The smell of Katie's pumpkin pie is drifting in to me as I try to solve this damnable writer's block that has taken over the last three weeks.  No, I'm never too blocked to blog, apparently.  Blogging takes a form like vomit that flows over, impetuous, sudden, impertinent or plodding, either way it flows and then its gone.  And as I'm speaking to the void I don't usually apologize, though I will this time, for the gross metaphor.

It's almost Halloween, and the memetard lays ready for Internet suit-ed-ness.  I am somehow less excited about the holiday than I used to be, but this is usual, this is understandable.  Turning 34 - I always want to round it off to 35 - yet I cannot yet.  Why am I so eager to just be 35 and be done with it.  One is never done.  Not until death.  I am not eager for that.

What I am eager for is the pumpkin pie, the innards of our jack-o-lantards, pureed, spiced, poured in hand-pressed crust and baked.  I can smell it in the oven and I am hungry.  The pumpkin's carved met a grosser fate.  They were two.  They were carved with much enthusiasm about a week ago, then put on the porch as is traditional.  Then it rained.  For days.  They filled with mold and bugs and leprous spots of white grizzed fuzz.  Both were quickly dispatched to the trash. Ruined before Halloween, they didn't last to see the night.

Nevada, as a lion

The cat, now, the cat always get forced into costumes.  We like to do holidays thoroughly. Nevada, in her cooperative kitten way, goes along with us with a sullen meow, knowing there are treats ahead if she just tolerates the lion costume (the santa suit, the birthday dress).  We are terrible people.