In Which Tracy Takes a Step Back

Oh, I'm so glad not to be poor.

Dear Hurricane Irene,

I cannot help but notice, from what I hear on the telly, that you are making your way posthaste toward the eastern edge of the United States.  You may, I understand, travel as far west as Pennsylvania.  Well, although you know I would never want to interfere in your matters, I must tell you that this state of affairs will result in some rather uncomfortable complications in regard to my travel plans (I set out for Pennsylvania to visit my paramour the night before you arrive, you see, and airplanes rather detest flying in high winds and severe rain, as you well know).  In fact, the entire matter has me extremely distressed.  Observe, if you will, a typical scene as more reports reach my ears about the impending interruptions you intend to cause travelers like myself:

What about my trip to Pennsylvaaania? I sob into my satin pillow case as servants fan me gently with large palm leaves. What if my flight gets cancelled and I have to take a different flight to somewhere elllse?  Ugh, this stupid hurricane is keeping me from seeing my boooyfrieeend!

I've quite lost my appetite over it all: even as I write, my tea and petit-fours sit cold and forgotten on the grand piano, and I fear that I will soon lack the strength to rise from my velvet settee.  So you see, I would be most obliged if you would just by-pass the East Coast so that I might fly to my love's side.  Of course, you may certainly divert to another location if you wish - as long as my travel path remains clear, you understand.

Best wishes,
Tracy Thunderbolt.

When people in the Bahamas heard about my letter, they sent me one of their own:

Dear Ms. Thunderbolt,

Yo. Tracy. My house is gone. Chill out.

You're a jerk,
The Entire Bahamian Population.


Images via Hollywood PastThe Wall Street Journal.


Dear Blog,

Happy - ehrm - birthday!

...Or, belated...


I guess.

{Ahem.}  Anyway, I'm sure it was really great, and I'm sorry that I was a little late telling you.  But a whole year, huh?  That's a big accomplishment, there!  Congratulations!


...So.  I guess I will see a-yew, a-next, a-yea--well, that is, not exactly a year from now.  I'll see you on your actual birthday.  July 8th, is it?  Oh, twenty-eighth.  Well, I wasn't as late as I thought.  But in any case, I will be there next year, and you are gonna get a really. big. present, mister.  Mmkay?  Alright, buddy, happy birthday.  Don't get too crazy.  See ya next year.

Best wishes,
Tracy Thunderbolt

Image by freyLee.


In Which Tracy Waxes Domestic

You know that embarrassing moment when you dust off your old blog, expecting to find carbon copies of typewritten posts pasted on the computer screen with resin, because that's how long it's been since you last posted?  And then there's that even more embarrassing moment, when you realize that it doesn't even matter that it's been a while since you last posted, because you have no readers, anyway?*  WHATEVER, SIMPLETONS, I DON'T NEED YOU.

Yes, I do.

Forget my pretenses about only starting this as a writing exercise: I want followers, and comments, and brilliant, funny readers who make me think, and awards for things like Wittiest, Most Utterly Scintillating Reading Material in All of the Blogosphere!  So, in a desperate attempt to please you at any cost, I made you a pie.  Two pies, actually, if you must know.

(Please excuse my poor lighting and nonexistent camera skillz.)

Now, I hear that all this crafty shmafty type of stuff is vital to a successful blog, as is a personal story that connects the reader to my own experiences.  So, here goes:

I used the recipe from the old Betty Crocker cookbook we've had since before I was born, the one with pages sticking out at odd angles and vanilla stains all over it and certain pages missing (Though I always wonder, where did they go? Who would steal instructions for Baked Alaska and Divinity, but leave the page with the Brownie Pudding recipe? Madness, I say), and since we didn't have any shortening, I had to make the crust using oil for fat.

...And then I found fifty dollars.

Whip't it.  Whip't it good. 

Aaahh, egg whites.  Oooh, sugar.  Cream of tartar? Be still my heart.**  


By the next morning, all the meringue had followed suit and shrunk up like a cashmere sweater in a hot dryer.  I'm convinced that these were the Pies That Dreamed Too Small and wanted nothing more than to be simple, unassuming tarts.  Regardless, they were just what I needed to temper my ambition to be a Famous Blogger.  Why, I could be a moderately successful pie maker! I told myself.  And I could spend my life baking teeny pies, or very large tarts.  Yes, medium-sized pastry-making is the life for me.


*However, the last person who stumbled across this blog was referred by an image search for "disapproving old lady."  If those are the kinds of people straying into the drudgery bin, that is alright by me.
**Yes, this is the stuff that blogs are made of.  This'll get the readers buzzin'.  Meringue!  Lemon custard!  I ask you, what could be edgier than OIL-BASED PIE CRUST?!
***I apologize for all the shouting today.  I just want to be your blog friend.

Images by me, save the first, via everywhere on the internet.