head into a beam which caused me to drop my head and bang my chin on the coffee table I was carrying.  Wait I am not done.  At the end of the long day, as we sat on the couch drinking tea, talking about our new life together, the mug I was holding disintegrated, covering me with hot, hot chamomile.  MF (man-friend) stared at me for a long while then said, "please don't burn my house down."  He wasn't kidding.  He still isn't.  Every time I drop something, tip something over, bend the unbendable, smash into something, or light something on fire, he gets a helpless panicked look on his face that would be cute if it wasn't a reflection of my super human destruction abilities. 

Even though he isn't a real turtle, I'd probably hurt Tommy's feelings or possibly break him.  

Most of the time I lack life skills.  Cleaning doesn't get done, food goes bad, and procrastinating becomes a self multiplying thing (ie. I know I want to read a book instead of studying, but that's procrastinating, so instead I avoid reading the book by braiding and unbraiding my hair for an hour or 4).  Sometimes, communication using my words is tough.  So instead, I express myself with dinosaur noises and clawing action, as an expression of both anger and affection.  Don't know how to put that into words.  RAaAAAAARRGGWWWRRR maybe.  Or GRRAAANAAAAAAGNNNNNGGGER.  Or just grr. 

I guess that's enough of me telling you who I am.  Maybe I should just let you figure out that I am a bit of a mess on your own. I don't know where this blog is going, I think I'll just let it shape itself.  Hopefully at some point I'll figure out how to stop starting my sentences with "I".

TWAG