Long story short.
We got an email from a friend and neighbor about a certain noise issue today. The email was impassioned, yet calm and well written. Jay commented that the writer was an aware person, cool under pressure, who did not get too emotionally charged.
I asked Jay if I could ever be a relaxed person.
“No,” he said. “You were born concerned.”
I bought a coat when I was in Singapore recently.
After the purchase, I became obsessed with (re)creating this photo.
I hope you see why.
You’re lucky I didn’t buy the other colorâ€â€bright lime green. I would have had to pose in the fruit aisle.
I don’t know how Miss Brazil does it.
You know, smile like you mean it.
Because Number Two is a sucky place to be.
Who pays attention to that stuff they say about Number Two? “And just in case Miss Universe, for whatever reason, is unable to complete her reign…zzz…”
Jerry Seinfeld, in his excellent standup routine I’m Telling You For The Last Time, said it best.
“The Olympics is really my favorite sporting event. Although I think I have a problem with that silver medal. ‘Cause when you think about it, you win the gold, you feel good; you win the bronze, you think ‘Well at least I got something.’
But when you win that silver, it’s like ‘Congratulations! You almost won. Of all the losers, you came in first of that group. You’re the number one loser. No one lost ahead of you.”
Ouch.
I never understood the fuss about breast meat.
(Alright alright! Take your mind out of the gutter, people!)
I’m talking chicken.
Chicken meat.
Chicken breast meat, specifically.
I don’t like the white, tough meat, and have always gone for the tender, dark thigh meat.
I don’t like how chewy breast meat is. I don’t like how the “grain” of the breast meat is long and hard.
I do like how thigh meat just crumbles in your mouth. I do like how the “grain” seems shorter and just falls apart.
Why are people obsessed with breast meat?
With my track record, I’m pretty sure what I like is probably not “healthy” at all. So at this point, I expect people to spam me about how breast meat is really better for me.
Okay. Tell me.
Thigh to imBreast me.
I was on my knees a lot in the last two days.
Our washing machine flooded today. I panicked. I screamed. I cursed. I called Jay.
In that order.
Then I looked for a mop, but it was in our old garage. I got on my knees and started scooping water WITH A DUSTPANâ€â€yes, it was that deepâ€â€and throwing it out.
Speaking of the old house…
A day ago, I was in the old house sweeping large amounts of sawdust (from Jay’s sanding) into piles for disposal.
I looked around for a dustpan, but I couldn’t find one. Of course it was in this house for use in case of flooding. I had a mop, but no dustpan.
I got on my knees and started scooping piles of sawdust into the trashbag WITH MY HANDS.
When you don’t have what you need, when you need it…Er, I dunno.
Make something up.
Lately I’ve taken to eating anything Hello Kitty shaped.
Full disclosure: I recently bought a Hello Kitty ice tray. I haven’t had any iced tea with Hello Kitty-shaped heads yet.
I can’t help myself.
You’d think I have a problem biting off the icon’s head, since I am her biggest fan. But er, no, I don’t.
Which brings me to the point of today’s Rambling Stream of Consciousness.
Shape foods like Hello Kitty.
The fans will go, “Aw, that’s so cute!” and eat it. The non-fans will go, “Die, kitty! Die!” and eat it.
Either way, you win.
People will forget they actually don’t like the (healthy but not necessarily tasty) food (like vegetables) and eat it anyway.
I smell a patent.
Whoever said that playing with your own shadow is no fun was not at Walmart in Renton on a late Tuesday evening, waiting for their VW Beetle to get the world’s cheapest oil change at $18 a pop by the world’s slowest mechanics.
I keep telling everyone I don’t drink coffee.
And I don’t.
Really.
Except I drink latte.
Which is just coffee-flavored milk.
I used to get through the day with just tea. These days, I need “a little latte” in the afternoon.
I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s a poor excuse to leave the office to visit one of the billion Starbuckses located within a square mile of my building. Or maybe I really dig this stuff.
I blame Jay.
His legendary devotion to The Bean is contagious.
Whatever I’ve got, I’m glad I don’t have my nephew Zack’s addiction to his own concoctions. I hate to point out that he actually drinks the stuff he makes.
There is salmon sushi and ice cream in this one.
God bless three-year-olds.
I have been driving around town with a GIANT bag of old clothes in my back seat that I’d been meaning to drop off at Goodwill. Since, like, six months ago.
But I never did.
The bag weighs as much as a person. I have wasted at least 50 bucks in gas money hauling this extra weight around.
A solution presented itself when my ‘hood hosted a block garage sale this weekend.
Guess who threw all her clothes onto a sheet and starting selling?
Uh-huh.
And I don’t want to rub in how much I made. But. I do.
A hundred and four dollars. (Not counting the 25 cents I spent buying a Hello Kitty doll from a neighbor’s kid.)
Read ‘em and weep.
I learned several important lessons from our recent housewarming.
Given the right conditions (that is, “Random Strangers Showing Up At House”), Jay and I can clean up a house in less than one night. Thank god for basements.
Do not assume everyone eats meat and/or that everyone who comes will eat at all. Jay and I have been eating burgers since the housewarming. Last Saturday.
Jay does not look as cool as Chloe when wearing her pint-sized crocs. Chloe, however, is rocking Jay’s crocs.
A blank wall is in itself an irrisistable invitation to fill it.
Friends give awesome housewarming advice. Like this gem: We can solve our backyard “Three Feet Tall” weed issue AND feel loved at the same time…by getting a pet goat.
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