The Password’s Lasagna.

Have you ever watched a storm roll in, caught that exact first breath of strange new air, seen the dust whip into tiny tornadoes and the clouds turn from purple to yellow to grey?   Have you ever stood outside in awe, particles of dirt swimming in your teary eyes, hair on end, one foot pointed backward toward the nearest sturdy building?   Have you ever seen the sheet of rain advancing, a solid wall of clear water, colored by the darkness of the sky?   Have you ever realized that your car windows were open?   And that you’d left your windows open at home that morning?   And that your gutter was already clogged and doing a fine job of ushering even the lightest of drizzles straight into your slowly warping basement walls?   Not to steal the trademark line of a famous radio personality, but...I have.   (Sue me, NPR)

There’s a topic I don’t like to discuss.   I won’t say what it is, because no one on the internet needs that kind of power over me, but let’s say, hypothetically, that it’s  eyeballs.    For example, if someone says the word “eyeballs” (hypothetically), my skin begins to crawl.   If they go a step farther and couple the word “eyeballs” with a word like “blood” or “scissors”, I begin to feel a strong murderous instinct rising out of my subconscious.   And if they are aware of my growing discomfort and steadfastly continue on in an advanced description of, oh, say, an eye surgery, complete with diagrams and correct anatomical terms....let’s just say, I can feel only affection towards them.   A very small amount of affection.   An amount of affection that is so small it cannot be measured or scientifically named.   The closest our most brilliant minds have come to labeling the smallness of my affection for these people would be “nil”.  

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

I got inspired today by a quote I read.  It said “If you look towards the sun, the shadows will fall behind you.”  This was cool to me on multiple levels, and I felt almost as if I’d stumbled upon one of life’s pivotal moments.  Except that I read it off of a little paving stone in someone’s front garden.  There was a grinning sun set under the words in yellow imitation gems, and the entire result was so tacky, so obviously designed to inspire the average passer-by, that my soul regurgitated any real wisdom contained in the idea and crept into a corner to gnaw on the last dry bits of my crumbling human dignity. Friends... Romans.... Countrymen..... There are some things the human mind cannot bear. Things that are too heavy for the fragile mortal’s heart. Things like inspirational paving stones, and those solar-powered tacky dancing flowers, and lawn angels. These things should not be.

This weekend I learned the hard way that I have a pretty severe reaction to mangoes. Mango skin contains the chemical called urushiol, which is also found in poison ivy (according to a super credible internet article, that is).  Aaand apparently when I ate a mango on Saturday, I managed to rub it all over my face in the process.  However, I’m not here to talk about my pain and suffering and itching and oozing and scabbing and swollen lips (which is especially sad because...I love my lips.  If you don’t get that reference you’ll now think I’m a freaky person with a lip obsession.). I’m here to talk about a line I found in an article on “howtobehealth.net”.  I am not sponsored by this website and do not recommend it in place of consulting a doctor.  I just am vastly entertained by their article on mango allergies.  So without further ado, cast your eye upon this sentence: “Therefore, when eating mango, it is best to cut the pulp into small pieces and send them directly to the entranc

Just do it. Sorry Nike, but I heard a Mountain Dew commercial the other day and I think they stole your motto.    Anyway.   I think this is great advice and very inspiring.    Need motivation to jump off the top of Mt. Everest?   Just do it.    Feel like you should cut your head off with a ceiling fan but can’t work up the energy?   Just do it.   Need to make some money quick but can’t get up the nerve to bump off your richest acquaintance?   Just do it.   Always just do the thing!!!!!!!!!!!!   I think I have a bright future as a motivational speaker, actually, don’t you?

So I’ll just have to complain about something inanimate.  There are lots of great options, but let’s start with this:  Have you ever noticed how grass gets all wheat-y looking round about this time of year?  And how the little pollen-bits kind of blow around until the pollen level in the air measures over 100%, which shouldn’t even be mathematically possible?  And how your nose starts to itch a little bit, on the inside no less, and then on the outside, and then it turns red, and then your eyes start to itch and THEY turn red, and then things start coming out of every orifice on your face and your ears get clogged with mucus because apparently your ear canals are connected to your snot tubes, somewhere back in your head.  And then you start stumbling around and running into things because your balancers aren’t balancing properly.  And then a bug flies straight down your throat and careens off your stomach lining for five minutes before having the decency to die, which makes you sneeze,

That moment in early summer when you look down and realize you have a distinct glove tan...  #Gardener problems #I still don’t understand hashtags #They used to be pound symbols

I heard a story on the news yesterday, about a man who got caught in a terrible traffic jam.  He could have sat there and eaten Cheetos and grumbled to himself, but did he?  No.  He calmly stepped out of his car, grabbed his conveniently stored bagpipes from the back seat, and began to play some soothing Scottish marches.  Was his goal was occupy his mind, or to distract his neighbors from their feverish, strangled haste?  Either way, he succeeded.  Those who heard him not only forgot about the traffic jam, but were also united under a collective banner of hateful rage.  And he’s probably no longer with us on this earth, so I’m sure boredom is the least of his worries.  (Unless he made it to heaven, where bagpipes are allowed only on every fifth Monday.) Disclaimer:  I personally enjoy the bagpipes, but can’t help but feel that this man showed an alarming lack of discretion.

...Can you imagine what the headlines would be if the deer had caught me?   “Dangerous Downtown Deer Dispatches Desperate Defenseless Damsel.” “Deer Pleads Guilty - Says He “Meant To Do It”.”  “Bystanders Horrified:  “He Left Bloody Hoof Marks In My Yard!”    At least I’d be famous.   But, I mean.   It didn’t even have antlers.   There’s something so much more shameful in being trampled to death versus being gored.  

Usually I use this space to mock someone other than me, but I can’t do it today, not after the Deer Fiasco.  The humiliation is too much to handle.  Maybe, if I see a professional wrestler getting chased by a bunny rabbit, maaaybe I’ll mock him.  Just a little.  From a distance.  

So this is, roughly, what I was going to post today:   “I wish the Indiana Jones theme music would play every time I’m in an epic and life-threatening situation. ‘ Wait!’ you say, ‘wouldn’t that drive you stark raving mad?’   ‘No!’, I say.   ‘I love that song!’   And I only do awesomely epic, life-threatening things two or three times a year, so I’d never really have the chance to get tired of it.   If you ate ice cream only two or three times a year, would it repulse you?   Exactly.” That’s what I had written and ready to go.  But I don’t think I’m going to post it, after all, because it’s not true anymore.   See, I was just out on one of your typical charming, mundane, small-town evening strolls, and had a little run in with a deer.   Actually, it was more of an attack.   Actually, fine, so the deer chased me for half a block and actually forded a stream and jumped a fence in its frenzied attempts to catch me.  I can only assume its intention was to trample me under it