After Thanksgiving, I waxed nostalgic about canned pumpkin. My friend who writes at Calypte’s Scanner Diary, told me where I might find some. And today, Sarge comes home from Christmas shopping with two cans of this lovely stuff: I like how the light is shining on the can. As if it’s been sent by the Gods of Canned Pumpkin. Or my Nana.…
What follows is the text of the letter going along with CJ to her vet’s visit today: Hi, This is CJ. She’s 9. She’s being re-homed up North, due to my boyfriend’s allergies. We used to live on a farm, but she’s been a flat-cat since 2005, when we moved to Glasgow. She is third-generation feral, and she was fixed when she was a year old. I believe she had shots at that time. She needed a booster when we…
And so, I’m friends with my Dad. On Facebook and in real life. After I posted my post yesterday, he posted this on Facebook: It pays to be friends with your Dad, people. It means a lot. It means, amongst many other things, that any baby picture of you he decides to share will be of the non-embarrassing sort. You hope. I love you, Dad.…
Let’s say, just for laughs, that your boiler is busted today. Here’s a list of stuff you might do while waiting for the repairman/contemplating said repairman’s actual existence: You may decide that it is colder in your flat than it is outside. And, not only is the water cold, it also tastes weird, making your coffee, for lack of a better word, funky. You may then ask your PA, if you have one, to go to Starbucks and get you…
And so, last weekend I started a healthy eating kick. For me, this meant leaving the lettuce and onions and one or two peppers on Saturday’s burger, and not having sour sweets while watching Tin Tin at the cinema. I took fruit-bars to work and came home to rice-cakes and grapes. I may have asked Sarge to boil spinach pasta and then left the tomato chucks in the sauce. I was doing pretty well. And then Thursday happened. I’ve told…
