Saturday, September 14, 2019

Cheese: Discomfort is relative.

Spinach: Have you missed being inspired by cliches?

I bet you have.
So here’s one of my favorites.

It’s not hard.  It’s actually the easiest thing you’ll ever do.  It’s arguably something you should not do.  But hey, if you want to be yourself, nobody can stop you.  Except maybe with a blunt object.
In the do you.  Whatever floats your boat.  Dance like nobody’s watching.  Find your inner child.  Yada yada yep and uh huh.
And if you can’t be yourself, be this kid.

Sauce: Bike.

I called about a bike the other day.  
It was listed in the paper, For Sale, Used Bike, $45, In a Town Near You.  
I assumed, based on the word “bike” that it had a seat and handlebars, which was all that really mattered to me.  The integrity of the brakes was negotiable.  I figured I could fix them if I had to, because had I just changed a tail-light in my car and it took only three weeks and two hours and five sets of wrenches of varying sizes, and I’m pretty sure it’s practically back to how it was before I began.  

“Hello,” a woman answered the phone.
“Hi, I’m calling about the bike you listed in the paper?”
“Can I ask you a few questions about it?”
“Oh...okay.  Great!  First, is it still available?”
“Which one.”
“There was  The used bike?”
“So is it available?”
“It can be.”
“ the brakes work?”
“It’s used.”
“I gathered as much from the ad.  What kind of condition is it in?”
“Okay.  Do all the gears work?”
“It has three gears.”
“Great!  Do they work?”
“It needs oil.”
“But is it rideable?  Does it have working brakes, and an intact frame?”
“It’s a bike.”

And so on.  It was similar to filtering nutrients out of Gatorade.  Difficult work for a doubtful, potentially unrewarding, and possibly nonexistent, result.  

I still don’t know if that bike has handlebars, but you know what?  Life is full of mysteries.  Maybe I’ll just live with the knowledge of the unknown.  
Or maybe I’ll call again tomorrow

Thursday, September 12, 2019

Noodles: It’s autumn, all of you.

Hi world.  It’s me, your favorite super sheltered, extremely Scandinavian, strangely endearing pile of soggy, tomato-drenched crinkly noodles!

Otherwise known as Baby Swedish Lasagna under an Inadequate Tent.

The reason I bring up my origins is this:

I grew up without hearing anyone say “y’all”.  I believe the contraction never crossed my path outside of a book until middle school, when it became trendy among my equally sheltered, pale-skinned friends.
I started saying it often, with little understanding of its pronunciation, spelling, or proper usage.
At some point, perhaps in a fit of cultural sensitivity, maybe after the madness of middle school had seeped out of my neurons, I stopped using it.
Except in emails.
Yes, my friends, I am an email y’aller.  It just works for the already-awkward group conversations.  There’s honestly no equivalent in northern dialect.  Check it out.

“You guys.”  Offensive to feminists.
“You girls.”  Offensive to mature women.
“You ladies.”  Offensive to men.
“You people.”  Offensive.
“Everyone.”  Really?  Everyone??
“All of you.”  Obviously.
“You all.”  That ou is harder to type than the ‘ in “y’all.”

Therefore, my frequent usage of y’all in emails.  Until today, when I casually checked my spelling before pressing “send.”  Something look awry.
Something was awry.
There’s no way to cushion the fact that I have been spelling “y’all” incorrectly for the past ten years, undoubtedly to the unspoken, shared condemnation of my friends.
This may also explain why I’ve always silently pronounced it “yah aaall!”, and then cringed at the yard signs that say “It’s fall, y’all.”
Turns out, the yard signs knew something I didn’t.
That’s tough to admit, but it’s a load of my shoulders.  Thanks for listening.  Ya’ll.

Saturday, September 7, 2019

Spinach: I was going to say some more words, but then I thought you’d rather look at this dog.

Sauce: At least Harold Hill isn’t here.

How come people can’t sit still and read without coughing, mumbling, scratching their scalps, and turning pages?
Okay so that last one makes sense, loudly?
Yes, I’m at the library again, that haven of peace, solitude, quiet.  Let me make it clear:  I’m undyingly grateful to the library.  I may contribute nothing but the occasional late-fee, but it still feels more ethical to come here and write than to steal my neighbor’s WiFi (which I have never done except three times maybe four - it’s a really slow network) (is “network” the correct word?) (maybe I’ll Google it).
However, my unconditional esteem for the library does not by default extend to all of the library’s patrons.  They, without fail, possess squeaky walkers, squeaky children, squeaky shoes, squeaky chairs, squeaky computer mouses, and squeaky, far-carrying voices.
I assume there must be some relatively unobtrusive humans in this building, but, of course, I can’t hear or see them so it’s hard to get a head-count.