Noodles: Tra-comic procrastination.

Hey World!

I spent half of this week on a trip home (or, there and back again), which means I’ve found myself with four blog posts to publish in one day. Fortunately I’m a super genius and wrote them all ahead of time. Except this one. And the other ones. Lettuce just say that this morning I found myself frantically pounding out words, trying to think of funny stuff that wouldn’t leave you drooling into your keyboards. This desperation led me down the age-old path of self-searching that all humorists encounter at some point in their lives...that is, asking myself, “what have I done lately that was very, very, very stupid?” There were a terrifying amount of options, but the first to come to mind was this: I’ve been meaning to mail a Christmas gift to a friend since before Christmas. It’s been sitting on my counter, wrapped and taped and addressed, for the last month. And yet, I have not sent it. Why this negligence, you ask? I will tell you. I am procrastinating for one reason, and one reason only: I haven’t had any cash on hand, and am not sure if the post office takes checks (why I use checks instead of a card is another topic for another time...ha ha! Not! This isn’t a finance blog, sucker!). Anyway, I can’t see why the post office wouldn’t take checks. But I would have to ask. And they’d say “yes”, and that’d be an end of it. Still. Asking a total stranger a question is just a little more social interaction than I can handle on any given day. I didn’t tell you this was going to be a funny story. It’s more of a tragi-comedy. Is that a thing? Or is it a comic-tragedy? Does everyone die, and then it’s funny, or is it funny until everyone dies? Which leads to the question, if we have “rom-coms”, why don’t we have “tra-coms”? It’s not catchy, I get that, but it seems like favoritism to me. Life isn’t all bubbles and puppies.

Comments

Welcome to Weirdness!

Hi, world, and welcome to “The Password’s Lasagna”! One day I’ll share where that name came from - for now, just revel in the wonderful idioticity of the word “Lasagna”. Say it over and over again. Let it flip off your tongue in all its gleeful lasagnaness. Say it until it means nothing, say it ‘til it means everything. Lasagna. It’s a word with many layers. Moving on quickly now... I have to wonder if, in a year, I will regret this first post. I’ll think “what kind of imbecilic idiot was I, to think starting a blog would be a good idea?” As if there aren’t more constructive things to do. Like...fishing. Or hunter-gathering (which is the sport of gathering as many hunters as possible in one weekend and stuffing them all in the back of a closed pickup, preferably with a limb or so hanging out and dripping blood). Or making clay...things. Useful things. Mugs and the like. Or I could be chilling with friends...engaging in meaningful conversations over cups of coffee.

Noodles: Just, noodles.

I realized on Thursday that I have no idea who I am. It was very disconcerting, particularly as it happened moments after I’d stood up suddenly, not realizing there was a heavy plank shelf directly over my head. It was also after two or three hours of inhaling the stale remnants of ten years of uninhibited mouse parties, and an entire bottle of environmentally caring cleaning fluid. Anyway, this isn’t exactly humorous (unless you get a kick out of existential crises), but it made me wonder if anyone else feels the same way. So, readers, tell me this - do you feel as if you know who you are? Or are you just pretending to know? Or are you, at this moment, simultaneously reading this on your phone and telling a complete stranger all the ways that you feel isolated from the rest of the human race? Let me know. “I” am interested in your answer. PS Anticipating zero comments, because the majority of my readership is too intellectual to stoop to the paltry pract

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.”

The Password’s Lasagna.

Search This Blog