Mixed Blessings

First of all, Christmas Miracle:

Santa, you naughty little minx.

Second, this is a picture of my city's last remaining Jews--from a time when there were many and other than myself-- celebrating Chanukah. It's from the back page of the Everett Leader-Herald and News Gazette. They couldn't decide on a name. Please, for your own good, read and pay close attantion to the blurb under the photo:

Yep, that's what it says alright.

Now that's what I call a Jewian slip. I mean a Freudian Jew! I mean Jewian Je . . . *sigh*. Look, can we just chock all of this up to it being a Jew-o. I mean a type-Jew! I mean a kapo!

That's my home town newspaper. In a blurb about the city's last remaining Jews, they send'em back to Jewusalem. All the Jews that's fit to print.

Jeesh.

HM

3.14 = Fear

The pie is cooked. If I had exchanged "The" for "Your" there, it would sound kind of noirish. "Your pie is cooked kid, see? You gotta scram and scram fast!"

The pie is cooked and now the waiting begins. And I question myself. Will it be good? Did I use too much sugar? Not enough? More spices, maybe? Why aren't I a better parent? What's this thing on my nipple? Why do we own so many fucking cats?  I've had difficulty with pies in the past.

I'm hopeful for this one. Apple, of course. I was hopeful for the last two as well though, and those ended up pie tragedies. There were angry, jonesing, diabetics picketing the house to ask us how we could do such a thing to pie.

But still I hope because as the Torah says, "Every ThanksGiving is a new chance to eat pie." Except, in Hebrew. Which I would lay on you cats here, but our keyboard doesn't have Hebrew keys. Anti-semetic keyboard.

Happy Thanksgiving bloggy people. Gorge well.

HM