I have failed NaNoPoblano.
It’s ok. I already know.
I was hoping the daily deadline would help free me up, but it turns out that even I am not the boss of me. I defied me at every turn, and life events were happy to jump in and steal the time I had set aside – for me, the only tougher month to blog every day would have been December – and both of those months offer plenty to write about. It’s just the doing it that is hard.
Blogging is very much like Thanksgiving dinner for me. I know that I am supposed to sit at the grown up table and discuss and defend my position on the biggies: the election, feminism, racism and the Kardashians, but all I really want to do is sit at the kids’ table and pretend to sneeze out green bean casserole. (which reminds me – what kind of a demon are you, people who eat that shit? I can’t even LOOK at it.) Also relevant to both – it is possible to consume too much of a good thing and not want it again for a year, there are a million equally good recipes and dishes and the only universal on turkey is that it needs to be completely done. You probably don’t want to know what is in the stuffing. Sometimes it’s better just to ignore what your Aunt Eulamay has to say about the meaning of life, the picture on the recipe card almost always looks better than the finished product and if it’s been sitting there for a week, you should throw it out.
So before these go bad, dig in:
As we were making turkey noodles out of the leftovers, my husband said, of a recent visit to the home of a friend that he hunts with: “And that morning, she (friend’s wife) fixed us breakfast with actual ingredients.”
“No, with, like ham and cheese in with the eggs, and I’m pretty sure there was garnish.”
“That is crazy talk! Who does that?”
And I immediately wrote the wife in this scenario:
Me: That recipe looks delicious! Speaking of which….when my hubs comes to visit, I’d be obliged if you would stop filling his head with high falutin’ ideas about breakfast. I know that you mean well, but now he will look at the cereal I lovingly make for him annually as somehow not enough, even when I put milk in it. I hate to see the sadness in his eyes.
Her: I am so sorry. You know it’s just how I try to fill the emptiness inside. With ingredients. And wine. Strangely, they didn’t go for the wine pairing at breakfast.
Me again: That is probably because of the beer pairing from the night before. And it’s fine I just hate to crush his dreams unless I am gaining something from it plus I’m starting to think he’s not buying the “cooking is black magic” explanation anymore…
Tonight the Friends of Felines will come to collect the ugly cats. They will then fix them so that they will not make any more ugly kittens, and then dump them back in my yard. They dropped off the trap last weekend, so the cats wouldn’t be suspicious.
Now, mutiny is in the air.
Initially, they thought we had given them a jungle gym. The next day, I watched in horror as two skunks arrived and started a vicious brawl to the death over the leftover food:
The cats sat very quietly, making subtle nods toward the other cats in case either skunk demanded to know who was in charge.
The following day I slept in, and was greeted by the gutted carcass of a squirrel when I finally went to feed them. Then. Last night I watched as they, emboldened by the bloody victory the previous day, were stealthily plotting an ambush of what they clearly assumed to be one of the squirrel’s fancy relatives. When the skunk showed up to pillage, all six cats stationed themselves strategically on the trap above it. The attack was thwarted when the skunk was frightened off by the shrieks of my daughter when I showed her this picture.
I’m actually kind of relieved that they won’t be here tonight.
We need to talk about the Rusty Trombone.
At least Cosmo does, apparently. To be fair, I once weighed in on the lingam massage, and continue to reap the rewards of that keyword. But this. THIS.
WHAT IS A RUSTY TROMBONE??? you are thinking.
Well. Since you asked:
Per Cosmopolitan, but first I should mention that when you google search “Rusty Trombone Cosmo,” you should immediately click away because there is a drink by that name, and also the next thing you know you are reading about Alabama Hot Pockets and you don’t want to. You don’t.
Rusty Trombone: The act of performing a simultaneous rim and handjob.
I just need to say that I still struggle with the rub-your-tummy-while-patting-your-head move, and I feel like this, even if I were even remotely interested which I am not, would end tragically for everyone.
That’s really all I had. Do you see why I left it in the draft folder?
Tune in tomorrow for a more serious post that will be the last political thing I will ever write. Probably. And it may be the next day. But for sure by Wednesday.