The Ankle Biter @ Quibbling.net

I made stuffed shells for dinner on Valentine’s Day. I did not particularly follow a recipe, though I did check a few out online just to make sure they really are as easy to make as I thought. You see, I am convinced that, due to my Italian heritage, I am entitled to tap into the collective Italian consciousness which is, basically, a vast library of shared hand gestures and recipes. Sort of a culinary Hive Mind, if you will.

Well, the shells were amazing and I’m rather proud of how they turned out. But one recipe makes a huge quantity of shells, so with Tom gone again, I’ve been eating them all week rather than cooking and letting them go bad.

And yeah, Tom is gone AGAIN. He’s in Chicago all week at a trade show that he wasn’t supposed to attend, but his coworkers decided they didn’t want to pack up the tech themselves, so he had to stay. And since you’re stayin’, we’ll put you to work. So his company has the IT guy standing on the trade show floor, selling, apparently forgetting that people go into IT because they don’t want to go into sales. Of course, if there’s an IT guy who can sell, it’s Tom. But then he’s got to be in Connecticut this weekend for the commissioning of the USS Jimmy Carter, so he can’t really come home in between. So he’ll fly from Chicago to Connecticut, stay Saturday and fly to Baltimore on Sunday. Where I will pick him up, and drive him to his car at Dulles, where he flew from. At this point he will go do work all day. I might see him Sunday night. He’ll take Monday off and be heading off to rehearsal just as I’m getting him from work. And then Tuesday morning, I’m off to Delaware for a few days of training and will return Thursday evening.

As Lisa says, “Just think how great your relationship would be if you actually got to see each other!”

I have a very purry cat who misses his dad resting against my chest. Clearly, one human cannot provide sufficient cuddle time.

I think the CSI writers hold brainstorming parties once a month at which they all get rip-roaring drunk and come up with the most twisted, deviant scenarios possible, using only tequila and the Internet for help. Diapers? Baby-play? Yikes…

This entry was posted on Thursday, February 17th, 2005 at 9:40 pm and is filed under General. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.