butterfingers and figjam

we've all known it. but it never hurts to name some jam after it.

fuck i'm good just ask me.

mad props to the australian band butterfingers for that clever title. please listen now. if you like country music and don't mind the occasional choice word, that is. in other words, if your taste in music somewhat hits mine.

cum to mommy.

sorry. i've been listening to this song while typing. and while making figjam. and eating it. and working. and sleeping. and brushing my teeth. and, i mean . . . just ask me.

 

spoon courtesy of an old roommate who moved out and left it, painting courtesy of gustav klimt via ikea. grandma-colored brown-pink on the wall courtesy of former homeowner. moving on.

my brother's here. we started making more jam.

then realized that this is not sea-buckthorn but firethorn. here as well, moving on.

eating salad.

 

and bagel.

and going for a walk.

 

that's right . . .

. . . one walk.

 

with the hubby. and the dogs. to uphold the family honor, the hubs finished the seven-mile walk for everyone. altruistic as we are, my brother and i turned around with the dogs after one mile. the dogs having such short legs. and it being such a warm day. and all.

today it's cool. and cloudy. unfortunately, we had other things to do again, and again couldn't do the whole seven-mile walk. again, the hubs upheld the family honor.

come to think of it . . . that walking honor rests entirely on his shoulders.