Sauce: Those everyday moments of awkwardness...

Here are a few of my favorite.

1. The Intersection. That moment when you’re walking down the sidewalk and someone is crossing the street perpendicular to you, and you arrive at the corner at the EXACT SAME TIME and one of you has to step to the side or slow down or you will bump into each other.

The problem? Do you say “hello” or just give an unnatural nod?

2. The Eye-Contact-With-A-Stranger-While-Yawning. That moment when you yawn a gaping, horrifying yawn while gazing blankly towards the horizon...and a stranger drives/walks/transports past and locks eyes with you. You freeze with your mouth at peak open-ness. They are gone before you can alter your expression, so they are undoubtably left with the impression that you are a living corpse from an Indiana Jones film.

The problem? Why do all Indiana Jones films have so many a) skeletons, b) spider webs, and c) Nazis?

3. The Talking-To-Yourself Before Realizing Someone-Is-Nearby. That moment when you are walking along singing/chatting/hashing out your life, to yourself, and then look over and notice an old lady sitting on her porch watching you. It might sound something like this:

You: “I’ve been thinking about my life options, self...FANTASTIC! I WILL DO THAT LATER! Better not forget to write it down when I get home! I wonder why I write everything down? Am I going senile? What was I just talking to myself about? Should I get married or stay single forever? DO I HAVE A CHOICE? HI KITTY IN THE WINDOW!!!!! HI OLD LADY! I’m acting totally normal!”

The problem? Is the old lady deaf or simply old?

4. People With Tiny Dogs Whose Heads Are Shaped Like Muffins.

The problem? Yes.

5. Middle-Aged Men Who Bike Shirtless While Wearing Tall White Socks.

The problem? It’s not the socks.

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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