Number of days since my last post: 7
Number of days that I had guests with whom I'd rather spend time than blog: 7
Number of people that called/texted/e-mailed me to ask if I was alive/ever going to blog again: 6
Number of swigs of antacid I took on FryDay: 5
Number of guests in my house for 7 days: 4, but the 4th one didn't take up much room
Number of hours spent cleaning my house after FryDay: 3
Number of eyes in my head: 2
Number of numbers on the '1' key: 1
I'm pretty exhausted right now but there are amusing commentaries on FryDay and beerball, some including pictures, on other blogs such as SuperMom (i.e. "The Atomic Elbow"), Dave (i.e. "The Commish"), Rob ("You Block Him... No YOU Block Him"), and Black Betty (i.e. "Der Go Yo Beer").
Next year, there will be batter stations in my garage or on my back porch. The batter will already be made and in buckets. Next year, my kitchen will not look like a flour and grease explosion.
Next year, y'all fry your own stuff, fools. Ain't nobody your chef.
Next year, some people want a FryDay Iron Chef competition. I disagree. Too complicated.
Next year, you fry what you bring, and if you don't fry it, you bring it home. Thanks, however, to the people that left dill pickles, ranch dressing, and Natty Lite from the Piggly Wiggly. I'll be returning all of it and pocketing the cash.
Next year, nobody brings dorky games that take longer to explain than they do to play. We had Guitar Hero. Risk is a buzzkill.
Next year, y'all need to keep me away from the margaritas.
Next year, no phallic pizzas.
The clear winners of FryDay were Snickers bars (duuuh) and ravioli. The losers... there are no losers in FryDay. There were losers in beerball, but it wasn't my team, despite the entire bucket of margaritas I plowed through mostly by myself. I'm pretty sure some of it got on Mr. Rofarto, but most of it went either into my gut or on my neighbor's lawn. If she starts growing margarita flowers in the Spring, I know nothing.
Dang it, I can't wait till next year. How about y'all?
1 day ago