It's been a pretty busy few days. Yesterday my dashing man Tim came to visit and we roamed the Smithsonian museums. We never did find a quiet place to fork, or whatever the young kids are calling it, but we did see bones and fossils of astounding variety. At one point we wandered into an abandoned museum of Asian things and he kissed the back of my neck and made my knees quake. I realized how much I miss privacy, being able to just take his clothes off at will. I wouldn't want to be my roommates on my first day back in town.
Today I woke up to my father nudging me with his foot and telling me that I should wake up and go downstairs, because my grandmother was coming to bake cookies. For six hours I mixed, molded, rolled, squished, floured, filled, and sprinkled all manner of cookies, including some old-fashioned ones made with cottage cheese in the dough and prunes in the center (who eats these horrendous things? My family. By the truckload.) We made cookies that are extruded through a machine to make simple shapes, one of which is supposed to be a wreath but which my aunt calls "the cervix dentata." In short, we now have four boxes of cookies, which will hopefully tide us over through the crazy snowstorm we're getting tonight.
This snowstorm is going to be a doozy, or so they tell us. My father is bracing himself for a long day on the snowplow. My houseguest and I are planning to do some serious damage to the snowdrifts in order to build one of those giant ice-forts that every kid wanted but never had the hand-eye coordination to build. We may also shoot for some Calvin and Hobbes-style snowmen. What better way to take out my sexual frustration than by building epic works of snow and then coming inside and eating myself into a prune cookie-based stupor?
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