Raw Photos Inaugural Ball

Internet, I have something to confess. I have been in cahoots. That's right. Cahoots. With The Suniverse. We were unhappy with the state of the world. We thought it was unfair. And contrived. And fake. And unfair.

So we came up with a plan.

And I am so excited to share that plan with you today!

We are announcing a brand new photo contest (OHYEAH!). Are you excited? I'm excited.

The skinny is below. My personal request is that all my friends and readers go submit right now. I know some of you take awesome effing photos and I want to share them with the world. 

The WORLD! 

Okay, so with the small group of peeps who read my blog, but it's still COOL, OKAY?

Yeesh.

Announcinggggggggg...... (drum roll please).......

The Raw Photos Contest

Have you ever taken a photo and thought, damn, that's a good looking photo? You have? Great. We have, too.

And then we ran into those people The Photoshoppers. The ones who take a good photo and mess with it and mess with it and create something new. Not that there's anything wrong with them. Or that. And not that we have anything against the Photoshoppers [except, yeah, maybe kinda], but...we love taking photos and we love they way they look. Raw. As is. And it turns out we aren't alone.

So we decided to give you the opportunity to show off your Raw Photos. Each month, we will post a contest theme on our blogs, on Twitter and on Flickr. We'll give you a week to submit your photos, and then we'll decide which photo best exemplifies the theme. Which photo catches our fancy. Which photo rocks.

What's the catch? Well, here's the deal:

1. You have to have taken the photo [duh, don't be a jerk and enter someone else's photo. NOT COOL.]
2. The photo has to be a raw photo. What does that mean? That means NO PHOTOSHOPPING. You can screw around all you want with exposure and white balance on your camera, and we'll even let you crop the photo, but that's it. No changing hues. No intensifying colors. No adding aliens or unicorns. RAW PHOTOS, baby. That's what we're looking for. (Both digital and digital scans of film are okay)
3. You have one week to enter a photo. You can enter up to two [2] photos per contest.

Once all the photos have been entered, we'll take a few days to look them over. When we decide who the winner is, that winner's photo will be posted on our blogs Crazy with a side of Awesome Sauce and The Suniverse, our Twitter feeds @andygirl and @TheSuniverse, and on Flickr. Plus, the winner gets an AWESOME BADGE to post on their blog or web page, showing the world that they have mad photography skills.

Our first theme is:

LAST DAYS OF SUMMER 

Enter a photo showing us what you think best exemplifies the last days of summer. What does it mean to you? It could be anything, so make it personal. 

You have from August 1, 2010 through August 7, 2010 to enter. You can enter up to two [2] photos.

Submit here. 

Good luck!

burning bras

When I was a teenager, I fell in love with the sixties. Really, I did.

I didn't stand much of a chance. I was raised listening to my mom's British Invasion records and my dad loved Joplin and Hendrix and Iron Butterfly. *sigh* These were the sounds of my youth.

I was a teenager smack dab in the middle of grunge. It was the mid-nineties. Everyone wore plaid and No Fear and Doc Martens. Kate Moss sat listless on Calvin Klein posters looking like she'd just shot up. Garage bands were the regular thing (interestingly, I love nineties rock now). Nobody got excited or worked up about anything. Desert Storm had ended and the Twin Towers were still intact. There was nothing, from my peers' perspectives, to get worked up about.

I was bored. I wanted to do something important. Make a statement.

Somehow in these years, I discovered the sixties. Partly because of my fascination with my dad's photos from Vietnam (he was drafted in 1969) and partly the music (my first CD was Sgt. Peppers) and I decided I was born in the wrong decade.

I sought out anything having to do with the sixties and then the seventies (pre-disco years). I watched Full Metal Jacket and 1969 over and over. I watched footage of protests at Berkeley and DC and the Watts Riots. I discovered feminism and Civil Rights and politics. I read Gloria Steinem, 1984, and the Communist Manifesto religiously. I wore Grateful Dead shirts, an MIA bracelet my mom wore during Vietnam, and an old fireman's jacket of my dad's that I tie dyed and covered in patches. I devoured the ideas and ideologies of the time.

But the biggest affectations were the ones that pissed my mom off. I stopped wearing makeup (because it was suppression by The Man, don't you know) and stopped wearing bras (not that I had much to hold up anyway). I owned one bra in those years-the one my mom made me wear to church. All my friends knew if it was a truly cold day because I'd be clutching my braless chest, trying to keep my girls warm. I stopped doing anything with my hair (other than braiding in beads) because long and tangly was apparently a protest of some kind against traditional feminine aesthetic beauty.

So it should come as no surprise that I went to fashion school in 2001 and worked in lingerie for 3 years. The sixties will always have a special place in my heart. But, now bras and brushes are regular staples in my life. Aren't you glad?

Update: by request, a photo of me in high school:

This is the only one I could find that was scanned already.

I'm the one on the right. The other is best friend and new roommate Lynnette.

 As you can see, this is the beginning of my hippie-ish faze 

(I was still working on growing out my hair). 

I'm wearing bellbottoms and my aunt's leather vest that she bought in 

San Francisco in the sixties. 

Photo of the Day: Pony Tail

I went for a long walk yesterday and I must share one of my very favorite things about my new home. Plants. Flowers. Bushes. Trees. Growing things everywhere. Just about every house has an insane garden taking over the walk. And the houses that don't have wild growth anyway.

I don't even know what this little beauty is. Have never seen a plant like that in my life. But isn't it lovely?

Crafty Girls Projects: Turn a drawer into a shelf

Here is the first installment of our crafty projects. I'm not going to do one of those "how to" posts and walk you through step by step. This isn't a how to blog. But if you want instructions, just email me and I'd be happy to share. For the cost of a cup of coffee or a new job.

During my first trip to the Rebuilding Center, I was on the lookout for something I could make a little vanity-type station with for my bedroom. A place I could put a mirror (which I already owned) and do my makeup and store my jewelry (since all my furniture is in storage).

And in a stroke of brilliance, saw an old drawer and immediately envisioned it as a shelf. Because I am brilliant. BA-rilliant. Honestly. I'd never thought of it before, but when I saw the drawer sitting on its side, it wasn't hard to picture it for another use.

So I bought the drawer for $3 and bought a $3 can of espresso colored spray paint (it was blond wood with a cream lacquer on the front of the drawer. I chose the espresso because my sheets are a rusty orange and when I get my bed, it's a creamy color, so the espresso should be a modern compliment. I really wanted a flat brown, but they didn't carry it, so I went with a satin finish. Ultimately, I like the satin, so I'm glad it worked out that way.

And of course I forgot to take a picture of the drawer before I painted it. But here it is after one coat of paint:

And here it is hanging on my wall with my stuff. I mounted that mirror on the wall and didn't set it on the shelf, because I didn't want it falling.

It's not crooked, I just didn't take a straight shot.

Didn't it turn out so cute?

But it doesn't end there! Lynnette and I liked this idea so much that we decided to do the same thing in our kitchen to make a spice rack above our ugly ass green stove *shudder*.

We went back to the Rebuilding Center and were lucky enough to find a drawer with partitions already inside it (I assume for socks or something) which would make nice shelves for our spices if we turned it on its side.

Once again, I of course forgot to photograph it before painting. But it was also a blond wood and we chose a flat black because all our kitchen furniture is black and red (but more on that later). Here 'tis:

I'm holding it up because we haven't mounted it yet, but you get the idea. 

See how ugly our stove is? *shudder*

So imagine it flipped on its side and that's how it looked as a drawer. And we took the handle off, painted it red and moved it sideways (you can see the original holes).

To use as a towel rack.

Next? Our kitchen table and chairs! oooooooh.

If you want instructions on how to do this, just email awesomecrazylady at gmail dot com. 

Photo of the Day: Rainbow Connection

We hiked to a waterfall yesterday. And my favorite part? It wasn't the gloriously cool mist or the delightfully loud roar of the falls or emerald moss covering everything. It was the rainbow. See it?

It makes up for the fact that I'm an old lady and napped stretched out in the back seat the whole way home from the hike. Oh my hips. Old. Lady.

Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

Why must guys on motorcycles idle their engines for like an hour? I don't know much (read: nothing) about motorcycles, but my inner logic (read: craziness) says it doesn't tale 60 minutes (I'm good at the math) to get the engine idled properly and thus enabling driving. Like, does that makes sense to anyone?

And why are motorcycle engines so loud anyway? Are they made of lawnmower engines? I mean, hell, I could jump on a lawnmower and ride around town too, but that seems inefficient. Though loud. Since loud seems to be the main goal here: he who idles the loudest must have the largest penis. Is that right? If my logic is right (which it usually isn't), I'd judge that by the loudness of the lawnmower engine in that motorcycle, the vibrations must be pretty strong. So either the guy is riding the biggest fucking vibrator ever (lucky bastard) or his junk must be completely numb and useless. And because I hate him for idling his hog under my bedroom window at the asscrack of dawn this morning (How dare he not know I had a headache!), I'm gonna assume the latter. Numb junk it is.

This is the dumbest effing thing I've seen in my young life. But I love it so hard. Why, jeebus? WHY? But I do know why. It's like Steven Hawking as a cat. Kind of. Not really. But that's where I go in my head (My head is a frightening place. Really. I rarely brush my hair. So who knows what's living in there. Cue: ew.). (Thanks, Lilu, for sharing this avec moi.)

Nick Swardson's Pretend Time	Tuesday, October 12
Preview - Wheelchair Cat
www.comedycentral.com
Roast of David Hasselhoff Big Lake It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia

Have any of you heard about this:

I'm thinking, AWESOME, because that SOB totes owes me a My Little Pony that he promised me in 1986 if I obeyed my parents. We had a deal, Jesus!  We had a deal and I intend to collect. 

I really need to write about my furniture projects soon. I will, I promise. How is it I'm so busy when I'm so unemployed. Huh? HUH? Wait, I'm not that busy. I'm just incredibly lazy. There's a difference. There's a difference. 

I also made my new blog masthead for August and am dying to put it up now. Would you all judge me if I posted my August masthead before it was actually August? Would you think me stupid? Or a liar? Or just slightly inaccurate? *sigh*

I'm also totes trying to figure out the whole blog badge thing (I wanted to type blog bladge. Doesn't that just sound better?), both for meself (Why do we need these things anyway? ahhh peer pressure is the spice of life.) and for a new photo contest that TheSuniverse and I are concocting (and will be FULL of the awesome sauce). But I am apparently rocking the lame sauce on the whole html thing. Blerg. 

It's forbidden!

You know how in Beauty and the Beast, how the minute Belle knows that the West Wing is forbidden, she immediately wants nothing more than to find out why? To go there?

Forbidden fruit, my friends, forbidden fruit.

Well, there is a forbidden room in my house. At least, it's forbidden to my cats. It's my roommates' room. It's just a room. Nothin' special. There's a bed. Some clothes. A lamp. 

But because that room is forbidden, my cats want nothing more in the whole world (including dinner, which they like, A LOT) that to go in that room. It's irresistible. They can't help themselves. 

They have to see what's in that room. They must see what's in that room. 

It's driving them mad.

But I am here to tell you, kitties, nothing good can come from forbidden places. Just ask Belle. 

Do you want to end up in the snow being chased by wolves? Do you? DO YOU? And when I have to save your asses and get attacked by the wolves, will you nurse me back to health? No. No you will not. Because you are fucking cats. 

Does anyone else think Belle is totally the hottest Disney princess? She's so bookish and feisty. Plus she always has the hair falling in her face. It's so sexy, I love that. 

Photo of the Day: Golden Green

Portland is full of these gorgeous, huge trees! Trees that capture the light and dapple the sidewalk. Trees that reach for the sky with strong limbs at delicate angles, like dancers. Trees that are majestic and social. Trees that are breathtaking. 

Hot Mess Monday

So I fell down my stairs last night. Seriously. I did. Like a baby giraffe just learning to walk. Down stairs. Only that baby giraffe was wearing a long skirt that got caught under its feet in the process. Also, the giraffe has toes and its big toe jammed up into its foot causing searing pain and so the giraffe emitted a gawdawful yelping MOTHERFUCKER OWWW!.

The giraffe has a bit of a potty mouth.

So yeah, I fucked up my toe. I iced it a ton last night, but it still hurts today. And I've broken a toe before (The same toe, come to think of it.) and THAT shit hurts like a motherfucking sonofabitch (That's the technical term. At least, that's what the baby giraffe told me.), so I don't think it's broken. And it's not my toe exactly that hurts; it's more like the joint where my big toe connects to my foot. And now I'm getting shooting pains along the bottom of my foot to my heel. Fucking awesome!

Of course to add to that, I've also got The Period going on and my cramps are making want to strangle a small, male animal. But not a baby giraffe. Never. A baby giraffe.

And then the cabinet guys were supposed to come fix our crooked cabinets today, but they're not here yet, the fuckers. I swear to all things unholy if we don't get usable cabinets soon, I will transform into an adult giraffe and trample my smug fucking landlord's car. I know which one it is too. She parks right outside my house. Wunderbar (Spellcheck wanted me to change that to wonderbra. I considered it for a full 2 minutes.)!

Then I spent a good 15 minutes (which is like FOREVER, YO!) on hold with my student loan company to ask one tiny question only for them to tell me that I'm fine. Yup. Worth it. Totally worth it.

So you could say I'm a hot mess this jour. A hot fucking mess.

On the potential upside, I sent my resume in for an awesome kickass job this morning, a job that I'd be awesome at and would pay well (hopefully) and is closeish to where I live and is perfect. And I want it. A lot. If you can't tell. I want this job. If I don't get it, yours truly will be stripping soon. And we all know I'll be awesome at that.

And this last weekend waaaas pretty great so I can't complain too too much. Still doesn't make me a hot non-mess. But still. it was fun.

I still suck today. I'm still a pathetic hot mess. Maybe it's because it's Monday? OOH! New idea! Hot Mess Mondays! What do you think?

The baby giraffe thinks it's awesome. So there.

This post participates in:

Love Song Sunday: Love and Love Again

So I totally and completely forgot about Love Song Sunday last week. I didn't even blow it off. I just plain forgot. Oh well, moving mayhem will fry a girl's brain, you know.

I'm hoping to make up for it this week with a little Jesca Hoop. I have love love loved Jesca Hoop for years now. Her music is so creative and experimental. She calls it "mad music," which, you know, makes me cream.

This is not the best recording. But this song is lovely as all hell. I love how it's both sad and hopeful. Reminiscent, but also sweetly resigned. It always eases my heart whenever it's particularly sore and it brings a small tear to my eye if I hear it at just the right moment and happen to remember something precious which I lost.

Enjoy.

Rebuilding

So we've been working hard refinihsing a TON of furniture, procured from thrift stores and the Rebuilding Center. Actually, most of it came from the latter. 4 chairs, two drawers that we turned into shelves (my creative genius at work- one for my bedroom and one for the kitchen), a kitchen table, a headboard and mirror/cabinet and stand for Lynnette's room, and a monstrous cabinet we'll use as a kitchen pantry.

I will share photos and how-tos for most of these projects soon (still not quite finished). But FIRST! I want to share the Rebuilding Center. The most magical place in the land.

main entrance

the trees are made out of recycled parts

salvaged doors

so many windows!

look at all that salvaged flooring!

more vents than I've ever seen in my life

does anyone need to go? now's the time.

lurve old fashionedy bathtubs

the resident cat

yes it is

So I volunteered at a similar place in New Orleans this past spring, The Green Project (a VERY cool place), but the Rebuilding Center is MUCH larger and much more arty. The cashier is THE coolest woman on the entire planet. It's worth it to go just for her.

I'm pretty sure I'm in love with this place. And we still need to go back to find a wooden knob for our pantry (haha, wooden knob. grow up, Andy). 

Photo of the Day: Golden Afternoon

Lynnette and I took a nice walk the other evening to get dinner and on the way back, the light was just absolutely delicious. How could I resist capturing the many randomly growing flowers og my neighborhood being set on fire by the setting sun?

Epiphany

Did a significant life decision ever just you smack in the face? 

Okay, yes, I realize I did just move like 1,000 miles or something, but I don't mean that. I mean, I woke up today and got smacked in the face with a new vision of the world. 

I got inklings of this vision yesterday when I was in the rebuilding store and needed help with the cabinet we'd decided to purchase (for 15 smackers!) and refurbish. And I saw this:

perfection

So, I realize the photo is blurry and you're only getting a view of his ass (which, take it from me, was a very nice view inDEED), but this right here, ladies and gents of the Internet, was a-fucking-dorable. 

And entirely too young for me. 

But instant fantasies entered my head of, well, you can guess what of. Just let your imagination run wild, my friends. Just let it run wild. Wild. 

And these fantasies lingered the rest of the day. And then all night. And I awoke this morning to an epiphany ("an ephiwhat?" - bonus if you get that movie reference): I could be a cougar.

My only reservation with the plan is this: I think I'm technically too young to be a cougar by definition. So maybe I could just be a cougar in training. Maybe a bobcat or a lynx or something. 

I think I've been looking at this all wrong. See, I've been looking for guys that were relationship material. Who would maybe be old enough and experienced enough to want the things I want, to build a life with. Except, I'm pretty sure those guys don't exist at any age. So I might as well have a lot of ridiculously hot sex until I can just afford to have those things by myself. 

Therefore, I am no longer looking for a relationship, at least not an emotional or committed one. I just want sex. With someone altogether too young for me (but perhaps I should set the bar at a minimum age of 21.). I'm not looking for one night stands either. I'm too old for that shit. I mean, I'm too lazy now to go looking for someone new every time I want The Sex. Who has the time? Nope, I'm looking for a longish term sexual relationship. 

Since it will be purely sexual, he needs to be H-O-T hot. Things that normally aren't on my list when I'm falling for someone's brains or sense of humor or kind nature are totes on the list now. Aesthetic beauty is paramount here. Of course, my definition of hot is not exactly typical anyway, but why don't you let me worry about that, mmmk, pumpkin? 

He also doesn't need to have much in the way of brainpower, which is usually the first thing I look for in a guy. But hell, he's not going to be doing much talking now is he? Of course, if he happens to rock the smart, BONUS! But if he's a little dim, he can just keep quiet. I don't need him to deconstruct The Wasteland. I've already done that anyway. 

What IS important is smarts in the sack. I don't want to waste any time teaching him what's what or what's where and for how long and with who (wait, what?). He's got to have a little savvy, a little intuition. Communication au lit is always important, but I'm not a sex tutor, son. I need to relax a leeetle. 

There will be no dates, so I don't need him to have an income (And lard knows I don't have a job yet.). I don't want to wake up with syphilis, so Collin Farrell is not an option (plus he's too old), but the point being: STD free is required. He needs to bathe regularly and keep his nails trimmed (My hooha doesn't like the long or jagged nails. *shudder*). He needs to brush his teeth daily and NOT smell like he bathed in Axe. If my nose is offended, you don't get in my bed, thankyouverymuch. 

Um, what else? Oh yeah, nothing! Hot and rocking the sexy time. That's all I need. 

Don't bother sending a resume. Just send a photo. Full body. I don't want to see any penises,  but ass shots are encouraged so I can judge hairiness and squeezability. 

Photo of the Day: Hello, Portland

Take my word for it friends, what you are looking at is one of the best views in Portland. The only words I have for this are: huminna hummina hummina

Am I right?

shiftless, lackadaisical, slothful. ANTONYM rambunctious

I don't have kids. Nope. Don't. Or hadn't you noticed in all this time reading the asinine words I vomit onto my computer (ew. Okay, so I wanted to write: that I vomit onto paper. But that would've been inaccurate.)? Hadn't you noticed that I never write about children, unless it's my bestie's son Ethan or the baby lust I am stricken with?

You didn't notice?

Weirdo.

So yeah, no kiddos here.

But I was once a child myself, believe it or not (those may be the exact words my dad used many, many times). I did. The crazy lady was once a crazy child. And I totes was a crazy child. A little compartmentalized (which is a nice way of saying it).

I was actually pretty shy, but not allowed to be. I wanted to read or create pretend worlds alone in my bedroom, but instead spent most of my time trying to be my mother's little star.

Wait, how did this post get to be about my mom?

Back on track...I was somewhat shy. But also hyper. Not rambunctious, per se. No. And not ADD either (ADHD hadn't been invented yet). I could certainly focus my brain  to the point of not being able to hear anything going on around me if I so chose.

I just couldn't sit still. A fidgeter. Constantly in motion. It was a good thing I had 5 different dance classes, soccer, swimming, and horseback riding, because I liked to move. But that didn't necessarily get the energy out; it wasn't excess energy that was the problem. In the grocery store, I'd dance down the aisles (you mean they don't make them that long for that express purpose?). At school, I'd tap my feet under my desk or fiddle with whatever I could find. I just couldn't stop.

Okay, so maybe that does qualify as rambunctious. But, I never caused trouble. I was that know-it-all good little girl teacher's pet Hermione-type.

I was a talker though. Notes to my parents from teachers always read: bright but talks a lot.

Are you beginning to understand me a little better? So I was this insane, shy little child who was scared of new things, but once you got me going wouldn't shut up and couldn't sit still if you paid me.

Cut to today: lazy ass biotch who has been lazing in bed until 10 and 11 every day accomplishing jack squat (Who is Jack Squat? Is he cute?). Unemployment is truly delicious. Except for the whole no income part.

But it's enjoyable as all hell.

Today? I am the opposite of rambunctious.

I think that's called getting old.



This post participates in:

Scavenger

I am absolutely and eternally fascinated by thrift stores. This is where I've spent the majority of the last couple of days, along with the hardware store and the rebuilding store, searching for pieces of old and discarded furniture which my best friend and I will transform into something funky and arty and modern.

I'll share some of those projects with you soon.

But something perverse in me just loves wandering through the aisles of things, things people once used.

Things people once loved.

All piled together en masse, a mass grave of objects.

Once useful, once valued, once unique. Once someone's belongings.

Who once owned these things? Who touched them? Who laughed and cried and felt with them?

Does some part of them remain in these bits and pieces? Like a residue? Does part of their energy linger? And if so, does it become part of you when you purchase it for yourself? 

$3 for a bike helmet and a bit of someone's chi?

Who slept here? Did they suffer in this bed? Did they die? Do they know that it's wedged between piles of furniture and buried under dust? 

Or are we rescuing some one's junk? Something once piled away in another cupboard, collecting dust. An annoyance at best. A souvenir from a long-forgotten trip. 

A collective of goods, all assembled homogeneously. A commune of stuff.

Ready for scavenging.

Crazy Lady reviews the Awesome Sauce

So you may remember a while ago that my friend Meredith found me real, live, honesttoblog Awesome Sauce.

Needless to say, I was pretty stoked. But I didn't purchase any because, well, I'm a cheap sombitch and I wanted to spend my money on something I needed, like new shoes. 

But the universe loves me. Shut up, yes it does. And a month or so ago, the amazing folks at Breadpig found my blog (Did you notice that my blog has awesome sauce in the title? You weren't paying attention were you? The dunce cap for you!) and offered to send me some. For free. 

To which I replied, UM, YES PLEASE! I mean, I love free stuff! 

And I never once thought that I might actually do a product review, because that might make me a legit blogger. Not for one second did I ponder that possibility because I've never wanted to do a product review, because I didn't think that people might listen to me and go out and buy something because my opinion is like lame yo and influencing opinion is like way selling out or something. 

Except I was a salesperson for like a million years (serious) and I don't mind influencing opinion at all (as long as I'm honest) and I've kind of always wanted to do a product review! Yay! I'm a real girl! 

So I gave the nice people my Portland addy, because what if I moved before it got to my Cali address and then I'd have to wait for the USPS to forward it? Tragedy, that's what. 

It was here when I arrived. Excited was I.

Yoda I also am. Which my best friend and roomie won't get because she's never seen Star Wars and I recently learned this about her and realized that she hasn't been getting my Star Wars jokes for the last 16 years. 

Anywaaaay, I didn't try it right away. I didn't even open the box because I didn't have any clue where I'd packed the fucking scissors. When I did finally procure cutting utensils, I opened it and immediately read the ingredients. Soy sauce. It contains soy sauce. 

I am highly allergic to soy. See: sad face

Highly disturbing, I realize

But I wasn't going to let a little allergy stop me. No sire. Soy sauce was one small ingredient in a long list of other ingredients. My solution: taste a little on a spoon and see if I die. 

So I did. And it was taaaaasty! Tangy (prob from the garlic and soy sauce), but with a big ol' kick to it. I like spicy to an extent (hell, I lurves me some cajun goodness), but I've never been a fan of spicy just to kick you in the face. It's got to have some flava too, yo. The awesome sauce does. It is full of the flava, without too much spice, and just enough chutzpa to really get a party goin' in your mouth. 

Best part? I didn't die. Woohoo!

Next step? Try it on food. Can't just keep eating this puppy with a spoon (That's a metaphor, idiot. I would never eat a puppy. At least not with a spoon.). 

This is my bottle.

Get your own, moocher.

So I went to a local market and bought some pre-cooked BBQ chicken. Why pre-cooked, you lazy biotch? WELL, it's a long story, but our landlord has yet to replace our crooked cupboards, so all of our shit is on the counter tops and I didn't want to hassle with cooking in the way cluttered space. Plus, I'm still getting over my fear of cooking meat (Always afraid I'll undercook it and end up with syphilis. Wait, that's not right is it?). 

Pre-cooked chicken with the Awesome Sauce dribbled on it. And it was DELICIOUS! Ohemgee so good. All the tang and flava and kick with the added bonus of picking up the flavor of the chicken. Yummers. 

I hath conquered the Awesome Sauce

Now that I've had more, I'll wait to see if the soy does eventually make me itchy. I totes recommend this for anyone without a soy allergy. I'm just high maintenance. And stubborn apparently. 

Oh and get this:

"Breadpig, Inc., searched every saucery on the planet for the awesomest sauce and discovered this garlic mouthparty. Why risk producing something that only makes our porcine hero even more delectable? Because we donate all profits from this hot sauce to Gates Foundation programs to ensure proper nutrition for kids in the developing world. This way, they can grow up to be healthy adults, who can one day buy Awesomesauce to put on their own meals."

How coolio is that? They're awesome and socially conscious. 

Want some? Go here. Like nowish.