Cream of Onion Soup

Mostly I was a polite and grateful child, but there was that year of cream of onion soup.

We had moved to a new town so I was nervous about measuring up to the other third graders.  All the kids had shiny superhero lunchboxes filled with Oreos, cheese sticks, a turkey sandwich, and a bag of Doritos that they would trade with other kids for Twinkies, green grapes, pretzel sticks, and a pb and j.  Except me.  I had a Tupperware tote with a little Thermos of cream of onion soup in it.

I didn't like cream of onion soup, and even worse, cream of onion soup has zero trade value in third grade.

I hated my life.

Years later the cream of onion soup made sense.  At the time there was no work, there was no money, and there were few options, but we had onions.  So my mother, Rapunzel, had tied her hair out of her way and made cream of onion soup, frozen it in little batches, and got up every morning to cook it and preheat my little Thermos to keep the soup hot until lunchtime.  When I complained, she told me how healthy it was, and like moms have been doing for generations, she omitted the more brutal details such as our household being on a knife's edge and about to be plunged into the depths of financial calamity.  Jeremy Renner couldn't have done a better job of acting as though everything was and would continue to be fine.

So if it's not too late, Mom, thank you.  Cream of onion soup, cream of anything soup actually, will always bring me happy thoughts of you.  All soup does, really.  Campbell's got nothin on you.

"These Masks Are Uncomfortable"

A much as we dislike discomfort, it's not necessarily a bad thing in and of itself.  Discomfort is a warning that calls for action.  When your leg is half numb, half pins-and-needles, you might think it's time to change position and get some blood circulating in that limb.  The empty sensation in your growling stomach could be saying you need food right away.  Teeth lodged in your butt cheek and blood soaking into your pants may indicate that you've sat on the cat and should get up immediately.  Shortness of breath, dizziness, mausea, lightheadedness, bacterial pneumonia, headaches, nasal lesions, impaired cognition, hypoxia, facial rash, skin breakdown, sinus congestion, lowered blood oxygen levels, chronic coughing, increased airway resistance, carbon dioxide accumulation, fainting, weakened immune system, screaming at strangers, or unreasonable rage at the sight of another person's nose or lips could be telling you to quit smothering yourself.

Now don't you go all Jeremy Renner on me.  You do you.  If wearing your face naked makes you uncomfortable, cover that sucker.  If the muzzle causes you discomfort, then rip that bad boy off.

The Precious Can't Stop Talking

People think The Precious is such a nice boy, and he is, but he's not the same kind of quiet polite humble kind generous thoughtful caring sincere intelligent magician at home as he is in public.  Around here he's a smidgen more impish. And talkative.  Very, very talkative.  And quite honestly, Pixie could live without that.

Maybe it's the nicknames he has for her.  Pipsqueak, Pied Piper, Pequeña, Parrot, Penny, Pick-Up-Sticks, Pick-Me-Up, Eduardo.  She despises every new title he comes up with for her.  He can't see why.

It could be that she is far too often the lone subject of his monologues.

"Does Pixie have an opinion on the matter?  Asking for a friend.  The friend doesn't care whether Pixie has an opinion on the matter.  I'm just asking for him.  I'm hungry.  Why isn't Pixie cooking me something?  I love my little sister so much.  I wish she could fathom it."

One of these days she's going to go all Jeremy Renner on him and I won't be able to stop her.

Breaking Tradition

When the family is big and the fridge is small, the days leading up to Thanksgiving dinner are lean.

It happens every year. I spend days, nights even, prepping for the feast. The fridge, stove, and oven are so taken up with holiday food, that there's nothing to eat the entire week prior to the holiday.

Lefty stomps around growling, "We ain't had nothing but maggoty bread for three stinking days," and Pixie's like, "Yeah. Why can't we have some meat?" And then I chase them all with a wooden spoon because they're never too old to spank, am I right?

But this year I'm changing things up. Don't tell anybody because then they'll expect it all the time, but I actually planned ahead. I wrote out a menu plan for, would you believe it, the whole week. We're going to have actual breakfasts, lunches and suppers every single day of the week, not just one big meal on Turkey Day. Now before you go being overly impressed, I'll admit it's mostly freezer to crockpot, and there will be mac and cheese involved. But still. This family's going to eat like Jeremy Renner, there won't be a famine before the feast this year.

Do you have bad traditions too? Break them. Be bold.

All the Holidays

What with the next eight weeks encompassing Veterans Day, Globally Organized Hug A Runner Day (aka G.O.H.A.R.D.), Thanksgiving, Cider Monday, Day of Lard, Winter Solstice, Christmas, a bunch more apocalypses, Whiners Day, Bacon Day, New Years, some famines, two college graduations, multiple family birthdays, and most importantly Bestie's anniversary, I already know there's no way I'll be able to keep up.

I'm just going to leave out the jack-o'-lanterns but with some tinsel garland and paper snowflakes tossed around them, and top them with angels, stars, graduation caps, and party hats.  I'll put bowties on Hunneypunkin and my life-size Jeremy Renner cardboard cutout.  We'll throw some turkey, stuffing, gravy, cranberries, and chestnuts in the blender for a holiday smoothie and I'll whip up one big apple pecan banana cream pumpkin chocolate mousse pie for dessert.

The soundtrack for the remainder of the year will be my YouTube playlist of holiday songs that Angel Doll, ever the unsuspected prankster, hacked and infiltrated with songs like Cotton Eyed Joe

All gifts will be pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters because I have a lot of spare change but all coins are rare now so they're special, like the driveway gravel Pixie brought in the house when she was little(r) and collected unique rocks.

Bestie and I will sit by the roaring fireplace with champagne glasses of eggnog to reminisce about precedented times, and all will continue to be well.

Full Mooniacal Halloweekend

One ought to expect the unexpected on a full moon Halloween Daylight Savings weekend, and this one did not disappoint.

There was a pack of dogs shattering dishes in a failed attempt to hijack the homemade chicken soup. We saw pretend zombies, with and without masks. We saw real zombies, with and without masks. There were late night angry drunk texts from my good friend (or whatever) Dromiquine, multiple light bulbs burning out all at once, and a howling cat strolling through the hallway at two in the morning.

There were also some successful firsts in baking, including a pumpkin cake roll and an eggless pumpkin pie, a fat batch of from-scratch chili, and lots of Darigold eggnog. We made a delicious punch with dry ice, carved pumpkins, stayed up late watching movies, and turned back most of the clocks but not all so that no one's ever sure what time it is exactly but nobody really cares because my life size Jeremy Renner cardboard cutout is hanging out with the jack-o'-lanterns and the hot cider is spiced and everything is happily ever after.

If You Fence Your Garden

With a fence around your garden, your dogs can't dig it up.  Your cats can hide there from the puppers.  Your pole beans, tomatoes, and cucumbers have something on which to climb.  The garden tools are less likely to walk away.

With a fence around your garden, it feels like a private getaway.  You can stow yourself in there and cultivate to your heart's content while the butterflies and hummingbirds flit around.

With a fence around your garden, there's some shelter from the wind.  Your life-size Jeremy Renner cardboard cutout can stand in the corner to keep you company with less chance of blowing over.  Your chard leaves might not get whipped to death.

Best of all, with a fence around your garden, you don't have to clean it out in the fall.  You turn a few chickens and goats in there and they do the work for you.  They'll even fertilize it for free.

Hunneypunkin Code

Because Hunneypunkin leaves for work at an unheavenly hour, he often leaves special requests in unspoken messages.

Occasionally I find a stick of his deodorant sitting on the kitchen counter. This is his way of asking me to add that to my shopping list.

If his flannel shirt is laid across my laptop, he's hoping to have a button sewn back on. His cellphone left on top of my phone indicates he'd like to have his plugged in once mine has finished charging.

Once in a while someone suggests that this practice is somehow a signal that he takes me for granted. I don't think so. Because I park the car in front of the shop door to inform him that this vehicle needs some attention. Hey, it works for us.

Last week he put a 'rona mask on my life-size Jeremy Renner cardboard cutout. I still don't know what that means.

Losing Interest in Everything Uninteresting

I'm so bored of apocalypses.

You?

Heard Jeremy Renner is putting out some new music, might check that out.

Weighing In on Ornamental Grasses

Let's set aside all the current world drama and talk about a subject that actually needs to be discussed: ornamental grasses.

What are the rules for ornamental grasses?

• house-height to grass-height ratio
• pairing with evergreens
• minimum/maximum circumference of a single stand of grass
  

Who decides whether a grass is ornamental or...whatever is the alternative to ornamental?

If I find a particular grass unattractive, does that make it non-ornamental?

Are ornamental grasses as low-maintenance as they are touted to be?

Have we collected statistics on how many people understand that low-maintenance doesn't mean no-maintenance?

Do folks who fail to low-maintain their low-maintenance ornamental grasses recognize that said failure results in their ornamental grasses becoming non-ornamental?

If an ornamental grass is planted near an unornamental home, does this upgrade the house or downgrade the grass?

How many ornamental grasses are too many ornamental grasses?

Allow these questions lead you into a deeper examination of the world of ornamental grasses, and next time we'll address other topics of importance such as mandolins, Jeremy Renner, and southern accents.

My Favorite Time of Year

I know I said this when winter turned to spring and when spring turned to summer, but I have to say it again.  This is my favorite time of year!  And I'm sure I'll say it again when autumn turns to winter.  I like seasons, okay?

There's so much to love about fall.  Apples, hot cider, cornstalks, candy on sale, sweaters, boots, bonfires, leaf piles, fluffy blankets, pumpkin spice everything, haters of pumpkin spice everything, mums.

Epic sword (rake) fights with lightsaber sound effects.  (Wait, is that just us?)

Hayrides.  Those were cool before Mad Masked Governors were a thing.

Grape juice.  My family understands this.

Watiting for Orion, because is there any better constellation?  There is not.

You can legitimately enjoy Christmas music on a frosty morning and then afternoon yard work in the sunshine and a t-shirt all in the same day.  Autumn is hot AND cool.  Like Jeremy Renner.

Give us your favorite things about fall!

Dear Housesitter

Why can't I just say, "The key is under the mat, help yourself to what's in the fridge, the dog food bin is next to the washing machine," like everybody else?

We were planning a long weekend for one last hurrah before summer ended, and it took me three days to write out instructions for the Best Ever house-sitter.

This is the key to the front door, this is the key to the back door, why we don't have them keyed alike we don't know, this is the key to the shed, and this key which looks exactly like the first three, we don't recall what it goes to but we can't take it off the key ring because someday we will suddenly need it and remember.

The house cats can go outside but the outside cats aren't allowed in the house.  But the house cats have to stay inside after dark, but they will try to sneak out if you open the door.  If they manage to escape, you can hunt all night and never find them but if they are not eaten by coyotes in the dark, they will materialize from nowhere on the porch at sunup to curse you for leaving them out there.

If loud tapping on the window wakes you up in the night, it's only the house cat and the garden cat fighting through the glass.

You can eat whatever you find in the fridge.  Speaking of the fridge, it makes an occasional knocking sound, no one knows why, don't be alarmed.  Could be a leprechaun.

No amount of turning the kitchen faucet will make it stop dripping until the new faucet is installed.  Meanwhile we apologize for the water torture.

The turkey will fly up to roost on the top rail at night, and he'll stay up there till he thirsts to death unless you poke him with this long stick to make him fly down every morning.

There is no surprise baby turkey like last time we left you in charge.  (Still sorry about that.)

The dog will chew all your things but only if you're not looking.

The goat gets her head stuck in the fence twice daily and you have to turn her head to her left while you tilt her horns to the back to release her.

The low-flow water-saver toilet has to be flushed twelve times before everything goes down.  We have yet to understand the water-saving feature.

All the stove burners are currently functional.  (A brizillion points to Hunneypunkin.)

Here is the TV remote.  Here is the DVD remote.  Here is the Blu-ray remote.  Here is the VCR remote.  Yup, still have one.  Here is the CD remote.  Here is the air conditioner remote.  It doesn't work with this air conditioner.  I don't know why we still have it.

Here is my collection of Jeremy Renner movies.

Here is my life savings, though for all this you deserve so much more than thirty-six dollars.

Pixie's Alter-Ego

Pixie, who has had the same phone number since the dawn of Pixie sharing a phone with her sister, has had her digits hijacked.  A mysterious Brittany seems to have given Pixie's number as her own at some point, and for over a year now we've learned a few random items about Brittany via text message.

Brittany recently qualified for a free year of Netflix.  (We can all hope she will reject pedophilia and decline the offer.)

Brittany hasn't signed for a package.

Brittany needs to sustain her celebrity status.  (What does that even mean?)

Ian says Brittany hasn't signed for a package.

Brittany's keto pills are ready.

She has at least $3000 waiting for her.

Tom says Brittany hasn't signed for a package.

Brittany's prescription is ready to pick up at the pharmacy.

Her Amazon order has shipped.

Brittany hasn't signed for a package.

She has a limited time offer for twenty percent off her next jewelry order.

She hasn't signed for a package.

A couple of more recent texts have been rather inappropriate.  Not to be judgy, but it might be best for Brittany to spend her time and attention on something better than Netflix. 

And, once again, Brittany hasn't signed for a package.

Brittany's text messages are daily routine now.  She's not nearly as interesting as Jeremy Renner.

I'm Moving Up in the World

My waking hours of late have been lived in the garden as God intended, now that it's spring.  There are seeds to sow, weeds to pull, flowers to plant, weeds to pull, grasses to mow, weeds to pull, and fences to mend.  Not to mention, everywhere I look there are weeds to pull.  Who has time for email?
So when Mother Nature went all Antifa this weekend I decided to hide out in the house and clean out my inbox till the fire and brimstone monsoon got tired of rioting and looting my yard.
After retrieving payment receipts and other items of importance from the junk folder, I perused the Olive Garden specials, Costco ads, State Farm correspondence (with Melanie, not Jake...she's not a guy, so...) then a message from Pat with some landscaping quotes for our homeowner's association and a few questions from Ellen for our next HOA meeting.
But I don't know Pat or Ellen and I'm not part of an HOA.
I ignored the HOA emails at first, but when Amit alerted the neighbors of a bear rummaging through David's and Vinny's trash, I became emotionally involved.  Are bears common in their area?  Will these people be safe?  If they buy mulch, will the local wildlife vandalize their investment?  Why hasn't Sarah or Brian responded?  Have they noticed my email address cc'd on these emails?  Do they suspect my unintentional eavesdropping?  Are they Jeremy Renner fans?  What will happen with the playground area?  Is the county or the HOA responsible for the berm?
At the risk of being removed from the thread and living out the rest of my days in unsatisfied curiosity, I introduced myself in a "reply all".  As it turns out, Ellen made me feel at home, Larry has already spoken with Fish & Wildlife about the bear in the area, Steve offered to let me chime in on landscaping, and I'm feeling pretty cool about being in an HOA.

The Precious Thinks He's Chris Pratt

Sometimes I can't find The Precious.  That's because he's in a corner somewhere with his phone, watching Chris Pratt.
Jurassic World, Parks and Rec, Guardians of the Galaxy, Magnificent Seven, Passengers, Onward, The Lego Movie, Zero Dark Thirty, Moneyball, @PrattPrattPratt on Instagram...Celebrity Mean Tweets...
The Precious walks into the room, tears his shirt off for no reason, throws it at my life-size Jeremy Renner cardboard cutout, and says, "When I get bummed out I take my shirt off because the bad feelings make me feel sweaty!"
Pixie thinks The Precious is annoying.  If you're familiar with Christ Pratt, it all makes sense.

Little Known Fact

I try to keep this on the down low because I wanna be tough and cool, but secretly, I like pretty things.  You can't really tell by looking, since I live a fairly practical life, but yes, deep down inside me where nobody even knows, I really really like pretty things.
Glitter
Purple
Flowers
Sparkly automotive paint
Hummingbirds
Polished wood
Blown glass
Gold
My behbehs (you know my children are beautiful)
Fluffy kitties
Shiny rocks
Waterfalls
Nail polish
Tulle
Jeremy Renner
Ironically I live in the dustiest hole in the universe, but I'm still always looking for pretty things.

Pixie Litigation

Mark Sinclair Vincent St. Agnes von Lichtenschtein follows Pixie around like he's a lonely puppy or a creepy stalker.  She goes into her bedroom and he scratches at her door to be let in.  She cooks herself breakfast and he stares at her from the kitchen floor.  She goes outside and he paces on the windowsills spying on her.  She folds her clean laundry and he takes instant naps on it.  She goes to bed and he curls up on her face.  She can't even shower alone.
"I like cats because they're not needy," Pixie's Sister From Another Mister says.
"Except mine," Pixie says.  "What is WRONG with him?"
Pixie was banned from leaving the house long before 'rona put us all under house arrest, because I'd had enough of her cat taking out his abandonment fury on my life-size Jeremy Renner cardboard cutout.
Today she sat down on the couch with her laptop, and within three seconds, the cat had materialized on the arm of the couch to peer into Pixie's soul.
Pixie rolled her eyes and groaned, "Do you think I could get a restraining order?"

Kyle and the Scorpion

There's a war on.
Pixie and Angel Doll look all ladylike and innocenty on the outside, but they've been locked in epic combat for two years now.  Kyle the rubber snake was a Christmas gift to Angel Doll from a Geronibro, one of her Nerdmigos.  The brown plastic scorpion has no name.  It also has no known origin.  It just exists.
Pixie and Angel Doll take every opportunity possible to hide Kyle and the scorpion in each other's belongings to the point that neither of them is even startled anymore.  They just keep doing it because, why quit?
It wasn't enough to simply leave the snake or the scorpion in each other's cars, sock drawers, socks, hairdos, pillowcases, bedsheets, clean laundry, dirty laundry, lunchboxes, sandwiches, birthday presents, or coffee.  (I may or may not have been involved in the washing of the scorpion with the dishes so he could safely lurk in the bottom of a mug.)  Angel Doll rigged the scorpion in Pixie's dresser to crawl up a piece of yarn when the drawer was opened.
Mama's so proud.
Currently, Kyle lives in a dorm with Angel Doll.  Don't tell anybody though because neither boys nor pets are allowed in the ladies' dormitory, and we don't want Angel Doll to get into trouble.  The scorpion's whereabouts are presently as unknown as its origin.  It could turn up in Jeremy Renner's possession for all we know.

Rapunzel's Revenge

When I was growing up, my mother, Rapunzel, wasn't cool.  She remained unemployed, grew a garden, canned our food, cooked all the meals, sewed for our home, read us stories, made do what we had, and homeschooled my brothers and me.  That's not how things were done back in the late nineteen hundreds.
Rapunzel didn't talk much about the how the gen pop assigned her a lower-class status because of her way of life, but she wasn't stupid.  She knew.
I was a little luckier, what with homesteading currently being in vogue.  I live the lifestyle she did (except for my complete lack of Rapunzel's mad sewing skills) but it's trendy at this moment.
Now amidst businesses shutting down, schools being closed, and people getting quarantined during our fashionable new dreaded illness, Jeremy Renner is cushioned by fame and wealth but much of the public is scrambling to figure out how to live the way Rapunzel did all along.
Rapunzel's a pretty nice lady, and I try to be nice but it doesn't always work.  I must admit, there's a part of me hoping that everyone who ever looked down on her runs out of toilet paper.

Second Winter

Pixie said Second Winter was coming but it was all the degrees outside and the sun was so shiny that I planted things and pulled the tank heaters out of the fishy pond and the livestock water troughs.
Second Winter showed up just as Pixie said it would, and I've spent the weekend breaking ice for the animals and holding funerals for garden starts and freezing off my nose, toes, and tuckus.
Jeremy Renner would have been smarter than this.
When you raise your child to be intelligent, you should listen to it when it advises you.

Fight Me

I've already either survived or escaped chicken pox, measles, mumps, rubella, whooping cough, scarlet fever, lice, mice, dog bites, tick bites, Lyme disease, Hanta virus, global cooling, global warming, global climate change, HIV, AIDS, the evils of rock and roll music, West Nile virus, the Hale-Bopp comet, domestic violence, substance abuse, Y2k, mad cow disease, SARS, bird flu, swine flu, MERS, viral pneumonia, chronic infection, ISIS, gaslighting, backstabbing, anxiety, depression, autoimmune disorder, Democratic presidencies, Republican administrations, World War Z, less successful Jeremy Renner movies, adrenal failure, personal failure, personal attacks, and the end of the Mayan calendar.
I made it through Zika too, but I was so busy being alive that I never even heard of it when it was an alleged threat.
I didn't run to the store last week to stock up because I already keep a respectable supply of bath tissue, we routinely use soap, I come from a long line of survivors, and Hunneypunkin knows how to do things.
Didn't your mother teach you to wash your hands?  Mine did.  (Thanks, Mom.)
Coronavirus can fight me.

How Autocorrect Altered an Identity

I don't understand it.  Autocorrect doesn't seem to care about Hunneypunkin's name.  Or The Precious's.  Lefty, Angel Doll, Treasure, Angel Boy, The Prince, Jeremy Renner and me, Chevrolet Mama, we're all Autcorrect approved.
Pixie's name is apparently not common or recognizable, and Autocorrect keeps amending it.  Phone contacts, text messages, social media posts, Autocorrect keeps replacing her name everywhere.  The weirdest part is, it's not even close.  Her name doesn't even get changed to a girl's name.  We've been fighting this for years, and now we're giving up.  You can't win against Autocorrect.
So we're waiting our turn at the courthouse, and in obedience to Autocorrect, changing Pixie's name to Nebuchadnezzar.

Public Shepherd

Lefty is the coolest Public Safety Officer you could ever hope to see, but he's not really feeling it.
Working Campus Security sounds impressive, but apparently the routine escorting of homeless individuals out of the college dumpsters becomes monotonous night after night.  So does the frequent verbal abuse from said offenders, some of whom hang around to spew insults at his handsome face while he calls city police to remove the more persistent transgressors.
The decrease in vehicular break-ins and derelicts sneaking into dorms for showers and whatnot since he joined the force doesn't lift his spirits much.  Nor do his successful foilage of several drug dealers' and at least one prostitute's attempts to defile school grounds in the dark.
Part of his job involves locking and unlocking specific doors, taking criticism for doors being unlocked when one person thinks they should be locked at this specific hour, and being reprimanded for those same doors being locked when someone else dictates they should be unlocked during that same time.  Another aspect of his job description seems to be peoplesitting during youth events.  This is not his favorite thing.
"I'm dot so buch Public Safety as I ab Public Shepherd," poor Lefty told me today on the phone.  "There's doe respect.  Frob adyode.  Add dow I have a cold and I have to work todight and I dod't wadt to."
"Call in sick," I said.
But he won't.  He'll put on the uniform, arm himself with his flashlight and cellphone, carry the keys, and tour the premises through the wee hours.  And if I find out anybody gives him crap tonight, this Mama's gon' go down there.  I'll Jeremy Renner up the place.

The Puppy is Teething

"Let's get a pet from the shelter," I said.
Three months later these items have become dog gnaw:
The leash that was on her when we brought her home from the shelter
Pixie's shoe string
The couch
A deceased bird
One gallon jug of tea
Two cans of tomato sauce
Wild animal tib-fib brought home from her runaway escapade
Her collar
The other dogs' collars
Another dog's harness
All things cardboard
The door mat
A floor rug
Hunneypunkin's leg
The pond heater out of the pond
My goat (Don't worry, she gave as good as she got.)
All her dog toys
All the other dogs' toys
All the other dogs
My pants (Yes, while I was wearing them.)
Two ice cream buckets
The entertainment center
Every extension cord in the county
Most cats (all survived)
My left slipper
The entire stack of firewood
Dirt
Thirty-seven miles of baling twine
One dog food bag
One cat food bag
One potting soil bag
A garden spade
The bill for her getting spayed
The check to pay for her getting spayed
Her dog bed
The other dogs' beds
A queen size bedsheet
The neighboring herd of cattle
Me
Heaven knows what else she's destroyed that I haven't discovered yet.  To date she hasn't gotten her teeth on my life-size Jeremy Renner cardboard cutout.  Lucky dog.

Wedding Shower Mad Lib

This is what happens when a writer gets involved in the bridal shower games.
When Ehhh, John Met Margaret

Gabriel and Danika met on the 426th day of October.  It was a pink, silly day, in the middle of fall; the dogs were running, and the rain was brown and white and happy.  Wet cars were everywhere, jumping in the sliding sunlight, right in the middle of the pasta factory.  Nika was the most bizarre slimy street sweeper in Disneyland, but she was jolly dissatisfied with her boy and was insanely seeking the beach.  Meanwhile, of all the hairdressers in the epic playground, Gabe was the most rabidly serendipitous florist.  He too, however, was graciously looking for a tractor.  But cars can be allegedly spectacular to find, especially in this beautiful, lovely world.  So until this Tuesday, the hero of our story, who often calls himself Crazy Bubba, and our heroine who sometimes goes by Rusty Cutie, did their best to shoot lazily every day, and were quickly, inflammatorily successful even though they both were absolutely searching for a flower (but with a British accent: "flowah").  But now, at 3:00 AM, both feeling angry, ecstatic, and hungry, Danika stood in line in Sri Lanka to buy herself a bouncy pizza, and Gabriel waited his turn at the ocean to get himself a blue macaroon, their sarcastic gaze met across the ugly car and it was sadness at first sight.  Each of them knew they had found the battleship they’d been flatulently searching for.  Brunch was dramatically forgotten because random, glutinous love is all you need.  Gabe pulled an achy ring out of his flip flop and put it on Nika’s toenail.  “Will him marry they?” Gabe asked.  “Eureka!”  Nika said, “Something!”  They gave each other a high pi, traded birthdates, obtained a tax return form, hired a clerk to officiate, booked a Catholic Mass, hired Justin Bieber to perform at their bar mitvah, and the ceremony went off without a hitch.  Actually, there was a hitch!  Jeremy Renner gave an imaginary magical toast, and Gabe "Crazy Bubba" Ehhh-John and Danika "Rusty Cutie" Margaret, newly hitched, lived racially, bashfully, satirically, happily ever after.

Blogging From Jail

Yesterday's halftime show inspired me to change up my wardrobe.  I went out looking all Shakira/JLo and was promptly arrested for indecent exposure.
Things like this never happen to Jeremy Renner.

Mark Sinclair Vincent St. Agnes von Lichtenschtein

Lefty and The Precious wanted to call him Vin Diesel.
I said no.
It just seemed wrong to title a fluffy, lazy, helpless, fat little furball after a celebrity studmuffin.  I wouldn't even name him Jeremy Renner.
We compromised.  Vin Diesel's real name is Mark Sinclair Vincent, and, being a little more low-key, seemed an appropriate enough way to dub the cat.
The cat, however, is convinced that he is a god, and as such is entitled to choose his own autonym which he required to be multitudinous in syllables.
Thus the house cat came to be known as Mark Sinclair Vincent St. Agnes von Lichtenschtein.  Usually we just call him Vinnie.  Hunneypunkin inexplicably refers to him as Chuck, or sometimes Frank.
Vinnie is ten years old now, and just as many pounds.  He still believes he's a god no matter how many ways we assert our own dominance.  When I try to blog he walks across the keyboard and takes a nap on my fingers, so a long time ago I gave up and let him write his own blog.  I decided to humor him and pin his blog posts.  Unexpected side effect: if you search "Mark Sinclair Vincent" on Pinterest, you'll see all kinds of photos of Vin Diesel, along with a few of our cat.

Even Worse Than Passwords

I can't get anything done online.  It's not enough to have a different username and unique password for every site on the world wide web, now you have to answer a barrage of security questions to prove you're the individual signing in with your own login information.
"What is your favorite song?"
What mood was I in when I typed in those answers?  David Meece?  Roseanne Cash?  Maroon 5?  Johann Sebastian Bach?  Third Day?  Patsy Cline?  Skillet?  ZZ Top?  MercyMe?  George Strait?  Veggie Tales?  Yanni?  Cher?
"What is your favorite movie?"
My favorite movie changes every time the trailers play at the beginning of a Blu-Ray.  (Ooh, pop that disc out and put in the video they just showed the preview for!  What do you mean we don't own that movie?  Is it on Netflix?  Oh yeah, we dropped Netflix.  Do they have it on Amazon Prime?  Never mind, I can't remember the password.)
"What is your youngest child's middle name?"
I have a lot of children.  I call them all Cuddleysnuggleybuggins.  They think it's a term of endearment but it's really because I can't remember their names.
Gonna make it easy on myself and use the same answer on all my security questions whether it makes sense or not.
"What year did you graduate high school?"
"Jeremy Renner."

Much Ado About Nothing

Don't you hate it when people just drone on and on without having an actual point?  Some people can drag a conversation out forever for no reason.  I can't stand listening to somebody prattle incessantly when they really don't have anything to say.
I've never been a person who appreciates small talk.  I'm definitely not one of those people who chatters aimlessly.  You can bet that if I'm going to spend my energy to express myself, I will absolutely have something important to tell you.  And everyone listens to me, because I never waste other people's time endlessly rattling on about nothing.
There simply is no cause to draw out a meaningless debate or a fruitless discussion, and far be it from me to engage in unproductive yammering.  If I were going to burn some time, I'd rather browse Jeremy Renner's Instagram, because ineffectual arguments and recitals of inconsequential facts are aimless.
So is this blog post.
Ight.  Imma head out.

A Right From Two Wrongs

Because I want holiday treats that look fancy but aren't difficult, I do simple things like cutting Rice Krispies treats into squares and tying Twizzlers around them so they look like little presents.  Failure number one: didn't realize how stale my marshmallows were (having been bought for making s'mores at summer bonfires) or that stale 'shmallows make shattery Krispie treats.  Frown emoji!  I shoved my pan of crumbly Krispies into a corner of the kitchen and moved on to mixing up rum balls.
Traditionally rum balls are made with Nilla wafers, but those contain eggs to which The Precious is allergic.  I substituted graham crackers, which did not contain eggs (also having been bought for making s'mores at summer bonfires).  Failure number two: graham crackers apparently have a much higher moisture content than Nilla wafers, and I ended up with rum ball batter instead of rum ball dough.  Frustration emoji!
Everybody knows that if your Christmas goodies don't turn out perfectly, the baby Jesus can't be born, and all mankind will be doomed to eternal damnation, so there was kind of a lot riding on this.
Traditionally, rum balls are made with Nilla wafers, but I remembered that historically, rum balls were made with bakers' crumbs and leftovers...or from their failures!  So I pulled out my old Hamilton Beach, crumbled up my shattery Krispie treats, food processored them into a powder, and mixed them into the rum ball batter like I was Jeremy Renner and Martha Stewart all in one.  Voila: I successfully made rum balls!
Christmas miracle?  Not exactly.  The real Christmas miracle was having a large family packed into a small house where we all enjoyed each other's company and made pleasant holiday memories.  I hope all my critics and both my fans have equally happy Christmas memories, and I wish all of you a fabulous 2020!