Sass

If this picture of my my niece, the Cutie Patootie Penny Lee, isn't the epitome of "sass", I don't know what is.

Yeah, that's right.

I'm damn near flabbergasted that it's been almost a month since I've posted anything.  It is with sass and determination that I pull myself back in the saddle and get down to brass tacks.

Brass tacks = blog posts.  Like, a bunch of 'em.

What the hell does that phrase even mean?  "Get down to brass tacks"?  I went to my Google machine and checked it out.  Wikipedia says, "In colloquial English, brass tacks refers to the fundamental or essential elements of a topic."

Wow.  That's super helpful.  Thanks, Wikipedia.  The Phrase Finder says it has something to do with measuring fabric.  Whatever.  I say it has to do with blogs.

I have spoken.

Fine. FINE! Fine.

You want to talk about meditation?  I will talk about meditation.  I probably won't actually meditate, but I'll talk to you guys about it.  No problem.  Loquacious, I am.

My little sister knows I have often tried to meditate:

Thanks for pointing out my failures, Kristy.

I have other books on meditation.  I've even read them.  Cover to cover.  Bibliophile, I am.

Oh, Thich, you slay me.

I recently signed up for a class on meditation.  Of the three classes we've had so far, I have attended one.  Money well spent.

So what's the hang up?  I have spent enough time in my Crazy Tree made of stress to quickly and accurately get the bottom of whatever it is that has driven me into those lofty branches, addressed those issues, and moved on.  But when it comes to stillness and introspection...?  Fuckity fuck fuck.  I suppose I prefer to think about boys and sex and vacations and cupcakes.  And sex.

I have been meditating this month (except for those two days when I "forgot"), but as with January and February, I feel like I'm already falling into the habit of just 'punching the ticket'; meditating to meditate.  I'm not taking it seriously and I'm certainly not giving it the time and attention it needs.  And shit, I'll be the first to admit that I need it.  I am forever burning the candle at both ends.  I am always going, rarely still.  Stillness, I need.

Candle illustration?
Or weird hot-dog-like meat product?  You decide.

So, I heretofore vow to start taking this challenge more seriously.

I mean, not tonight.  It's already pretty late and I had all that wine.  But tomorrow?  Definitely.  Watch out stillness!  I'm about to own your ass.

No High Fructose Corn Syrup!

As promised in that last post, our creation...

First, supplies.

Lubrication.  And lettuce.

IMPORTED FROM SPAIN!

You might not think we need Ketchup to make a Tater Tot man,
but you would be WRONG.

Tutus:  a necessity.

S'mores cupcakes.
WE MUST BE PREPARED FOR EVERY CONTINGENCY!
(I just spelled "contingency" correctly and I'm drunk.
Don't hate.)

Supplies?  Check.
Fabulous girlfriends?  Check.
Oh, fuck stick.  Most important ingredients:

The man himself and his clothing.  Durr.

And this is why we need ketchup.

Ok, now ingredients are gathered, tots are cooked, lubrication is ... lubricating, time for assembly.

This picture is aptly named:  "assembly.jpg"

Just twinin'.

So there's absolutely no confusion about what we're doing here.
Also, "My bologna vest has a first name, it's N-A-T-H-A-N..."

It's important that Mal has a meatball bullet-shooting gun.
Pretty much goes without saying, really.

There was much giggling and an addition (and removal) of meatball "balls", which my girls found inappropriate, much to my consternation.  But, alas, I present to you NATER-TATER:

This is like, really good.

The moral of the story here?  The Bloggess is a treasure, tater tots are delicious, wine is happiness, my friends are wonderfully fun and silly and I feel incredibly lucky and blessed to have them (Drunk Heather = I LOVE EVERYONE Heather), Nathan Fillion (urg) needs to fondle some damn twine already, and most important of all, absolutely everyone needs a tutu.

Storage is complicated.

And, perhaps, a picture of themselves awkwardly holding twine:

Awwwwkward. 
Or:  Why am I still single?