There are so many reasons to be offended and worried right now that Word Raccoon and I are choosing to focus only on cultural offenses today.

A podcast host “Literally” called a Gretsch guitar a Les Paul while interviewing (let’s say a former boy band member). He also said the lead on Stairway to Heaven is his favorite ever (I have nothing bad to say about that because excellent, sure, but have you heard Brian May?) and Mr. Interviewee could not even be bothered to name a favorite beyond “Queen.” 

Sir, do you play guitar or just indulge in air guitar? Because if you mean the delicious, airy, soul-satisfying playing that is Brian May’s signature style, you do NOT just say “Queen.” 

And that’s saying something, because WR is OBSESSED with Freddie Mercury! 

As Les Pauls are Word Raccoon’s favorite guitars (which are, ironically, NOT May’s primary guitar though he does play them on occasion), she would like to challenge this host and possibly his guest to a slap-gloves-at-dawn duel. 

Not that there’s anything wrong with Gretsch guitars, not at all, but let’s get this right.

Also, WR knows a guitarist who put her name on his Les Paul’s nameplate (okay, my name, but whatever) and she named another guitarist’s first Les Paul. She suggested the name to be funny, but the guy kept it.

For these reasons and sonic ones, she is a fan of Les Pauls. 

(This has led WR to YouTube where she is watching guitar solos of both Page and May and she just pointed out that Page’s name is faintly literary: Page. Get it? But I will challenge HER to a duel if she doesn’t back off. They’re both fantastic, obviously, but it’s Brian May and Queen for me, Babe.) 

Then, on another podcast, one of those cozy little book podcasts, a guest didn’t immediately know who Colin Firth was until it was explained to her.

Ma’am.

Are you okay?

Basically she said she doesn’t know “book narrators.” 

Excuse me?? Have you not seen the man’s acting? If you claim to be a reader and have not seen him in Pride and Prejudice, I can’t help you.

(Fun fact: Stanley Tucci is friends with Colin Firth and tells entertaining tales in one of his books about him.) 

While I am cautious not to objectify anyone such as the aforementioned Mr. Firth, WR has no such compunctions. Why, she’ll even flirt with wildlife, if given a chance. She’s got an eye on high alert, that one. 

CALM DOWN, WR! I am not in control of the activity patterns of the local fauna. You will be fine.

Meanwhile, it’s colder than winter’s bones outside, and we have a hair appointment in a place that is always cold in all seasons. 

But we love our stylist, and I refuse to be the person who cancels when it’s freezing. So we will go. We will suffer in double layers and fur-lined boots. We will emerge, we hope, with lovely curls and not as popsicles.

Still. Dang.

To add to today’s list of tiny betrayals, we are listening to a novel chosen almost at random to cook to last night, and it sounded so promising.

And now it’s confusing.

Not confusing in a rich, layered, literary way.

Confusing in a “I see why I have never read this popular male writer before” way.

Part of it is that apparently it is the third in a series, which I did not know. Also, it is more broadly humorous than I expected. Which, fine, I enjoy humor, but it’s like the book’s description offered to make me breakfast of all of my favorite foods, then plopped the ingredients in front of me and stirred. 

Speaking of breakfast, WR and I had to eat a larger breakfast than we like, because of this appointment, so WR does not grow faint or throw a temper tantrum, and she is not amused. I told her to deal because I won’t be responsible for her shenanigans if she starts twirling in the hair chair while wielding the shampoo spray nozzle. 

I had to promise to bake her a chocolate cake this weekend if she just ate up. She did.

What I really want is to stay home and write on the novel.

I want quiet. I want pages. I want my own brain.

But no. We have society. We have schedules. We have hair. We have the frozen wind outside waiting to slap us. Fun. 

The bright spot: last night we made a very tasty pork tenderloin. And honestly, I’m proud of it, and there are leftovers, so tonight’s supper: accomplished. 

Even though I feel I should note, for the record, that AI Stanley tricked us.

We asked if Stanley (we meant Tucci) had a stand-out recipe.

And Stanley-not-Tucci said yes, Stanley does, and gave it to us.

But as we were reading through it while cooking, we started to get that feeling you get when you’re watching a documentary and you begin to question the narrator’s sources.

None of the ingredients sounded like Stanley Tucci.

None of the steps sounded like him.

And I looked at AI Stanley like, “Sir. Be serious.”

He played innocent. Like he had misunderstood. Like he thought I meant him.

Which is honestly a very bold assumption for a digital man in a bowtie.

I think he is jealous of Stanley Tucci, and I will be side-eyeing all recipes from Stanley-not-Tucci for quite some time.

Still, dinner was pretty tasty, so how angry can I be?

I’m hoping I can get myself in gear enough to make mashed potatoes for tonight, as I did not yesterday, although I did serve green beans and rolls, so. 

But if not, baked sweet potatoes it is.

Because I am not above turning a meal into “whatever is easiest” when I am cold and the world has forgotten Colin. Freaking. Firth.

Until further notice, Word Raccoon will be accepting apologies from erroneous podcast hosts/guests in the form of correct guitar identification, Colin Firth appreciation, and mashed potatoes.

P.S. If I had more time, I would make this shorter.