one of them alone counts for several. she has attained a degree of muscular development which i find strange in an indoor specimen- though she does have the opportunity to beat the shit out of her sister and jump all over the couch for exercise.
her sister has all of the slinkiness. i suspect that this smaller, blacker creature has a bit more going on upstairs, judging by her considered disobediences and learned fear of the corrective nerf pistol. for all that, she is currently enraptured with a paper bag.
they are my devils. i hope they know how i feel about them.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
made aioli. was good.
not claiming that the child of nature with the keys to my heart wasn't complaining and making me go to the store for mozzarella to provide her with something heartier within an hour.
but there's something intrinsically good about finding a way to just sit down and eat a pound of vegetables. does a body good. my efforts in this regard, while well-intentioned, often miss the point. dick's burgers start to sound like manna from heaven (and smell even better as one toils up olive way) in the wee hours of a binge.
inevitably the next morning is a misery- a function as much of my stomach cramping around the horrible preprocessed scat as the familiar family-friendly dangers of alcohol poisoning.
it is with this in mind that i contemplate the canning of my pickles. they've been fermenting for some time in my crock under the kitchen table. i forgot about them all this week, and now i admit some apprehension in lifting the covering napkin to discover what awaits me within.
is it the answer to my prayers and the promise of milk and honey? is it a horrible reproach to my husbandry? is it a new thing that shall outshine the sun in its promise of eternal grace? only what is beyond the jump will tell.
but there's something intrinsically good about finding a way to just sit down and eat a pound of vegetables. does a body good. my efforts in this regard, while well-intentioned, often miss the point. dick's burgers start to sound like manna from heaven (and smell even better as one toils up olive way) in the wee hours of a binge.
inevitably the next morning is a misery- a function as much of my stomach cramping around the horrible preprocessed scat as the familiar family-friendly dangers of alcohol poisoning.
it is with this in mind that i contemplate the canning of my pickles. they've been fermenting for some time in my crock under the kitchen table. i forgot about them all this week, and now i admit some apprehension in lifting the covering napkin to discover what awaits me within.
is it the answer to my prayers and the promise of milk and honey? is it a horrible reproach to my husbandry? is it a new thing that shall outshine the sun in its promise of eternal grace? only what is beyond the jump will tell.
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