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Anyway, the nose knows…. Last holiday season, I had the good fortune of attending a rather fancy workplace holiday party as a +1. It wasn’t fancy in a sit-down multi-course gourmet meal sort of way, but it was held at one of the nicer restaurants in the city, and there were rather tasty and impressive appetizers being paraded around the room, along with an open bar.

One of the many tasty things I ate that night were what they called lamb pops – basically they did up rack of lamb, then cut the racks into individual ribs for serving. There were several of us standing in a small huddle near the tabletop grill where the attendant was doing a final sear and seasoning for these as they were being served – you’d walk up to his station and ask for the lamb pops, and he’d grab a couple of them, give them a quick sear, then sprinkle them with some sea salt crystals and put on a drizzle of balsamic reduction. Seriously good.

So there we were, a small clump of people, chowing down on lamb pops and exclaiming at various intervals about how good they were. Except for one guy. He didn’t even have a single pop. One of his work colleagues noticed, and inquired about this, encouraging him to try at least one, because they were so good it would be a shame to not even try one.

And this gentleman revealed that he actually really enjoyed lamb, and he was sure that the lamb pops were delicious, and that he was truly sorely tempted – but he was still going to decline. I can’t eat lamb, he said.

This, naturally, raised the question of, Why not?

The answer? It makes my dog sad.

He has a border collie – a dog whose breed was developed to herd and protect sheep, and their lambs – and when he eats lamb, the dog can smell it on him hours later, and treats him as if he’s been possessed by a monster and engaged in truly horrific, unforgivable behaviour. So he avoids having lamb so that his dog won’t give him the cold shoulder.

At the time, I figured the story was evidence of how sensitive dog noses are. Turns out, lamb meat has a really strong, persistent odour to it. Last night’s dinner was rack of lamb – my first time preparing it for the grill. (I did not do the grilling. I happily passed that task onto a friend who’s better with a bbq..) The lamb racks came from Costco, all sealed up tight in commercial vacuum packaging, and I cut them open yesterday afternoon in order to set them marinating. It was my first time working with lamb – I’ve eaten lamb that someone else has prepared before, but had never handled it raw myself.

Right from the moment I opened up the plastic wrap, I could smell it. And it got stronger as I pulled the 5 racks out of the plastic. Once I’d gotten them all sorted and tucked away in ziploc bags, thoroughly coated in marinade, I scrubbed my hands with the soap I keep in the kitchen, scented with ginger and vanilla. Still my hands smelled of lamb. I went on with my day – doing other dinner preparing stuff, then serving and eating the dinner, then watching a movie and having dessert.

And whenever my hands came near my nose, I could smell the lamb.

The smell only faded after I’d had a shower before bed.

So yeah. Lamb is powerful stuff. Knowing what I know now, I’d be shocked if a dog – any dog – couldn’t smell it on a person a day later.

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Sexy Russian Ass Fucked by Black Man for Cash
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Sexy Russian Ass Fucked by Black Man for Cash

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Sexy Russian Ass Fucked by Black Man for Cash
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Anyway, I need a fix… Back in 2009, I had the good fortune of going to Paris for nearly a week – I think I effectively had six full days in the City of Light.

Before departing, I had the good fortune of getting a sound bit of advice: seek out La Maison Ladurée, and enjoy some of their macarons. I followed this sage advice, on day two, I think, and wow was I ever glad. Many of the Euros in my pockets disappeared into the tills at Ladurée, in exchange for boxes of the tasty morsels that would get stashed away in the little tiny fridge in the hotel room, so that every night could end with one of these delights. Or two.

And yeah, some of them would get eaten once I’d set foot outside the boutique after buying them. After all, they’re best fresh.

Upon returning to Canada, I sort of set about putting macarons out of my head. Sure, it’s possible to get some here, but they’re not Ladurée, and they’re actually not as good. Not that they’re garbage or anything – but when your first introduction to such a treat sets the bar so high, it’s tough to settle for less. So I just generally abstain from the locally available fare, and rely on my memories of those sweet delights from Paris.

Somewhat randomly today, I happened to go take a peek at Ladurée’s webpage, looking at their international locations. I remember doing this right when I returned from Paris in 2009, and being saddened to see that there were very few international locations, and no North American locations at all. Today, though, there are far more international boutiques than there were in 2009 – most are still pretty inaccessible to me, being in Europe or Asia, but there’s a boutique in New York now.

Compared to going to Paris (or Belgium, or Monaco, or Lebanon, or Japan, or Hong Kong…), getting to New York is totally feasible.

And really. I’ve never been. What a great idea for a vacation.

Let the plotting planning begin…

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Cute Russian Teen gets Anal - XXX
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Anyway, old habits die hard…
A few weeks ago, I happened to notice a few new Facebook requests come my way – one from my mother, one from my aunt, and one from my uncle.

I found this curious because these are three individuals that have, in the past, displayed limited interest in social networking sites like Facebook. It was particularly perplexing in the case of my mother, who has shown very little interest in computers in general.

As it turns out, the accounts were created so that they could play an online slot machine game that earns you loyalty points for use at MGM resorts in Las Vegas. My aunt really wants to see Vegas, so when she found out about this game she was all over it, and a number of other family members jumped on board as well, including my mother. Hence the friend requests – you get bonus ‘chips’ to play with for adding more friends, and you and your friends can send each other chips on a daily basis.

I took a look at the rewards being offered, and they’re not bad – it’s not as if you need a ridiculous amount of points to be able to get anything, and it’s not as though all you can get are souvenir dice and cards – though you can get those too, if you wish. There are some complimentary nights, room upgrades, dining credits, show tickets. It may turn out that there is also some fine print once you go to claim one of these rewards that restricts the usage in some way, but so far I am reasonably intrigued.

After all. I like Vegas, too.

So I accepted their requests and started playing myself. There’s a small variety of different slot games, with the usual sorts of variation found with slot games, and I’ve settled in with one that I particularly like – not because I’m especially lucky with it, there have been times when I’ve sat down to spin the reels a few times and found my chip supply completely drained rather quickly. I like the way the bonus game works – the top prize isn’t as spectacular, probably, but you are guaranteed a prize from the game – and I like the fact that there are fewer psych-out wins. You know, the ones where the game makes all the happy noises like you’ve won, but really you’ve only gotten back a small fraction of your original bet. Like, if you’re betting 300 chips per spin, and you win back 40. Those tricky things.

Anyway, I’ve been playing, and it’s been fun, but I’m finding myself fighting my instincts a little bit as I play.

I keep wanting to cash out.

Of course, there’s no such thing – in fact, the whole point of playing is to basically spend as much as I can, to rack up those loyalty points. But whenever I’m up, a little voice tells me it’s time to cut and run, and I briefly look for the CASH OUT button. Which doesn’t exist.

I just hope that, when I next do get to Vegas, that little voice hasn’t completely been beaten down, and I remember to walk away from the machine when I’m up.

If I’m up. Because, you know, the house always wins….

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Blonde with Dangly Boobs fucked
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The dangly painal movie is here

Okay guys, here’s a gallery I stumbled upon that had some intriguing facial expressions. Normally I’m not into ‘painal’, but I actually like the expressions this girl is making as she gets fucked! I’ve heard it referred to as ‘painal’ or ‘painanal’. Not really my thing. It’s from one of those giant network sites that give you access to a bunch of movies – Mofos.

Anyway, Robot resurrection…

A few years ago, I acquired a Roomba vacuuming robot to help out with the housekeeping around here.

It worked out wonderfully for several months. Then, Christmas rolled around, and I put up the tree, and I worried about the Roomba knocking the tree around and ornaments falling and breaking, so I put the Roomba on hiatus until after the tree came down.

Trouble is, once the tree came down, I sort of forgot to reinstate the Roomba’s cleaning schedule.

About a month ago, it became clear that if I were to use the Roomba once more, it would need its battery replaced – the thing didn’t hold a proper charge anymore.

It now has a spiffy new battery, and a couple of days ago, I pressed the button on top, prompting it to do a runaround of the floors.

It didn’t do a spectacular job – never did – but it did do reasonably well. I had to rescue it a few times – it managed to get itself stuck in a couple of spots – but otherwise it was fine just puttering around, and I puttered around working on preparing dinner at the same time, making sure to keep my feet out of its path. Not that I was worried about being sucked up or anything – I just didn’t want to mess with its random trajectory.

I had forgotten that it’s sort of fun to have this little robot helping me out. It’s almost like a little pet, a pet that’s doing some of my cleaning for me. It chirps out a happy little song as it prepares to begin doing its thing, it beeps as if it were a giant semi truck as it backs out of its dock, and once it’s redocked after it’s done, it plays a triumphant little tune as well, as if it’s pleased with itself.

Now, however, comes the true test. Will I remember to keep running it? I’m not going to program it, because I think I should be home when it runs, since it does need to be rescued periodically. So I have to manually push the button.

Think I’ll remember to keep pushing the button every few days?
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Hot Slutty Orgy - 4 girls and 5 guys
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Hot Slutty Orgy - 4 girls and 5 guys

Hot Slutty Orgy - 4 girls and 5 guys
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Anyway, when I was young – like, early childhood young – my mother noticed I was starting to develop little itchy rashes on my skin. She suspected they were an allergic reaction, so she mentioned them to my pediatrician at one of my checkups.

Now, I don’t remember that particular appointment, nor is my mother particularly forthcoming with details when I ask about it, so I’m sort of guessing at what exactly transpired, even though I was there. But cut me some slack – I was little, and very likely not paying attention.

I have the impression that nowadays, if someone suspects that a child may be allergic to something, the doctor will request an allergy test panel be done so that they can determine what specific allergen causes a reaction in the child. My cousin had this done for her son a couple of years ago, and I think some other cousins of mine who are now teenagers had it done too. I, however, am older than those cousins, and for whatever reasons that are now lost to the mysteries of time, my pediatrician did not send me away to get an allergy test panel done. Perhaps it was a rare sort of thing back then. Perhaps he didn’t figure the reaction was severe enough to warrant the hassle of doing the test. Perhaps a look into my wide, innocent, frightened eyes – I was a very timid child – told him that subjecting me to that might be a bit too traumatizing. Whatever it was, he told my mother to keep an eye on what I was eating, and if the rashes appeared after I had eaten certain foods, to try keeping me away from those foods, and see if things improved. He also wrote me a prescription for some cortisone cream to treat whatever rashes did appear.

So we went home, and my mum monitored my food intake, and scrutinized my skin looking for signs of rashes developing, and concluded that I was allergic to:

1) Chocolate
2) Tomatoes
3) Oranges, lemons, and limes
4) Strawberries
5) Peanuts

So my childhood was spent without those things. I ate chocolate very, very sparingly. No tomatoes or ketchup. No citrus. No strawberries. No peanuts or peanut butter.

Any time I had toast for breakfast, it was typically simply buttered – with margarine, not real butter, because my father was suspicious of real butter. We occasionally had grape jelly in the house, but not very often, and I found I didn’t care to use it on toast anyway, because Mum wouldn’t let me have the toast until it had cooled, at which point the jelly – which was cold from the fridge – wouldn’t spread smoothly.

Besides, what I wanted was strawberry jam. All mentions of toast with jam or peanut butter and jam sandwiches in the books I read as a child had illustrations of a sticky, red substance, or explicitly called it strawberry jam. I wanted to try it. I was sure it would be magical. It had to be good – it was everywhere! Sadly, for me it was forbidden, so I kept right on eating my not-really-buttered toast.

As a grownup, an undisclosed number of years later, I do my own grocery shopping, and yes I’ve found raspberry jam, which is nice. But more recently, I’ve found something even better.

Cherry jam.

If I had known about this stuff when I was a kid, it’s quite probable that it would have been an all-jam-all-the-time sort of childhood. It’s not on that list of things I am allergic to, so I would have been allowed to have it, and it’s red and sticky, which was what I was after.

Oh, and as for me being allergic to the things on that list? Well, now that I’m grown, I’m happy to report that I can eat everything except the items in (3). Those give me really wicked awful rashes now, and I do miss them. Everything else is just fine.

Which is good, because I’ve become rather fond of those things….
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