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This is my cat, Brigitte.

24 hours after I brought her home, I got a mindblowing job offer.  Since I adopted her nine years ago, my life has become an amusement park.  She has brought me good luck ever since I took her into my home.

I’m telling you, there’s something about this animal.  Good fortune follows her everywhere.

I don’t want to be selfish.  I have everything I need and then some.  So, I’m sharing her with you.

Reblog Brigitte and you’ll receive fantastic news in the next 24 hours.

And when you do, please remember to help your local SPCA and support them in the difficult work they do for wonder animals like Brigitte.  Any donation helps your SPCA, even if it’s just five bucks.

Kitties like Brigitte are counting on you to give back when they bring you good luck.

For the last week, Anne and I have been in our friends’ house in San Diego. We were run out of our house by black mold, and we’re staying here while it gets cleaned up.

My friend’s sister made all the beautiful mug you’ve seen this week, but she’s retired(ish) so I’m keeping her identity private, by request.

But last time I reblogged one ten/fifteen minutes later I got a call offering me a job

But I reblogged it because I was waiting on hearing back from the job. So there you go.

24. A small moan escapes my mouth.+ 42. Your wish is my command, Sweetheart. 

(six sexy secret words meme)

They really shouldn’t be doing this.

(Not that that’s ever stopped them before. But.)

She remembers the first time he dragged her to this little bagel shop tucked into a quiet corner street in Brooklyn. Fresh out of a mission, in the middle of the night, sitting across the linen-covered table from her with a glimmer in his eyes - something sweet and incredibly somber - he told her that his mom used to work here a few nights a week, just to pick up some extra cash. He’d sit at this very table, napping, or doing his homework, while she waited tables.

It was nice, he’d said, the simple words betraying the tenderness in his expression as he glanced around the little shop.

The fact that this place held such cherished memories - memories of his mother, of him as a boy, of a time embedded in his bones - should be a good enough reason for him to not slide his hand under her dress, two fingers stroking over the damp lace of her panties.

Never mind the fact that they’re in public.

Never mind the fact that there’s an elderly couple on the other side of the room, a nanny with two little kids just a few tables over.

Never mind all that.

This place is special to him, and they shouldn’t - taint it like this.

“Nat,” he breathes, lips pressing into the crown of her hair. It would look like they’re simply cuddling, like he’s got his hand on her hip to pull her close, and, with a quick glance across the room, she realizes that no one is paying them any attention. They’re far enough in the corner that even people glancing into the window would barely even notice them.

Which is good, she thinks, because his fingers have slipped past the waistband of her panties and through her slick folds, and a small moan escapes her mouth before she can quite catch herself.

“Shush, baby,” he warns, teases. “Someone will hear us.”

He circles her clit, then, tight and quick, and she twists her head and presses it into his neck and mutters, “fuck you,” against his pulse. His throat rumbles in a low chuckle.

She knew he’d meant to drive her crazy when he started touching her this morning in the way he did - idle, lazy, nonsensical swirls across her skin as she tried to get ready, making her breath hitch, making her pulse thrum - and she would’ve shoved him onto the floor and had her way with him if not for her phone ringing.

She knew he’d riled her up in an attempt to push back their breakfast date with Pepper and Tony, and if she’d known Tony would make them run half an hour late, she probably - most likely - would’ve caved.

“Steve.”

He hums, angles his wrist, curls his fingers, and she digs her nails into his thigh in an attempt not to roll her hips.

“You told me to finish what I started,” he points out. She can hear the smug grin in his voice. “And now I am.”

On the table, her phone vibrates, and she blinks her eyes open to see Pepper’s name on her screen. Be there in 5!

She hooks her ankle around his, spreads her legs a little wider. Thank fuck for this table cloth.

A few years ago, when I was living in the housing co-op and looking for a quick cookie recipe, I came across a blog post for something called “Norwegian Christmas butter squares.” I’d never found anything like it before: it created rich, buttery and chewy cookies, like a vastly superior version of the holiday sugar cookies I’d eaten growing up. About a year ago I went looking for the recipe again, and failed to find it. The blog had been taken down, and it sent me into momentary panic. 

Luckily, I remembered enough to find it on the Wayback Machine, and quickly copied it into a file that I’ve saved ever since. I probably make these cookies about once a month, and they last about five days around my voracious husband - they’re fantastic with a cup of bitter coffee or tea. I’m skeptical that there is something distinctively Norwegian about these cookies, but they do seem like the perfect thing to eat on a cold day. 

Norwegian Christmas Butter Squares

1 cup unsalted butter, softened

1 egg 1 cup sugar 2 cups flour 1 tsp vanilla ½ tsp salt Turbinado/ Raw Sugar for dusting

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Chill a 9x13″ baking pan in the freezer. Do not grease the pan.

Using a mixer, blend the butter, egg, sugar, and salt together until it is creamy.  Add the flour and vanilla and mix using your hands until the mixture holds together in large clumps. If it seems overly soft, add a little extra flour. 

Using your hands, press the dough out onto the chilled and ungreased baking sheet until it is even and ¼ inch thick.  Dust the top of the cookies evenly with raw sugar.