It's like a postcard from Ta's Brain Works Again Camp.
Smart is sexy.
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Should you have occasion to buy me a present, this offers a lovely selection of yarns terrific for cat blankets that benefit the people who are cats, and the people who recycle silk or grow alpacas, via the Greater Good store. That kind of gift rocks: it passes through my hands on its way back into the world.
The jarred pepper and marinara sauce version of the Jackson 5. Guess who's Tito!
Pepperoboros.
This is the reusable bag one should never let the glowing miniature cat out of, and you had to know.
Sometimes, I hear a decent song and look up the video. Most videos, like this one, are clever and a bit of fun.
On the other hand, what the motherfucking fuck is this?
Oh. My. God. Really?
Actress, full of surprises.
The other day, I was flipping the channels, but not really paying attention. I didn’t really know what was on. A blonde girl standing at a hospital desk said something odd to a gorgeous woman about my age, “Mom, can you help me with my knitting?” You’re having the same reaction I did: NO ONE ON A SOAP OPERA KNITS.* KISS MY BUTT! The gorgeous woman apologized, “Sorry, kitten, I’m not domestic goddess.” After a moment, she added, “I can tune an engine.” So now I love Crystal Chappell, and some badass writer on a show I’ll never watch.
*Except Kassie DiPaiva, who had a whole PBS show called Knit & Crochet Today.
My cousin Sandy works in the bakery for the Cake Boss. She does lovely work and has a wonderful eye for color. Her favorite compliment is, “You’re a fucking retard.”
In other news, friend of Poor Impulse Control Mr. Blogenfreude sent me some ras el Hanout, a Moroccan spice mix I haven’t seen in stores here, though I probably wasn’t treasure-hunting in the right treasury places. The fragrance of the spice, double-wrapped and still inside the plastic mailing envelope perfumed our kitchen. The aroma is so fantastic I want to take a picture of it for you. Forget high speed: we need a scratch-and-sniff internet.
I like this food writer’s style. At the farmers market on Friday, we found beautiful tomato peppers, which I’d never seen before, enthusiastically described by the farmer as being the inspired pet project of her elderly Hungarian friend. This morning, I read the recipe several times and thought I could do it.
Your classic good news/bad news scenario in jarred form.
Hardly exciting: last night, Daria whispered in my ear that yesterday’s Trentonian published a picture of Poppy’s father and his girlfriend lying dead on the road with his boots sticking out from under a tarp. Today’s coverage is somewhat more respectful and less barbaric. In another turn of unbelievable events: today is Poppy’s birthday, and most of her Facebook friends don’t know. Oh the places people will go when they don’t know where we are.
Last night, Pete and my niece Lois prepped food for a party the family’s throwing tonight for my mother’s birthday. After three hours of slicing, peeling and chopping, Pete washed his hands and took out the compost.
Pete: Do you know anything about a couch in our backyard?
Tata: A what?
Pete: There’s a couch in our backyard.
Tata: I do not know anything about a couch in our backyard and you’d think if we had a couch in our backyard I’d know something about that.
We went out for a look.
Pete: This is not your couch?
Tata: No, it is not my couch, but if a mysterious couch were actually a gift from God, this would be the couch God would have delivered.
Pete: What?
Tata: Because this is chaise longue in a miniature leopard print.
Lois: This is like the perfect thing, isn’t it?
Tata: Well, for my current living room it should be zebra, but THERE IS A COUCH IN THE BACKYARD.
Pete: I’ll call the tenants and ask if they know anything about it.
Pete walked away and started dialing. I grabbed one end and lifted up the couch too easily for it to be expensive.
Tata: Or maybe it’s IKEA. That would be good news for ME.
Pete: Jane says it was at her ex-boyfriend’s house and it wasn’t cheap.
Tata: No, of course not, but a couple of nights outside and it’ll be trash. We can’t leave it here. It looks lonely!
Pete: We’ll keep it next to the garage, but we’re not bringing it inside and we’re definitely not feeding it.
A free-range couch. Rare in these parts.
In other, preposterous news: the father of Poppy, married last weekend to my cousin Tony, was killed last night in a motorcycle accident. If you saw it in a movie you’d get up and walk out.
Poor Impulse Control 