You could say this was an independant lovesong

Jeff and I totally made cookies that are shaped like mooses. I got cookie mix and a moose-shaped cookie cutter at the Seattle Weblogger White Elephant Christmas Party on Wednesday, and I've been very excited about the thought of making the cookies. So we did. And, surprisingly, they turned out pretty spiffed, albeit slightly flour-y tasting.
Of course, I'm usually excited when I cook something and don't end up, like, burning the house down or poisoning the water supply.

My kitchen is a mess, just covered in flour and dirty dishes. I'm seriously considering saying fuck it all, tossing the dishes, spraying sealant over the counters, and calling it an art project. It's taking all my willpower to not curl up in the fetal position on the couch and consume everything in the house with salt in it. Being a girl -sucks-, make no mistake about that. Instead, I guess I'll go take a hot shower and try to feel like a human being. Then I'll clean the kitchen.

On my way back home from a (failed) attempt at something I noticed that all the commercials on the radio were jewelery commercials. They might revoke my girl liscense for saying this, but I can't remember ever thinking "gee, I wish a boy would give me a piece of jewelery that costs more than the appendage it happens to be decorating is worth." In much the same way that I don't want roses, I also don't want diamonds. I don't know what that says for me as a stereotype, but I expect the girl police to show up at my door any second.

Second-hand sense of purpose

I noticed, in washing the dishes, that cookie dough seems to colonize everything. I'd pick up a pyrex dish and dump out the water inside it and out would fall a million globs of chocolate-y stuff. "What?" I'd say. "That dish had no cookie-related happiness in it, it was filled with tomatoes and things." (I cooked[ish] last night also, an old favorite that even I have trouble screwing up...although I did nearly manage last night with what was almost a basil-related catastrope.) Regardless, the kitchen is clean, and if not exactly spotless then at least not entirely flour filled. The cookie making experience was totally worth the mess. I'm sure you can all guess why.

Ok, so here's further gathering of wool about what I'm trying to do here. I don't know where I'd be if I couldn't talk about doing things instead of actually doing them. The whole purpose of, well, everything, I've decided today in my chocolate cookie induced haze, is to look in the mirror and if I can't manage to see someone I'd like to be then to at least see someone I'd like to hang out with.

Yes, I've been thinking about this today instead of thinking about my paper which, I'll remind everyone, is supposed to be in the mail in two weeks. (Insert wave of anxiety here.)

And finally, an old, half-remembered snippet from the road trip:
"How many fingers does that guy have?" I'm trying to count them from across the room, looking at him out of the corner of my eye so he doesn't see me staring at him. I think I'm being pretty clever but really I probably look more like a loony than I would if I walked up to him and asked him to hold up his hand. Andrea is understandably mortified.
"The usual number, give or take, I'm sure. Would you quit staring? We're in Montana...they probably eat girls like us for breakfast around here."
"Ooooh, now you're talking." I nudge Andrea's foot with mine and she blushes furiously. We're both a bit worked up from 15 states full of farm boys and, while all we really need in life is a bumpy road and a tight pair of jeans, we wouldn't pass up a cowboy.
"Shut up and eat your buffalo burger. I bet we can make Washington state by tonight."
"Hey, do you think he lost his finger in a threshing accident? Do they have threshers in Montana? What does a thresher do?"
Andrea gives up, with a sigh, and polishes off the last of her freedom fries.