The sun is out, and I question if this universe is real. What is this bright orb that shines in the sky, and where has the sky water gone? Did we soak it all up already? The cows that watch my driveway are suspicious as well. And also, tired.
The end of the rainbow appears just across the road, next to my friend, Horse. I suspect Horse is now a god. A rainbow god. Alas, I find no gold and suspect that if there ever was any, the rainbow god has eaten it, thus increasing his powers. Well-played, Horse.
I decide it’s time to do a test-run of Jell-O shots ahead of next week’s Halloween party. I stare at the carry-on contraband from America and suddenly realize I’m not 25 anymore, and Jell-O shots are much more ridiculous at age almost-40. I don’t know who makes these rules, but somewhere people of my age got together and decided there are more dignified ways to consume booze (mostly wine), and we should elevate ourselves beyond gelatin vodka. It occurs to me that maybe “they” won’t let me turn 40…later on…if I act out in a desperate attempt to recapture my youth. I see no flaws in this plan.
I am feeling very sanctimonious because I am electing to use gutted orange peels as the conduit for my Jell-O shots. No single-use plastics. Out of guilt, I eat a lot of orange guts and feel a little funny inside. Maybe it’s vitamins. My body is not used to such things.
As I stuff my jaw full of orange flesh, I spy that cows have been watching me the whole time. Again. Don’t be fooled, they conveniently looked away just as I raised my camera. The second it lowered, they snapped their faces back toward me, staring, judging.
A new day is born, and still they watch me. This time, it is as I get in my car. I tried to explain how amazing I am for using orange peels with my Jell-O shots, but they remain unimpressed with me. No matter how hard I try, nothing is ever good enough for them. Or my mom. I mean, I could just be projecting on to docile livestock, but I think no.
The Jell-O shots are finally set and ready for sampling. Yep, that’s the taste of vodka in Jell-O. Wait, how was this ever a good idea? I could’ve at least soaked gummy bears in rum or something. I mean, even if we accept the premise that alcohol must be absorbed into foodstuffs. For the record, my initial plan was to do a lovely, sophisticated Bloody Mary bar–thematic, delicious, and all class. But husband was all like, “No one likes Bloody Marys but you, especially no one here in Ireland, and I don’t know if I’d define a ‘party’ as sitting around watching you drink 3 pitchers of Bloody Marys while you yell at the neighbors that they just don’t understand spice.” He’s a real party pooper. So Jell-O shots it is. Sticky, potent. I guess I’ve nailed it.
Out to dinner midweek. Hrmmm. I promise you, “bangers & mash” isn’t usually sooooo literal. I giggled so much I nearly wet my pants. No lie.
The end of the week turned extra cold here. There was frost on the
windshield windscreen and daughter was embarrassed when I used a plastic knife sheath to scrape it clear. Sorry, kid, they don’t sell scrapers at every corner store here. In further family protest of the cold, Ginny cat (she’s just extra fluffy!) roasts herself in front of the fire, for I am a wicked cat mother who freezes her cats nearly to death during the chill of the evening. Worry not, husband and I actually do check and flip her over periodicaly so she cooks evenly.
This ravishing creature (along with Dr. Frankenfurter) is ready for Halloween party prep. Crafting, wine, napping, cooking, wine, napping. Plus, I’ve made a brief, soon-to-be-dispelled pledge to embrace my beauty au naturale and take selfies whenever I’ve got a bit of heart to do so–even if I’m in house cleaning gear. Alternatively, my wrinkles may scare away the cow spies who I’m sure were just beyond the glare overhead in that photo. Suspicious.
Tune in next week to see what Horse the Rainbow God and the very suspicious cows get up to!