Giles ,'Lies My Parents Told Me'
[NAFDA] Spike-centric discussion. Lusty, lewd (only occasionally crude), risque (and frisque), bawdy (Oh, lawdy!), flirty ('cuz we're purty), raunchy talk inside. Caveat lector.
Damn. I forgot to make CERTAIN that SOMEONE is making cranberry sauce for tomorrow.
Damn.
Cranberry sauce is an absolute must. I twitch when I see turkey without it.
Usually I make it, using cranberries, port, nutmeg, cloves, a hint of cinnamon, vanilla, sugar, and loving obsession.
This year, we're doing sweet potatoes.
Shit. Someone better be doing the cranberries.
Aimee, you are wrong like a wrong thing, you weird cranberry hater. You and Paul both. And he doesn't even like the dried ones.
I like the first one better for many reasons, which is why I'm afraid I'll actually get it and when it arrives at my doorstep, too late to get anything else, it will totally clash with the dress.
Dye it!
Now the test of thanksgiving is how many things can you put gravy on ...
Pretty much everything except sweet potatoes and cranberry stuff.
Cranberry sauce is an absolute must. I twitch when I see turkey without it.
If you end up at our place after the family festivities, I know that there will be at least two kinds of cranberry sauce.
Er, did you see it? I don't think it's really dyeable.
Oh. I did, but I hadn't looked long enough to notice the beads. Hmm.
Jilli, we'll be swinging by at some point after. I have the bag I was intending to take to S&B before I, umm, fell asleep at 8:15 Monday night.
Jilli, we'll be swinging by at some point after. I have the bag I was intending to take to S&B before I, umm, fell asleep at 8:15 Monday night.
Oh right, that. Well, okay then. I'll make sure to set aside cranberry sauce for you.
I think I'll just have to see if I can't judge by holding the dress up to the computer. I also think Charlotte Russe at the mall has a white shrug or cape or something should the Newport News one clash horribly.
Huh. So, remember that question I asked on Monday, about the thing with vaction time and checks and that the universe didn't work the way I was hoping it did? I heard back from Payroll. I'm apparently a silly-head, and that they didn't make any mistake, and they haven't payed me twice for my vacation hours.
Oooo-kaaaay. I printed out that email, and it's going to be put with the bank statements when I get home. Just in case.
Man, every time I think I have no more room in me to hate Hec's boss, she does some totally new fucky thing and behold! I find another square mile or so of hate-space within me. Fucking cowhole.
Ditto juliana's enormo-document-demanding bosses.
A Thanksgiving poem just for Jilli (Google is giving me no love, but IIRC, the author is Eve Merriam):
There once was a finicky ocelot
Who all the year 'round was cross a lot
Except at Thanksgiving,
When he enjoyed living,
For he liked to eat cranberry sauce a lot.
Hec and I had an intense not-quite-angry discussion about this poem a few weeks ago: IMO it's a limerick, but he was very heated in his insistence that the first poems which defined the form were not only dependent on a particular meter and rhyme scheme, but very, very dirty, and that a poem that isn't dirty cannot be a limerick.
In any case, it's a poem of undetermined type but definitively about an exotic mammal and special occasion food, so it seemed appropriate just now.
Also, in the Department of Total Random, I've spent most of this morning wandering through the archives of a blog called Slacktivist, which devotes its Friday posts to consideration and mockery of the Left Behind books. Usually the excerpts are just kind of dull and self-important and full of crappy pseudo-theology that doesn't bear examination, but this passage totally entranced me with its incredibly wretched fake-English badness. It's shitty dialect ineptitude to the power of a brazilian:
"Well, I get right down to business. I tell him, 'Sir, I believe you've had an employee murdered.' And just as calm as you like, he says, 'Tell you what, governor' -- which is a term cockneys use on each other, not something people of his station usually call people of mine. Anyway, he says, 'Tell you what, governor, the next time somebody visits your flat at ten o'clock at night, as a certain gentleman did last night, greet him for me, won't you?"
"What did you say?"
"What could I say? I was stunned to silence!"
The only thing that could make it more deliciously awful would be the sudden appearance of a kprinkling cocksickle saying "Pip pip, old boy!"