The Password’s Lasagna.

Believe.............. .............. ...................... .............. But if you believe in Santa Claus and you’re twenty five years old, make sure your coworkers think you’re only joking.  

Once, while in a group of guys and girls, I happened to mention that, when I was about three years old, I decided to never marry a man unless he had read the entire Lord of the Rings series.  I thought it would give everyone a little laugh...oh, ha ha, you were so lame when you were three or whatever...look at those priorities, they’re so...prioritical!  Ha, ha...that kind of thing.  Instead, I learned a chilling life lesson, which was, in effect, perhaps the simplest way to tell if a guy is an acquaintance, a stalker, or of friend/romantic interest caliber.   Here’s how you know.   Girl:   “When I was like one year old, I swore I would only marry a guy who had read the Lord of the Rings and who could also watch the movies and pick out every single discrepancy from the book instead of actually enjoying the acting and cinematography!   Yay!   Everybody laugh!” Acquaintance/normal, stable Guy:  “That’s great, ha ha.”   ...

DID YOU KNOW. When you live alone (STALKERS!!!), you can eat pie straight from the pan. With a spoon. And you can leave the spoon in the pan from time to time to further the convenience.   You just go to the fridge, open the door, peel back the foil, spoon a gob into your gobbling gob, put the spoon straight back into the pie, try to replace the foil in a way that covers the remaining pie which should be easy since there is now less of it, but it’s not, shut the fridge door, and return to your regularly scheduled programming.    I guess you could do this if you lived with other people as well, but it sounds like a dangerous system.   I’m not particularly hypochondriaciacal, but it seems to me that if multiple people employed this method of pie-eating, fridge-side collisions would be a frequent and dire consequence, as well as the possibility of one party selecting a decidedly bigger spoon than yourself.   Just thought this was an important thing to sh...

Here it is:  

Not to break genre, but I was just outside, and the flowery trees are blooming, which always makes me a little sad.  Not because there are flowers, but because the flowers only last a few precious hours, many of which I have to use doing things other than sitting under a dumb tree.  So I got to thinkin’ about all kinds of deep stuff, and came to this conclusion:   The thing that makes beauty unendurable is also what makes pain bearable:  Neither lasts forever.   I’m not sure if that’s depressing or wonderful.

Tonight, running down the dusky bike trail, I saw a dim splot in the approaching path.  Larger than my hand, it appeared slowly from the grey asphalt around it until it was revealed as a three dimensional, damp sort of object.   It was, of course, a frog.   It wasn’t far from a variety of water-courses and marshy, oozy mud pits, and with three large hops it could have been safely at home in its native environment.   But instead, there it sat, on the unforgiving dryness of the trail, its eyes patient, unblinking.   On second thought, there’s a strong possibility that it was dead - keeled over on the go, as it were, except it wasn’t keeled over, but sitting quite naturally in that way frogs have, with their noses pointed straight ahead and their legs tucked in.   I think it must have been a prince.   You know, waiting for the love of his life to come exercising by, the meeting in the twilight, the impassioned kiss, the swoon, the dram...

Disclaimer:  This story is told by me, as I alone remember it.  It’s possible that none of the events detailed below actually exist in the memory of my family.)  I remember one evening when my brother and I (okay, mostly me) became obsessed with the word “lasagna”.   I was stickering clothing onto a paper doll (actually a paper Maisy the Mouse because I didn’t intend to waste my life playing with “people” dolls), and with each clothing item stuck irreversably on Maisy’s person, I would cry “Lasagna!”   If memory serves, I gleefully coaxed my brother into saying it with me at least once.  He’s always been very tolerant.   The situation only escalated when I stuck some underwear on poor Maisy’s head.  The combination of underwear, the word and the act of uttering the word Lasagna, and a mildly mutated neocortex all came together in chorus of rainbow colored ponies and stars in my mind. The entire moment was cause for pure, rhapsodic ecsta...

I’m sorry, but there is literally only one person on this planet who will find today’s cartoon funny.  Love you, Mom!

Everybody’s special!    Just try not to think about how we most often use the term “special” in daily conversation.   “Oh....Kyle?  Yes, he’s thirty-eight and he still wears Superman undies....yes....he’s a little special.”

Have you ever noticed how the world views quiet people?  Not to be a black and white thinker, but there are only two ways.  If you (yeah, you) are a quiet person, I’m sorry, but here’s the truth.  Everyone you know either thinks:  1. Oh man, he/she is sooo sweet and nice!   I don’t know why I think that — maybe it’s just  because I enjoy my own incredibleee thoughts more than other peoples’ conversation so anybody quiet seems great to meee! Or: 2.   PSYCHOPATTHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!    But hey.  It’s fine.   If everyone assumes that second thing about you, it’s actually hopeful, because look at all the statements made by neighbors and acquaintances of serial killers:  He seemed like such a nice, sweet guy!   There is no moral to this post.  It’s also not very funny.  I think I’ve hit my first creative drought.  But don’t worry, world, I’ll keep posting four times a week, regardless ...

I just made mac and cheese.  Which means I also just ate mac and cheese.  Which seems like a very strong foreshadowing for today’s post.  Because.  It’s a Noodles day!  Get it?  Mac and cheese?  And then writing a post entitled “Noodles”?  Yeah?  Yeah??  How cool is that!  Subtle, yet compelling! That’s actually all I have to say.

Happy birthday to the guy who introduced me to cartoons in the first place.  If it weren’t for you, I might be half normal, but how boring would that be?  Thanks, Dad.   

Follow your heart.    I’d recommend you pack it in ice as quickly as possible, once you catch it.  It’ll make the doctors’ job easier.  

You know that moment when you glance into a car in a parking lot and there’s someone sitting inside looking at you?   Yeah.  It’s awkward.