Food, folks and fun. That was somebody’s ad campaign a while ago, but I have no idea who or what it belonged to.
So the thing with this “blog a day in April” is that you blog 6 days, take Sunday off. I had other commitments yesterday, so I took Saturday off instead. Tomorrow I’ll be back on track with G.
Ruminating on F, I thought I could blog about Folly. Too big.
Fear. I’m no psychoanalyst, and I’ve never played one on TV, but I’ve got lots of thoughts about fear. How it holds us back. How we need to face that which we fear. But…yawn. Who wants to read that?
Then I thought about the notes I used to leave on my BFF’s door in college. Back then, in the days before cell phones and texting, it was all the rage to have a dry erase board on your dorm room door so folks could leave messages for you. Since her nickname was Frieda, I tried to use as many F-words as possible in my notes. I asked her to stop fondling the felonious French fries. Yes, I thought I was quite the wit.
F is also for family. I’ve got that, in spades. Joe and I both have big, expansive family trees. Rarely a dull moment.
F is for fig newtons, because I would like one right now. A homemade fig bar would be even better.
F is for felines. We have two currently ruling our corner of the universe. I don’t know why they aren’t bald, they shed so much. Pippi is perpetually hungry (should have saved her for P day), and Pogo likes to eat tortilla chips and any sort of string. He doesn’t want to play with string. He wants to chew it up and swallow it so he can hork up the most disturbing piles of mess you’ve ever seen. Although he probably should get points for being colorful.
F is for feckless. Because I wonder why we kept “feckless” but not “feck.”
Freckles. A smattering on your nose is cute. A giant mutant one on the back of your hand is an age spot.
Fried. The best way to serve okra.
Frilly. Something I’m too old to wear.
Festooned. Now there is an F word with some heft. Festooned implies a plan, perhaps some precision in execution. A cake covered with a random scatter-shot of sprinkles is not festooned, although it is decorated. Barely.
Fudge. I think we all can follow the mental path from cake to fudge. Alas, I live a fudgeless existence right now.
Follow through. That’s why I’m writing this blog.
Flustered. That is what the spellcheck feels when I use words like fudgeless, feck and hork. My work here is done.