Flotsam

For days now, I have seen only one thing when I close my eyes: a cloud-wrapped mountain of mashed potatoes, whipped with a full pint of cream, sprinkled with sea salt, a lump of butter slipping from its peak.

Excuse me, I need a moment.

So. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I am weak with anticipation.

At the moment I am watching my Tivo-esqued episode of America’s Next Top Model. They just let the awkward twin stay because she “wants it more.” Sigh. Is anyone finding this “cycle” of ANTM strangely Meh? Melrose does an excellent job, yet is an arrogant twit, Caridee is oddly appealing, Eugenia is oddly repellent. The less-Meh twin has been eliminated, and now her painfully awkward sister remains. Where is my delightful Joanie, my hateful Jade, my lovely and pragmatic Danielle? There wasn’t even any preposterously staged girl-on-girl this season.

In other news, I am mere days away from finishing both NaBloPoMo and an essay I am working on for my crotchety writing professor. It is the first piece of creative work I have finished in a long time, and I am feeling jittery about turning it in. My teacher pulls no punches–he doesn’t accept late work, and he makes me read Montaigne. He has been published in Harper’s, The Atlantic Monthly, and god knows where else. He is an older gentlemen, the sort of person who might play a curmudgeonly grandfather in a movie about an errant teen sent to live in the country for the summer, where said teen learns a few lessons about hard work and respect for one’s fellow man. In other words, my professor is reserved, wise, and classy. And I am about to present him with an essay that contains the phrase “edible hot pants.”