Yes, the USA has given the world some culinary delights. I'm serious, there's lots of good food there. But what is it with Americans and Oreo cookies? I mean it. Deb has just bought a packet from the supermarket, and she's happy as a hog in swill! “MMMMMMMMMMMM”, she sighs, “nothing like Oreos and a glass of milk!”
Except they taste pretty bad. Processed, cardboard-like and thin. They're an imitation of a biscuit. They're an illusion of a biscuit. They're a Clayton's biscuit. But Americans swear by them. Scratch them hard enough and they have a peppermint centre. Listen to them long enough and they start pining for Oreos.
I swear this conversation I'm about to repeat just took place. Deb, on reading what I've just written, “What do you mean, a peppermint centre?” “Well, Oreos have a peppermint centre.” Deb thinks some. Deb gets a totally serious look on her face — this IS important — “Weeeeeelllllllllll (in a good Maine accent), I wouldn't say they are peppermint.” And She goes to eat another one to make sure.
And, it seems, it's not just Americans. Australians, apparently, love Tim Tams. Tim Tams!!! What a god-awful name for a biscuit! They're a pale imitation of Chit Chats, which are quite delicious biscuits!
Don't even get me started on Reese's Peanut Butter Cups
Things continue apace. A grind of work and … … oh yeah, more work. I'm feeling a little burnt out right now. I'm feeling tired of websites. I'm feeling like I'm sick of always having other people's work to do. I'm feeling like I'm stagnating a little.
Don't get me wrong, I like what I'm doing a lot. I know I'm lucky to be working in a job I enjoy. But I'm definitely suffering from some overload right now.
Matthew woke up crying in the middle of the night. I went in and he was sittng up in bed, crying. He'd had a nightmare. I laid him back down and snuggled in beside him until he went back to sleep, breathing soft and regular. In the morning we asked him about it. He said he was at the bottom of some stairs and he couldn't find Mummy. Which would be a pretty scary thing for a three year old.
If I write in short sentences. Like this. Three words long. Blame James Ellroy. I've just finished reading his latest book, The Cold Six Thousand. As is virtually every other of his books, it's a quite stunning dissection of American history. I've no idea as to the factual basis of it, but I know it reads like he was sitting there taking notes through the '60s. It smells of complicity and betrayal and cynicism. It reads true. I think he's a great novelist.
My eyes are heavy and drooping. Tonight I stomped around the living room doing impromptu Shakespeare renditions. Matthew loved them. He'd look at me as my voice rose and fell, and collapse into giggles. Debbie got a headache. The cats slept through it. I felt inspired. I felt like I had drunk two glasses of wine. Hmmmm, which, I seem to recall, I had!
My eyes are heavy and drooping. Deb's on an Oreo-sugar-rush. Oreo's, don't get me started on those …
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World of Oreo
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Journals and blogs that I read regularly
Raising Hell
Feral Living
Hippycritical
Udder
My Life in 12 Point Font
Journal of a Writing Man
Some Jingle Jangle Morning
The Last Girl Scout
Potatoe.com
Journallife.com
Window to my Soul
Chickybabe
Sorabji.com
Yesterday's Makeup
Fifteen Milliliters
Fly Away
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Photo of tunnel copyright Bernd Klumpp, available from istockphoto.com