Darlings, I’ve gotten myself in what I hope not to be a hopeless tangle writing a BABY’S GOT SNACK review of Dr. Oetker’s Chocolate Mug Cake. This I am attempting to do by way of an experience inattentively listening to an audiobook version of Dracula and  evaluations of appetites, vampiric and snack(cake)-like alike. I’m going to blame my new curling iron instead of muddle-headedness. Can you bear with me until next time?

Meantime, I hope you might be diverted by a) my TOP TEN 2016 list and b) NOIR SONNETS I, II, III and IV (for the sonnet adherer you will notice that iambic pentameter was given a miss–poetic license, har har) and c) a DRAWING OF A SAD RABBIT.

NOIR SONNET I

Morning sun stains the ground with heavy golden light,

In our sweet little small town outside of Boise,

The sublimeness of this hour would be a delight,

If your sobbings were not quite so very noisy.

Weep then if you must and wail as loud as you need,

We all know the pain of a heart drawn and quartered,

But honey he’s a creep and a dull one indeed,

Clearly not what your therapist would have ordered.

He’s rich and handsome, thinks the world his waiting oyster,

Pronounces opinions as if they were as papal edicts,

And you have been living in your mother’s house, a cloister,

Susceptible to flatteries so spurious as to be comedic.

But I will say that if you had married him my dear friend,

If needed, I’d have assisted you in hastening his end.

NOIR SONNET II

One morning while wandering this little village in Spain,

I swore I saw my grandfather supposedly long dead,

The hair white not black now, but a familiar wild mane,

Still I’d been to the funeral and it was the cancer they said.

I was bored to death, seen every villa in every village nearby,

So I combed through the labyrinth of cobbled streets the next day,

Scanning every doorway and window, looking for the old guy,

When I saw him at a café, our eyes met, and he looked away.

Later that night, I heard a sharp knock on my hotel door,

He came in without a word, lifting peseta notes in a block,

Set them heavy on the table and tapped his cane once on the floor,

And after a moment, I nodded and shrugged–the deal was locked.

But I spilled the beans when I got home, maybe it was jet lag’s effects?

Who knows—I’ll admit I was curious to see what might happen next.

NOIR SONNET III

I’d say, “Come on, sugar, let’s blow and get on out of here,”

Only the old bitch’s life insurance has lapsed,

The salesman came round and made this perfectly clear,

But she’s hellish cheap and decided it was a game for saps.

Not sure how things went so wrong between her and me,

At first it was OK, and she’s not so bad-looking I guess,

But she’s got a mean streak and I’ve been unlucky,

Over the years we got log jammed by all of her pettiness.

Now if you’ll just give me a hand, there’s still hope, mon amour,

You sign for her here – careful! – be sure to cross our t’s, dot our i’s,

And when she takes her bath tonight, sneak in the back door,

Drop a hairdryer in, really, I swear, it’s gonna be easy as pie.

And although God forbid you go first, that I don’t even have to say,

Maybe let’s do one for you too, my love, while we’re at it today.
 

NOIR SONNET IV

She did not recognize me, did Anne Lily, that July,

When introduced as the latest member of Jones Accounting,

Last I’d seen her in the hallways of North Glory High,

30 years ago, eons or yesterday—depends on who’s counting.

Anne was one of those insolubly pretty girls,

Our science teacher once called her a work of art,

True enough, but if we lived another type of world,

I think she’d have just been known for being smart.

I wasn’t a nobody and can’t say ever maligned,

Yet I always seemed to scrounge for affection and notice,

And if this is where I might tell you to me Anne was unkind,

No, she was nice to one and all, really, and never gloated.

Sabotage isn’t so hard once you start, alas and alack,

And I stole Anne’s files, her appointments I erased,

I implied she said shitty things behind everyone’s backs,

Erased voicemails, tinkered spreadsheets, o’ her sweet disgrace.

It was campaign of terror, yes, revenge quite simple and pure,

But against who or what or why I am still not really sure.

Drawing of a Sad Rabbit in a Garden