At 20:07 UTC on November twenty-sixth the moon was totally full. Now just a few hours on the waning side I went out in the cold with the opera specs Brendan gave me for being in his wedding party. The moon is amazing! If this happens much more I should get a small telescope on a tripod.
Wow, if you Google “Cosmic Wimpout“ you discover tons of info about the game, a FAQ, even a copy of it for the Palm. Sven taught me how to play this in our studio (said very loosely) apartment in college. The mention of stuff like Scrabble reminded me of it, and only now did I try to see who else knew about it. Turns out plenty do.
We were going to throw a big turkey dinner this weekend as a practice run of Christmas. We’ve got family over then, and want to make sure we pull off the complex menu we’ve concocted. But then we were told by more than one person how turkeys are a rare product in Ireland except right before Christmas. “There’s no market for them except for Christmas,” it was explained. The great organic butcher down the street confirmed what the butcher at the supermarket had told us: no turkey before mid-December. So we let go of the idea and didn’t plan to do anything this time.
At the very same supermarket this morning, where I was doing an early-morning run for the week’s menu, I had just finished getting frozen veggies when I saw a cooler at the end of the aisle. Packed full with big, big frozen turkeys, complete with giblets and the rest. At least 20 of them. To back up my organic butcher’s story, I bet if I looked on the wrapper around the turkeys I’d find an address in England. But still. They were both wrong: you can get a turkey in November, just not a fresh one, much less an organic free-range civil responsibility sort of turkey.
Maybe we’ll have a veggie stir-fry this weekend to just really push the point.
Discovered in a blog via Google: Male turkeys are too stupid to find their own food, so in a group (sic) of male turkeys there must be a few females to find the food or else the males would all starve to death.
That tends to describe the scene in an awful lot of supermarkets—or the kitchens of too many homes.
As an aside, our road has a ladies’ book club that meets about every three months. The husbands on the street don’t have a gathering of their own for another time, though I would love to figure out something. No meeting up in a pub to watch a match, since not everyone drinks. I had the idea of a gathering where all of the guys take part in putting together a 3-course meal. The ladies would eat it with us at the end. The cooking idea got poo-poo’d by more than a few people. Not many of the guys would find that even close to a recreational activity. Oh well. Maybe we’ll come up with something else. Poker or a similar game is reportedly a favorite among testosterone gatherings. Don’t suppose they’d be into Scrabble or Boggle or Risk or … boy do I feel snobby.
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