Empty Nest Syndrome

I am not sure whether my love of minimalist living drives me to reside in a tiny room, or my love of quaint dwellings forces me to toss away all but a few scraps of my earthly possessions.  I do know however, that my purging of clutter is akin to the vomiting patterns of a bulimic super model at a buffet.  And when my beloved roommate Niko moved on to greener pastures, I stood in my doorway surveying a barren four walled wasteland, with a bed and a desk occupying but one lonely corner.  Clothes, books, memories, and the like could be fit into several boxes, or just as easily become snacks for a hungry dumpster.  A room swap was surely in order!

You a space to plop down a beanbag chair or sofa, but I see only a dark abyss.

My new window to the world!  It should also be notes that I have now occupied every room in the upstairs of Yellow House.

Or maybe I was just doing Irving the hoarder a favor.

See you on the Battlefield

I have always thought that stumbling into a rowdy bar is similar to charging headlong into battle.  This ignorant uneducated comparison is in no way meant to belittle those who have experienced war first hand, and the significant date of this post (Veterans Day) is nothing but coincidence.  Excellent, now I can belly flop guilt free into this completely absurd and untimely Clog post. 

Drinking within the cozy confines of a bar is nothing more than an adult version of playing with little green army men in a sandbox.  Now let us decide which plastic soldier you most resemble.  

Clockwise from top left:

1.  You are spending far more time on the phone trying to call for reinforcements than actually pounding brewskis with the troops already at your side.  Or maybe your girlfriend is just pissed off at you.  

2.  You've got the heavy artillery out tonight, with plenty of shots to go around.  You may not be on the front line chatting it up with every human being in sight, but anyone who gets in your path is going to get a firm hug or an earful of nonsense. 

3.  We see you over there in the corner, acting all sly with your cocktail and curiously shifty eyes.  Perhaps you only wish to observe the madness, or perhaps its sexual conquest you're after.

4.  You came straight from cashing your paycheck to knocking back shots at the bar.  You are on the front line demanding nothing less than death or glory.  You'll be telling your friends war stories, if you can remember them.  

5.  You are in way over your head but still want a piece of the action.  This battle is no place for someone as shy or sober as you, but still you insist on crawling into the melee.  Is it a blind sense of duty or mere stupidity that drives you to fight?  Stray bullets and splashed drinks assail you whilst ponying up to the beer soaked bar. 

6.  Oh hey there wildcard, what's that you got there in your hand?  You've got a couple screws loose because the AMF is your weapon of choice.  Suicide bar bomber best describes you, and your time in battle will be brief.  I sense a dishonorable discharge from the bar within minutes.  

P.s. I always fancied the flamethrower soldier myself.    

Tools of the Trade

Pie Season is a fictitious collection of calendar days spanning from November first to January first, during which time pie baking flourishes like a naked mud covered hippie at Woodstock.  I take full advantage of the cold weather and shortened days by cranking out a cornucopia of pumpkin, pecan, and apple pies.  And while these pies may look pretty and taste divine, special attention should be paid to the tools that make it all possible.  

My great grandma was a rotund woman who I never met, but her old ceramic mixing bowl is present every time I bake a pie.  It is the perfect size, weight, and shape.  The handle allows for easy turning and the smooth glazed surface is much less prone to sticking than metal.  The crude markings carved into the bottom of the bowl are those of Bybee Pottery, a company out of Madison County Kentucky whose roots date back to the 1809.  All of this boring drivel means that inside every pie I bake there is love, history, and probably some toxic ceramic particles.  Embrace Pie Season!