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Speaking of "bait"...
A lovely family member, who KNOWS I'm gluten intolerant and don't eat wheat, sent me a huge tin of those Mrs Field's cookies for Christmas.
Things that are OK about this... I now don't need to purchase a party gift for a thing my husband has to attend, AND I'll look freaking GENEROUS to boot, 'cause those cookies are not cheap.
And now, a kitten.
“You have your way. I have my way. As for the right way, the correct way, and the only way, it does not exist.”
And that's why I'm here eating HFLC Primal/Paleo.
I was recently gifted a cookie jar with shortbread cookies in it (from one of my Girl Scouts, who is too young to care about what people eat in any case, even if I had ever told them). The cookies are store-bought, so not even worth eating, but I have decided to make cookies my ownself, and pass them on in the cookie jar to get it out of the house. I don't need a container begging to be filled with COOKIES! It is the thought that counts, though- she's a real sweetie.
Benign Poltergeist has a new fuzzy friend to torment, if only for a few days.
House o' Panda is playing host to Primal Coach Puppy, a giant black dog who lives in fear that Benign Poltergeist has the power to make pandas disappear. Benign Poltergeist teases to the utmost that it DOES indeed have this power, and so poor Primal Coach Puppy is being driven into neurosis one taunt at a time. He sits next to me as close as two objects can without sharing the same space-time and causing a rift that will suck us all in and reduce us to an atomic level*. The dog has a crisis in confidence every single time I remove my paw from his head in order to type. This leads to him turning in panic with a look of existential terror (Gay Panda has vanished!!! VANISHED!!! DEAR VALHALLA, WHO WILL FEED ME??? DEATH IS IMMINENT!!!)
When he sees that I am still there, he thumps his chin on the keyboard in abject relief. This means while I edit, my sentences are constantly interrupted by streams of WOIEGHOIHGOIERNHGV and 20Q3TH and 2Q0I43GN20QIEVN. I don't feel that his chin is adding much in way of character development or plot, and if anyone is reading the Rune series and wants to know what happened to Rafe's mother the night she didn't come home from work, the answer is that Paige Swale was 20Q4EGHIWOVL O2I4H 024H LKSDFJLKWEJ9.
Oh, I probably should have warned SPOILERS.
Today Primal Coach Puppy insisted on being squarely in the middle of the Solstice gift exchange, in which I gave Lady Friend the present that every red-blooded American woman wants: a DVD of Avatar - The Last Airbender**. Staying on his bed was out of the question, as Benign Poltergeist hissed in his ear that being so far away meant that when we started losing corporeality, he would never reach us in time to go along. And then no one would exist to pet him any longer, and he would starve to death. After that I tried to play with him, but he just stared at me like I was a fool. Don't I realize that hide-and-seek means I go out of his sight? And then I do not exist to pet him any longer, and he will starve to death. Don't I realize that chase means one of us will go around a corner and be temporarily parted? That's how it happens, Panda. All it takes is a second of not being alert.
Benign Poltergeist's torment of Primal Coach Puppy continued through most of yesterday, although we made some progress. He is currently thisclose to the recliner as I type, allowing me the use of both of my paws and not thumping his chin on the keyboard to make such pithy witticisms as 2048EHFGO and OKRWE2408 in the middle of my sentences. Lady Friend was even successful in getting him to play once, peeling off her crusty and holey blue hospital sock with white tread from when she broke herself years ago and waving it in his face. Overcome with joy, Primal Coach Puppy stopped hearing the ghostly whispers of poof and lost himself in tug-of-war with the dirty sock. Then he carried it to his bed, where he slept with it for comfort through the night. The sock has provided some deeply needed support in his psychological underpinnings since then, leading me to believe that Lady Friend's foot odor has an amazing ability to repel the supernatural.
I have not yet shared this observation with her. It may be wiser to do so after I have built my trebuchet for self-defense purposes. And be still, my jealous Muggle heart. Smell magic is not anything that I have ever aspired to achieve, so I can trample those sour grapes into a nasty wine that tastes of bitterness and pencil shavings and get back to matters of more import in my life anyway. Like what Benign Poltergeist did with my wallet. It was on the table last night and then---