Thursday, November 12, 2009

When you take the normal contour of blogs, where one post appears after the other in a steady flow of text, and fill it as I do with pronouncements of every kind, you may think I make good on my vows in the same sequential manner. We’ll discuss my desire to cook better, for example, and it might appear as if I’m ready to make the most delectable sandwich on earth the following weekend, only to do nothing of the sort. There have been some evenings in the past few weeks, in fact, where I’ve subsisted wholly on popcorn, which is as far away from cooking as you can get, short of running out the door and foraging for berries, then taking a bite out of the neighbor’s dog.

But it doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about my culinary stake in the ground, nor has my desire to construct the perfect sandwich diminished. It’s there, in a crock pot brimming with other thoughts, simmering until I decide to pursue it. Really, it’s more a question of when, rather than if, and along those lines I’m looking at this weekend as a refrain on some pursuits from earlier this year.

For one thing, I’m still volunteering occasionally, though my motives for participating remain as single-minded as ever. It’s not my passion to serve recovering alcoholics, and I’m still deflecting that vile feeling of togetherness with the other volunteers, but it’s the beef that keeps bringing me back, specifically how to achieve an optimal texture. I’ve yet to formulate a reproducible method, so further research is needed.

Also, a dog. The humane society sounds great on paper, but after another disappointing visit last Sunday, I decided to expand my horizons and visit a different shelter this weekend. I simply haven’t been able to find any compelling rescues at the society, and more to the point one of the staff members seems intent on deciding which dog I should want, stubbornly insisting on the smaller breeds based on how big she imagines my townhouse to be. She also doesn’t have her front teeth, which for some reason undermines her credibility. It’s, like, I’m not looking for a mastiff, you toothless wench! Something in the 50-, 60-pound range with a mellow temperament. No, I don’t want to take the rat terrier for a walk. Go away, please. So, a kill shelter this weekend. Sure, I won’t be able to save them all, but I’ll be able to give one rescue the last thing she expects on doggie death row. An exit.