Noodles: This land is your land, this land is my land...

This is a story about saving the environment.

Or is it?

I’ll let you decide.

A while back, I moved to a house with a sizeable yard. And since there were no parents in the vicinity, I had to mow the lawn myself. That’s what I like to call a “Real Problem” (for all you poverty-stricken, hovel-dwelling, lawn-less, unprivileged folks who don’t understand what trouble is.)

First of all, I knew I wanted to practice kindness to the planet and all the life contained therein by using an old-fashioned manual mower. “It’s so simple!” I exclaimed as I removed it from its heavy packaging and assembled it in my densely overgrown backyard. “Why burn holes in the ozone when there are manual machines like lawn mowers and bikes? I’ll never drive anywhere again and I will only eat three forms of grasses, most of which I can forage within three feet of my door!”

I was ready to do my part in saving the world.

Until I actually had to mow my lawn.

Even then, I tried to maintain a positive attitude.

For a few seconds, that is. Then I had a little change of heart.

And I got a gas mower.

I loved my mower. I tucked it in every night and kissed it good morning. It cut my mowing time in seventy-seventh. I would say it cut my mowing time in half, but that would be a lie. It now took only forty-five minutes to mow, versus 3,479. That’s 2.41597 days. (Please don’t check my math here.)

But something was still wrong. Mowing the lawn was still...hard. Too hard.

I traded in my gas mower.

AND I LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER! (AND I ACCIDENTLY BUMPED THE CAPS LOCK KEY! SO NOW I’M SHOUTING! KILL THE DOLPHINS!)

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.

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