I did post yesterday.* At Mamarazzi. Where I graciously informed the world about how to get a nice family Christmas card picture taken even if your child is a track-scratching rehab-avoiding junky.
I think that's about all I accomplished. Except for doing a live and unscripted version of Monty Python's infamous Cheese Shop Skit, where the idiotic cheeseophile at Binny's played Michael Palin's cheesemonger role, while I took on the harrowing task of filling in for the much taller and funnier John Cleese.
"Why the fascination with cheese?" I imagine you asking in the nice cooperative way so favored by the readers who live in my head. As opposed to you guys.
Well, I needed to pick up some snacks because Joke was visiting fo shizzel (as opposed to talking about visiting and then canceling, which happened earlier this summer.)
I'm a fairly hospitable misanthrope, so I decided to ply him with the latest and greatest in Spanish cheese. I wanted to impress him with my foodie chops as well as ruin his appetite for the lackluster take-out meal I was going to feed him for dinner.
So I bought pretty much every kind of Spanish cheese they stocked that tasted OK (except Manchego, because I'd heard of Manchego and can, unlike Blogger, even spell Manchego, which means that Manchego is laughably old hat.) To flesh things out (since as it turns out most Spanish cheese tastes like ass) I also bought some sausage and smoked oysters.
Just so you know, the whole cheese and sausage platter idea? Stolen from the blackbirds. The oysters were an original contribution of my own, which might be why I felt free to eat most of them.
I'm pretty sure we had fun, but the details are a bit blurry. I know I had at least two Manhattans and one glass of wine, and therefore was not surprised that this morning I woke up with a hangover.
I don't know whether I'm going to see the Jokes later today. At the moment I'm sure they're out testing the truth of our assertion that Chicago now has the highest sales tax in the nation. (Yay Chicago! We're number one!)
And don't start whining about pictures. I'm pretty proud of the way my hams fill out my size 16 turquoise slacks, but Joke is shy.
* I realize I'm the only one who is watching over my blog-posting frequency, or is anal enough to care that I Follow The Rules. Let the record show that the defendent is innocent of charges of Breaking Rules, but guilty of OCD and an incredible amount of drivel.