A trip to Syracuse later, and I realize I’m turning into the things I hate. Am I a liberal, vegan possum with a black belt in progressively pistol-whipping those that dare enjoy goose livery goodness? No, but I encountered a spate of people throughout my travels, and all of them have since been directed here. The conversation didn’t organically segue into the topic of my blog, nor did most of them have interests mutual enough to warrant a gentle nudge in its direction. I simply stapled my business card into the soft stuff of their palm, then politely informed them of the bragging rights they would one day have for sharing recycled plane air with yours truly. Essentially, I’m no better than those buttoned-up Aryan kids pitching Jehovah to me on my idle weekends of bad mothering. We’re both shills, the difference is that my written material has a way better main character.
I’m of course kidding about that last remark. In fact, I texted Russell—whose workaholic ass got left at home—that if the churches in California were as beautiful and historic as what I saw in New York, I might attend service with some measure of regularity. But, between the ninety-five degree weather, forty-five percent humidity and the abundance of local pubs, I couldn’t be bothered with such salvational quandaries. I Yelped the entire trip, but was really too jet lagged and preoccupied with work to have a true culinary adventure. Sure, there were sweet potato fries, buffalo chicken pizzas, cheese platters, panini, Hampton Inn breakfast specials, spiedies, cocktails, local beers on tap… but nothing worthy of its own paragraph here.
So I didn’t have the time to be a good foodie, I didn’t do enough to come back with a clever anecdote, I slept for ten hours last night but my face still isn’t working and I missed my fucking hundredth post. Non-vacationing vacations suck. Just drink this:
Golden (State) Punch
- 5 oranges
- 5 limes
- 3 lemons
- 1 liter club soda
- 1 cup simple syrup
Juice 4 oranges, 4 limes and 2 lemons. Slice remaining fruit for garnish. Mix juice, club soda and simple syrup. Pour punch on top of sliced citrus in a pretty glass pitcher. Serve. Or, do it right, and add vodka and some sort of liqueur.
I tried very hard to not be that mom; the one that shoots you between the eyes with endless commentary/photographs of her ugly-ass children. Sure, I take great pride in my own trio, and think they’re absolutely beautiful—but that’s how I feel. I never demanded the world agree with me. I find it interesting, then, how insistent I’ve become with my blog, and the way I project my feelings about it onto others. I mean, yes, obviously there’s a difference. One is a souless commodity that can be exploited for financially selfish gain… and the other is a blog. Zing.
TWTG says, “I’m gonna cut my thumb and then you’ll have thumb in your salad.”