Sauce: Signal from the heart.

This is a poem about people who don’t know their turn signal is on.

“How

Do I tell you

Your turn signal’s on?

(On, on, on, on, on, on, on)

I want you to turn it off

Because I am confused.

You are deaf

And blind

Why are you driving.

Why do you turn it off

Finally

After the anguish of my anguish overwhelms me

Flooding my heart

After five miles of straight road

(Did you hear not the clicking?)

Why do you turn it off, right, right, right, right

Right before you

Actually

turn?”

Comments

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...

Noodles: There are just some things you can’t ask your doctor.

So you turn instead to Google and let your questions be seen by all the world, including snoops like me. I happened to look up a strange sensation I’ve been experiencing lately (yes, I do it too, and yes, I’m probably on the brink of death) that involves a crawling sensation on the back of my scalp. Since it’s not tick season, I assume it’s a tiny person attempting to scale my head in order to have a look around. Unfortunately, I wear a lot of hats this time of year so even if they make it to the top, they aren’t likely to see much. But that’s not the point. If you ask Google to give you any information involving tingling sensations and your own head, it will immediately throw at you a list of questions asked by similar unfortunate individuals, along with the all-knowing answers provided by an unspecified internet friend. Some of them make you shake your head in pity, such as this sad, lonely soul, who asks, “Can I test myself for a brain tumor?” The answer is undecided...

Noodles: I’m not easily suede, butt...

My house is currently being shown by a realtor to an average of two potential buyers each day. They come and they go, and, in real estate as well as trail etiquette, they take only photographs (as far as I can tell) and leave only footprints. Technically. Not to abruptly change the subject, but have you ever sat on a suede* couch? If you did, I bet you drew pictures on it with your finger, because the material shows light when you brush it one way, dark the other. It’s a very impressionable fabric. I have one of those couches. It’s tan-ish, it’s comfy, and I like it very much.** It’s in my living room, because it’s a couch and that’s where couches seem to prefer to live. They like it dry and temperate with a little bit of soft lighting and a nice view of their territory, as well as easy access to the street in case they have a conflict with the armchair*** and need to make a quick getaway. But I digress. All you rea...

The Password’s Lasagna.

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