Day two of no-family-just-dog went well. I suppose I could leave Birch alone for longer periods of time, but just because he’d just fall asleep doesn’t mean I want him to do it. I want to be around, so he can fall asleep when I’m here. Man, he sleeps a lot. Loves his walks; all energy and desperate interest in the smelly things in the grass, but otherwise he’s a dog with Energy Savr mode, like a hard drive. Spins down when not in use.
I have nothing to add except for a horrible thing that’s quite minor, but everyone in the house is going to hate me for it.
You see, I drove to the burbs to do some quick shopping, and stopped at a fast-food joint. Birch has no problem being alone in the car for a while. I shopped at Target; he was fine with that. But I was in such a hurry I didn’t realize that I bought two jugs of Orange Juice with Some Pulp. Which could be quite a lot, when you think about it: man, that’s some pulp there. No one likes pulp. Pulp is disgusting. Pulp is great if you’re a whale and have that thing in your mouth that strains the krill, but otherwise no.
So I have to strain two gallons now, or everyone in the house will say “why did you get pulp” for the next fortnight, every morning. I have to pre-strain it for their convenience.
How much do I Not Have to Say? This much:
I am at work now, trying to not go eat pastries. There were several boxes of items that was either left over from a meeting, or sent by someone who wanted us to eat them. I’m sure we have a policy against writing about food someone gives us for free, but what are you going to do if 12 donuts just . . . show up? Test them for poisons? Daub the frosting, put it in a test tube, shake, and see if it turns blue because that means it’s meth? You put them out on the free food table, and they disappear.
Don’t you have a free food table at your office? I’m so sorry
What was left by the time I passed by the table was one big chocolate donut with Halloween Sprinkles, 1/3 consumed; a box of tiny donuts (Donettes, if you wish, although that word looks like Trump’s back-up singers) with elaborate frosting / sprinkle combinations; and half of a powdered pastry evidently bursting with vanilla creme. The reason they were half- or a third-eaten is obvious. Consuming the entire thing would mean you had ingested pointless calories. A knife was provided so you could carve off a small portion, and consume it without guilt. Well, much guilt.
Yes, my office is 90% female; why do you ask?
I’d do the same, though, because I have the same delusions.
The small donuts were okay. The vanilla-frosting-centered thing was nice. I have not sampled the doughnut with the chocolate frosting, because it will be doughnut chocolate and that never seems the same thing as actual chocolate. Never liked chocolate doughnuts. A maple glazed, brother, or nothing.
Okay a glazed, doesn’t have to be maple. Or nothing.
Seriously. No cake donuts, no bear claws (always stale, sticky), no fritter with some peculiar squishy square of “apple” stuck on top. No convenience-store danish; rather eat a Frisbee. A glazed, or nothing.
Well, a croissant would be just as good, depending on what you put on it, but otherwise, a glazed. These are my preferences. A maple glazed, a glazed, a croissant, and an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope.
At parent-teacher conferences yesterday I told Daughter’s Theory of Knowledge prof that she’d said they had a test on Spanish Inquisition, and I’d asked if she had expected it, etc.
“I have a clip of the Spanish Inquisition I’m going to use,” he said, “and I have ‘The Argument Clinic.’”
“No you don’t,” I said, by pure instinct.
LATER I went back for a slice of the chocolate doughnut, and I was right. Awful. Had to try another just to be sure.
See what I mean about having nothing to say? I mean, I wrote stuff, and walked, and took pictures, but that’s every day. It was warm, though - gorgeous and sunny, the perfect autumn day, and everyone I met was happy. Everyone felt like this would go on for a while, that the day would realize how grateful we were and serve up another portion. But I checked the forecast for tomorrow.
Pulp. Damn.
The brewpub owners, if they were smart, would use this opportunity to remake the entire design to appeal to late 70s coin-op video game players, and rebrand the place as Space Invaders.
On the right you see the hotel going up; here's a view from around the corner.
A reminded of what the site was like just two years ago.
Gildersleeve season 6. The show is mature, in a rut, but no one's completely bored with it . . . yet.
Hey there String-bean, are you tellin' me you're bringing a Banjo to a Latin compilation?
That'll do; see you around! Have a great weekend. I'll be sitting here with the dog, leaving the house once a day for two hours at most, lest he poop the kennel.
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