Wierd raw humanity

FELICITY

One of my closest friends in high school was Felicity. Her name simultaneously reminded me of the show “Felicity,” and the “American Girls” doll by the same name. She was a few years older than me. I was 15/16 during our closest friendship, she was 18/19. Felicity had a 2-year-old son named Zane. I loved Zane, and I don’t like kids. Zane liked to sit in his high chair and fling cheerios onto the floor from a little baggie. He would giggle with such glee, though, that you couldn’t help but think it was adorable.

Felicity had it rough. Her parents were cold and unsupportive. They rejected her to the point that she cut them out of her life completely, because she felt it was healthier. The guy who got her pregnant was a new-ish boyfriend, named Justin, who she thought was prince charming. Unfortunately it turned out he was a petty thug and drug addict—but she didn’t find this out until after she was pregnant. Felicity had to cut him out, too. Not that he cared—he was relieved to be rid of her and Zane (even before Zane had a name). She was so alone; I felt so connected to her…my loyalty was fierce. I would fight with anyone for her.

Felicity’s financial situation was little better than her social one. When I met her she lived in a bedroom of a rental house, off Brooklyn Street (just past the Ave, for my Seattlites). She had been a college student—fine arts major—before becoming pregnant. She tried to make it work, but soon had to drop out. Felicity and Zane stayed in the bedroom she had rented as a college sophomore for awhile…but soon she could not afford it—and her housemates hated the baby.

A few (maybe 3 to 6) months after I got close with Felicity, she felt forced to move. She moved into a studio over a head shop just off Broadway. She didn’t like it—it was noisy and open much later than she would like, plus the neighbors were sketchy—but it was what she could afford that was on the bus line to her job as a waitress at a late night diner (The Hurricane, again for my Seattlites). It wasn’t where she wanted Zane, but she didn’t feel like she had much choice.

As I said, I loved Felicity fiercely. And I found Zane delightful. I did what I could to help her by babysitting when I could—sometimes overnight. It is also true that, as much as she was my closest friend (and she truly was—do not doubt it), I was her closest friend in the world. There is an extent to which I was her only friend. So I spent a lot of time at her place socializing with her as well. Her place was cramped, but I spent a lot of time there. It was vaguely annoying that the only place with ANY privacy was the bathroom, but I can’t say that I didn’t enjoy co-sleeping with Felicity and Zane. It felt so warm and safe. So simple, elegant, and uncomplicated. The blissfully ignorant sleep of a toddler. The exhausted sleep of a hard-working single mom. It is, in an odd way, music to the ears of an insomniac. Sound sleepers seem to help me sleep by osmosis…or something. Fuck if I know.

Suffice it to say, it was inconvenient—but I loved it. We shared dinners of Tuna Helper (which I had never experienced before), and a really big night for us was a dozen doughnuts, 2 quarts of milk, and a movie rental. Accusations were made that she was my girlfriend, and not just my friend. Honestly—I cannot say that I know. She was perfect. Our relationship was easy. The most complicated part of our relationship was that she could not afford a phone. What with the monopolies of phone companies, they are able to charge unreasonable fees. There are other ways to get in touch with people, she could use the phone at work, and there is a legal mandate she be provided an outgoing emergency line without fee. As such, it did not make sense for her to waste grocery money on a phone. Sure it made things harder sometimes, but I wouldn’t hold that against her.

How could I hold it against her? It was her defining feature. It was the single most important thing about Felicity. My best friend for several years. The most important thing to know about my best friend Felicity is that she couldn’t afford a telephone.

The fact of the matter is, though, Felicity’s name did not remind me of the show. The show didn’t come out until a couple years later. That is apparently an artifact of my recollection.  Also?  Zane was a guy I went to school with (that my parents didn’t know). I am pretty sure I got Felicity’s name from the doll. The crux of the story: Felicity wasn’t real. She was an absolute fabrication.

Most of my stories about Zane were retooling of stories my mother told me about myself as a child. I suspect that is why she loved them so much. Why she didn’t question. Why she was too charmed to doubt. Many of my stories about Felicity—particularly the crucial ones—were patterned off things my mother told me about her experiences as a single mother. I guess I left her with the option of questioning her own choices, or leaving my “friend” alone.

To this day, I have never asked. I don’t know if they really believed…or if they just gave up. What I do know is that there were so many family conversations about her. So many with my parents—explaining why I was out all night—and just as many with my sisters—explaining why I was gone so much. Even weirder? My grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins all knew about her too. She was the topic of conversation. Her choices the topic of debate over pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving. I do not know if they ever doubted her existence. The only questions I was leveled were: Is she your girlfriend? Are you gay? Does she think she is your girlfriend even if you don’t? What does she want from you? Is she taking advantage of you?

What I was doing during all of those days, all of those nights…a topic for another time. But I cannot help but feel some guilt: My family always asked if Felicity was taking advantage of me, but clearly it was I who was taking the advantage.

More than that, I feel sadness. My closest friend for 2 years was a figment of my imagination. I could tell you what she looked like, what she sounded like, how she acted, what her experiences were…The things we agreed on, the times we had fights…I wasn’t psychotic. I just knew that a lie had to be real. No one believes unless you make it so real they cannot ignore it. And at 15/16, I didn’t get what was creepy about creating such an elaborate lie. And I didn’t see how much of me the lie consumed. There were other things that consumed me, but there is an extent to which Felicity took energy I could not direct towards real life. Moreover, Felicity allowed me the freedom to devote my time to things I did not want anyone to know I was doing—hardly the recipe for lasting relationships.

Perhaps oddest of all (perhaps), Felicity was initially constructed to protect one person from my association. Eventually she extended far beyond him, but all of the best parts of her were drawn from him. I told my family about him through her. And he was a great influence on me. He has made me a better person…but I made his life worse. And I can never change that. And for that I am sorry.

Wow. What a downer. I do not know what this story means. Or if it means anything. Or if it was worth telling. But it strikes me as fascinating that I created a person from thin air. It was a mantra of mine around that time that, “Parents believe what they want to believe.” The thing is, it wasn’t just them. I created this person that many other people asked about for years. I do not know if I am impressed or disgusted.

Mostly…I think I just wish I could meet her. For real. Felicity…if you are out there, and you read this…I miss you.

Fucked up bitch, reporting for duty!

So this is the obligatory "I am sorry I am such a lame ass and forgot how to blog, but I really miss it, and you, and blogging, so I am gonna come back and try again, and I really hope you still like me" post. But rather than telling you all that stuff, I am just going to think it and expect you to know it. (The holiday brings it out in me. Passive-aggression always makes me think of home...)

Speaking of which, happy bunny/shagging day! Not much on the jebus, but I like getting down--so to celebrate, I got laid this morning. And then I made eggs. I know you wanted to know. That's why I told you.

Alright, so I think it is obvious I lack a coherent thought or the ability to organize the dribbles of thoughts currently eminating from my brain hole. As such, I am gonna stop. BUT. I did want to let you know I will be in NOLA this week, and so I anticipate some REALLY terrible-awesome pics for next week.

P.S. When I came back to my blog today, it said the top recent search result that led people to my blog was "fucked up bitch." I thought that was kind of appropriate.

Victoria's Secret is touching my cocktail where it's bathing suit covers...

I found this in my drafts folder. Apparently I made this in February...and then had enough drinks that I forgot to post it...

There are some drinks I am proud of. This is not one of them...



This is pink lemonade vodka and diet lemon-lime soda. It was fucking delicious, I can't lie...But it left me feeling ashamed and dirty. The walk to throw the little bottle away could definitely be classified as a "walk of shame." I tried to capture the color, but that feat was beyond my phone and the poor kitchen lighting. Suffice it to say, it made me think of the line "Pink" from VS. And I think that fits well with the drink.

The "Pink" line is essentially trying to repackage skanky lingerie so that it can be marketed to underage girls in a manner that they will still be able to convince their mothers to let them wear it (or even buy it for them). And that feels a lot like this drink. An adult idea that has been inappropriately modified to suit the tastes of underage girls, while not totally offending the sensibilities of those adults who may happen to see them.

Take home message: Don't tell frat boys about the pink lemonade vodka. Or underage girls, for that matter.

P.S. Don't think I am hating on the skanky lingerie. I'm not. I am not a big fan of VS, but I have drawers and drawers full of corsets and stockings and the like. I just find it creepy when lingerie is marketed towards girls in their mid-teens. They already have WAY too much of a skank-urge. You do not need to be leveling lingerie marketing campaigns at them.

Narsty Mystery Moisture

Am I the only one who overly distresses herself  by wondering about what new sponges (fresh from the package) are moistened with? It creeps me out. Why can't they just sell me a dried damn sponge? It would be lighter and smaller (and therefor cheaper) to ship--and then I wouldn't have to spend time sniffing and poking and feeling disturbed as all get out.

I don't care that it came sealed in a package...it is similar to the feeling I get when someone hands me a moist dollar bill, or when I rest my arm on a table only to discover there is something sticky on it. It is not as bad, however, as accidentally touching the underside of a public table to find a variety of crusty "treasures." And not nearly as bad as plunking yourself down too fast on a public toilet, only to feel unknown moisture seeping through that flimsy paper to your tender rump region.

You know, just in case you forgot any of those gross feelings. So, what about you? Sponge moisture creep you out? What is your least favorite unexpected substance experience?

Science is spicy (Also known as, "Really, me?")

Spicy food digests easier. It's Science. If I eat eggs, I HAVE to eat hot sauce, or else I feel sick for hours. I prefer to chase that with some diet Pepsi, which I also believe helps kill the food in my stomach. If I have a nasty hangover, I can treat it like a pro: 2 ibuprofen and a glass of water, followed by a bloody mary or beer consumed with eggs, melted cheese, and LOTS of hot sauce. Follow that up with 2 hours horizontal in front of crap tv or movies and I am ready to drink take on the world again.

_______________________________________

Found this in my draft file. Not really sure how in the skull-fuck I thought this was going to be an actual post, as it is crap, pointless, and short....Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand now I'm posting it. I blame it on the bossa nova rain moving. Honestly, it is like I am trying to scare away the few of you that are here. Sure, most of you are here by accident, but that's not the point.

Seriously, though. I am getting really curious: Could whoever is coming here after googling "the question" PLEASE tell me what the hell it is you are looking for? I could not be more curious. There is more than one of you. Or you are a creature of habit.

Okay. I am going to try to make this slightly less sucky with a 1-minute anecdote:

When I was about 10 my best friend and I were eating top ramen together. We were being silly and trying to make each other laugh. I thought I had totally won when I got her to laugh scalding broth out her nose, but then it was so funny that I laughed scalding broth AND a noodle out my nose. Which of course only made me laugh harder. Hurt like hell, though.

I will be back with real posts soon, pinkie-swear. In the mean time, what is the most awesome thing you have ever laughed out your nose?

I get the impression my blog is inappropriate...

I realize I am a dork, but I can't help it--it's too much fun. So this is the latest list of searches that have led to my blog. Awesome. It's all naked sexpots and asshole tattoos here, all the time. Though I don't think I am going to be much help teaching people not to touch where the bathing suit covers, because bathing suits cover some of my favorite parts to have touched.


Anycow, I just thought I'd share--because it seems that if you are here, you sure as hell didn't mean to be.

Harvey Milk Day, in a rare burst of seriousness

This is Harvey Milk. If you don't know, he was the first openly gay elected official in the U.S. He was also assassinated--shot 5 times while sitting at his desk. May 22 (his birthday) is Harvey Milk Day. A day for us all to try and figure out why in the hell we allow discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation to continue, and to do what we can to bring about the demise of this absurd bigotry. You can clicky-pants here to learn more about Harvey Milk, his day, and some other LGBT (or LGBTQQ, or whatever the acronym is these days) equality and support resources.

Heterosexism is bullshit, people. That's fucking Science.

The Enemy Within

Apparently my brain is both bored and intent on torturing me. Do you ever find yourself thinking about something, but you don't know how or why, and all you want to do is make it stop but it's really hard to NOT think about something? Yeah, me too. Which is why I just found myself pondering what spots a person would troll if they had a fetish for listening to other people in public restrooms take a loud, sloppy shit.* Of course I immediately wanted that train wreck of a thought to stop, so I decided blogging about it was clearly the best solution. I'm still thinking about it, but now so are you. You're welcome.

P.S. Turning on email and mobile blogging may have been a bad plan. Facilitating my impulsivity rarely yields anything but shenanigary and mayhem.

*This relates to the FACT that if you can imagine it, it is somebody's fetish. And it is true. The most bizarre one I have heard that was substantiated and documented was a guy who liked to masturbate by rubbing up against road kill he had dressed in lingerie. This blog is terribly educational, in that it educates you about terrible things you didn't want to know. Welcome to my brain.

P.S. THAT's why you have to be careful in negotiations. With crazy people.

Okay, some background. I work a bajillion light years away from where I live. It sucks. I have to find a wormhole to get to work every morning, and I think worms are gross. I also have a job with rules that were crafted by sadists, and apparently some people think there is no such thing as too damn early in the monkey-trucking morning. Net result? I get up really early. Too early. Painfully early. It would be painful if I didn't stay up too late and drink too much. Both of which I do, so my drive to work is a time of contemplating the destruction of all mankind. (Okay, it actually isn't that bad. I kind of enjoy driving, and the drive is pretty, and it gives me time to think. And I don't really stay up THAT late or drink THAT much...at least not on school nights...but bitching and moaning is funnier that being happy-clam, especially with the judicious use of hyperbole. So go with it. Plus, it does actually suck.) I am just not a morning person.

Jsun, on the other hand, is a morning person. He, however, works within crawling distance of the house. He, also, can show up pretty much any damn time he pleases. Bastard. (I mean, I love him and all. He is more awesome that a bathtub filled with bourbon and Scarlett Johansson. But still.)

So this is the IM conversation we had this morning:

 JSun:  k, I'm at work..
 me:  Damnit. Why can't I work 15 minutes from the house and have a job I
        can roll into at 9:30?
 JSun:  Well, hopefully sometime soonish you can.
 me:  Someday, I'm gonna make my own job--and then? Some days I am
        gonna schedule SPECIFICALLY so I can get out of bed later than you.
        It'll be like a game of chicken, only with not getting out of bed.
        I'll probably be late. But that's to be expected. It is me, afterall.
 JSun:  don't you do that on the weekends?  except i want to get up?
 me:  Not the same.
        But yeah, that is kinda how it works. Which is why there is a
        negotiated "get up and do everything time."
 JSun:  I think we negotiated it for one day.
           I didn't realize I was negotiating forever and ever.
 me:  We can totally negotiate to move it later, if you want.
        P.S. THAT's why you have to be careful in negotiations. With crazy
        people.

So why am I tell you about the IM conversation we had this morning? Mostly because I suck at blogging and am kind of rambly and way too amused by myself. My EXCUSE however, is so that I can brag about the most awesome negotiation in the world. (Wow. I think my excuse is even worse than the reason. I am so winning this morning. Fo realzies.*)

On the weekends, JSun wants to get up--and by "get up" I mean get out of bed, go on a bike ride to Egypt, rewrite the tax code, build a pony, take a picture of the boson higgs, and then break for brunch while we decide what to do with the afternoon. And he usually starts wanting to do this around 7:30 or 8 in the morning. No shit. I, on the other hand, want to sleep until 10 or 11, then lounge in bed till 11 or 12, then leisurely mosey towards brunch, then maybe lay in the hammock while I figure out what cooking project I want to do that day, then stroll through the store, maybe have a cocktail (or 4), and make some tamales (or dumplings, or pie, or meatballs, or arroz con pollo, or whatever). By then it is booze o'clock and I have dinner and commence with evening debauchery. Clearly, there was going to have to be some compromise.

One way or another it was decided that 9:30 is a reasonable time for Jsun to wait until to get up, and in exchange I will go do a bajillion things all day. This is known as "get up and do everything time." Despite his claims it was CLEARLY negotiated for all time and intended to be observed throughout the universe. That part is good--but the by-product is even better. If he wants me to get up earlier, he has to use sex to try and wake me up. (Okay, he doesn't HAVE to, but it really is the only most effective means.) The net result is that I either get to sleep in, or I get laid. And sometimes both! (He gets kinda cranky if he lays me really well and then I try and roll back over and go to sleep, though. Who knew? Stand-up comedians had led me to believe that men find this to be ideal. What else might they have led me astray on...Maybe I'm not a freak because I hate shopping and don't give a leper's dildo** about shoes!)

Hmmm. You know, that wasn't as entertaining as it was in my head. To make it up to you I will show you a video that is so fan-freaking-taboulously cool it makes my mind hurt and share another stupid hilarious IM conversation I had with Jsun while writing this:

[talking about someone being "LESS GEEKY" on OKC]
 me:  That's unfortunate...I like me some geeky.
        Unless you are talking about the original meaning--then less geeky is
        good. I bet biting the heads off live chickens gives you bad breath.
 JSun:  Depends on if they are mint chickens.
 me:  That might be better. But I bet chicken mints make your breath worse.
 JSun:  BAGAWK!
 me:  Step away from the chicken!
 JSun:  I can't, the cock is attached.
 me:  Your cock is attached to a chicken? That must be really
        awkard for Q [his officemate]
        ...(you know, if he's in the office with you)
 JSun:  He's the chicken.
 me:  Wow. Now it's kind of awkward for me.

And that, in a nutshell, is why I cannot help but love him. (Must...resist...urge to make stupid jokes...about nuts...and shells...) Also, we usually don't talk about chicken so much. Except when we do, I guess.

*Yes. I know. It is a horrible, horrible saying. But it keeps popping out lately. I think it's like the hiccups. You just have to keep apologizing and excusing yourself and hope it ends soon. Maybe if someone startles me or I drink a glass of water while holding my breath it will stop.

**This saying just occurred to me...but I like it instantly. Because, really, who wants a leper's dildo?

Damnit. Now I feel all guilty for harshing on the lepers.

A post-it note makes a very good mask

I want to be on the interwebs! But I don't. Fortunately, group efforts at documenting our drunkenness have helped.



Point 1: Yes. I have lovely boobs. Sometimes I kiss them myself, they are so yummy.

Point 2: That is a horrible facial expression. (Not sure why I am posting this, other than I decided to when I was REALLY drunk, and I tend to post ALL drafts on this blog.)

Point 3: Though you (sadly) cannot read the diagram above, the post-it note on my face is diagramming the plan of myself and Chaseycakes to create a pinata filled with BBQ sandwiches (as befitting of the American south).

Point 4: My twin posts dirty pics of herself all over the internet. I have advised against this. She has advised against my cocktail enthusiasm. I guess we all have our limits.

Point 5: Are you reading anymore?...Or are you just running your eyes over the text while you think of my slattern twin?

I think Gin and I may need to have a talk...

Gin and I have never seen eye-to-eye...but I am contemplating calling an international peace summit. With Gin.



So this is a Gin Fizz (with the egg white...TRUST ME, I know it is terrifying and we are all  going to die [I have had food poisoning an unreasonable number of times and am subsequently terrified of it every time I eat even a Butterfinger], but it is both delicious and worth it). Even better (and I do love the basic/"Ramos" gin fizz), this is a Damson Gin Fizz...meaning it is a gin fizz made with Damson Gin, a gin flavored with damson plums. It makes me want to touch my boobies, it is so tasty.

Anyway, this in conjunction with my experience of liquor tasting (which is just not the same damn thing as wine or beer tasting--WATCH THE FUCK OUT!) at the Ebb+Flow distillery...They had a lot of tasty stuff, but the gin was so exquisite and refined that it made me think. One of these days, gin and I need to have a reckoning.

Naturally, I do not particularly care for gin. I actually think it smells like medicine sometimes (yes, I understand the pragmatic reasons why that is so--doesn't matter if you can't manage/ignore the association). But I am starting to think she is the sexy librarian, and I need to spend some time with her so she will unbutton her blouse, take off her glasses, and shake down her sexy hair...

Also, it seems like a good excuse to spend a day getting insanely drunk and blogging...It also is inspiring me to look into what it would take to turn this blog into a business...How awesome would it be if I could write my booze receipts off? I actually don't have a word for that level of awesome.

Damnit, if I could get the baba ghanoush I used to get in Madison, Wisconsin (at The Casbah), I would have to say life was damn near perfect. I am not sure what it means when pureed eggplant stands between you and perfect happiness, but I think it is a damn good thing.

Random MONKEY-trucking!

Okay...so there are a half-dozen partial posts (by which, I mean pictures with at least half-interesting titles, if not decent text...or any text...) in my drafts folder, but instead--I think I will post some bullshite stream of consciousness cram. (That was a total accident, I meant to say "crap," but it made me think of the cramberries and giggle--so I am leaving it. We have covered the stubborn bit. Plus, until someone else is reading this, I figure I can be a self-indulgent ass...Like I usually am.)



Alright, so not related to anything: “Toddlers & Tiaras” is one of the most messed up things I have ever seen…It is almost enough to make me think booze and Netflix is a bad thing. Almost. My only consolation is that it is not the kids who look nutso in the buttso on the show. That--and apparently it is educational. I will admit to being 3-deep tonight (I always giggle when I say that, but I mean drinks), but I am LEARNING shit.

A) There is/was a little 6-year-old girl in West Virginia simultaneously participating in wrestling and pageants. Each is creepy to some. Some find both creepy. But still--it shows breadth. At age 6.

B) According to this documentary (that sounds SO much classier than “reality show”), I have discovered that child pageants are a gathering place for gay (or pseudo-gay) men in West Virginia. It isn’t anything pervy! I want to be clear on that. But, apparently, they aren’t allowed to gather elsewhere in the state. As a result, they seemingly marry, have children, then coach those children in pageants, so they can finally achieve a more comfortable social setting.

C) The word “personality” is said no less than 24.78 bajillion times per pageant. “Personality” is a stand-in for everything from physical attractiveness, to expensive clothing, to dance skills.

D) Apparently, it is legal to dress a small child up as a dominatrix, have her dance provocatively in front of an audience, and then televise it.

E) Competition has become this bizarre mélange of speaking well of the competition, trying to cut everyone else down, taking any advantage you can buy, and awarding everyone a prize regardless of performance. My cow. I find this shit confusing, what the hell do little girls make of this? “Stab her in the back, but then give her a ribbon for taking it like a champ!’?

I don’t really have any Science. (But neither do most of the people who claim “Science”…one more shampoo telling me it is “Scientifically improved” and I am going to make some ad executive out there a shampoo pudding for dessert.) Here is what I do have: How many of these lessons have we not already learned from Disney? (How do I make the “registered trade-mark symbol”?)

Wow. I was going to tell you about how awesome mint juleps are…but clearly I need to go to bed. Insomnia (last night) is a bitch, and I will cut that bitch the first chance I get. (But I’ll give her a present if she takes it well.) In the mean time, I will publish this nonsense, take a shower, use my partner’s armpit as a hair-styling tool (I will explain later…maybe), and go the fuck to bed. Which is good. Now I have to have a mint julep again soon, so I can explain how awesome they are.

P.S. That picture is of a mint julep.

P.P.S. My initials are engraved on that cup.

P.P.P.S. Yes, I am a bad-ass-monkey-trucking-madam of an imbiber.

Bubble Gum Whippit Bitch, bitch

So, we bought some whipped cream vodka. Can't say why. I think maybe we were drunk. The liquor store is very close by (an easy walk), so more than once we have found ourselves tipsily wandering the aisles of the ABC. I think it was just before the winter holiday, and I get very "treat" oriented around that time. I want special foods and drinks. I wanted some sort of flavored vodka, and a new flavor, but couldn't find anything that suited. I think we started discussing the whipped cream vodka as a joke, but somehow it ended up in the basket.

It is hard to describe the cloying sweetness that is whipped cream vodka. It is like syrup is strangling your tongue while sugar spanks you and honey records the whole thing. You are left feeling dirty, and wrong, and you can't get the taste out of your mouth...And yet, there is something kind of fun about it.

Nonetheless, however wrong it is, something needs to be done with it.

• 1 part whipped cream vodka
• 1 part amaretto
• 2 parts vodka
• 1 part half and half

Shake well with ice and strain into a martini glass. Garnish with cinnamon (fresh ground is best, as always, but pre-ground will readily work) and wham, bam, thank you Spam, you get this:



 Here's where things get fucked up. Way more fucked up than this trainwreck. When you sip this spirituous abomination, making sure to get just a bit of cinnamon, there is a flavor of bubble gum on the back of the palate. It is absolute craziness. Not Crazy Town, but definitely craziness.

I am trying a new thing where I attempt to explain myself: So, the above clearly explains the bubble gum; the whippit is a reference to the whipped cream, and...well...it is clearly a bitch drink. I made the one above for Jsun, and it made me giggle furiously to think that I was playing a drink bitch...making a bitch drink.

Fun hint: The trick of the tongue that produces the bubble gum flavor seems to relate to having cinnamon, but just a little. If you use pre-ground cinnamon, you can sprinkle it on top and then gently blow on it at an angle. This will spread the cinnamon finely and evenly across the surface. Plus, it is fun.


P.S. I was in a restaurant in Spain, once. It was late (CRAP night of long travel), and the only thing open in the area I was in was a tourist-themed restaurant catering to English speakers. (What is super crazy is that Spaniards--at least in the city--have dinner at 10 at night, so you know it was fucking late.) Anycow, I was in a pisser of a mood, when suddenly the menu saved me with an involuntary guffaw: They had cramberry juice, cramberry cocktails, and even cramberry sauce on a turkey sandwich. Sometimes I try to imagine what a cramberry is like. I suspect you cram it in your cram-hole. But I don't know where my cramhole is.

So, that was totally pointless. Not sure why I thought of that, and even less sure why I posted it. Maybe I was just trying to provide tangible evidence that my current goal is to post something, anything, on a regular basis. And then to work on improving the quality of the content. That's it. This was intentional. And illustrative.