The Password’s Lasagna.

Note:  This cartoon is confusing to me on many levels, but most troubling is this:  Is it “laid off on the” or “laid off the”?  In a classic move of artistic courage, I chose one and went with it, but there is a troubled feeling in my gut. Or maybe I, too, like this vertically impossible giraffe, should have laid off the kale.  See, “laid off the kale” sounds like I fired it or something.  “You!  Kale!  You are a terrible, unmotivated worker and I have power and I don’t like the way you breathe!  You are fired!  Oh, and by the way, eat some dirt!” Yeah.  Okay.  

That said, here’s a pretty pitcher for ya’, sweetie.

Hey, don’t get me wrong.  I love zinnias.  Zinnias, if you don’t know, come in a variety of colors and sizes, but their defining characteristics include brilliant hues and stiff stems, which makes them one of the very nicest flowers for bouquets.  I wouldn’t name my kid Zinnia, but hey, it’s not bad.  Nothing against zinnias. HOWEVER. When you go out back on a stormy night, long after darkness has fallen, in your vulnerable bare feet and pjs, because you remembered to take the trash out about three hours after you’d forgotten to take the trash out (or “forgotten”, because taking the trash out is the worst), and you find a carefully placed, long-stemmed, single pink zinnia, freshly wilted, ON TOP OF YOUR TRASH-CAN...THAT, my friends, is CREEPY AS H E DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS. If you’ve been reading since Monday or so, you’ll know that I’m in the process of moving.  It’s a long, arduous, painstaking process at the least, and, like Rome, can’t be completed in a day. Except when it can. F

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 really need to know is that strangers are cautiously

If you can do a headstand, please leave a comment, because you’re a total beast and I want to learn your secret. Note:  This cartoon is not autobiographical. Note:  Not at all. Note:  Really.

I went behind a waterfall the other day.  It felt like a different world than the one I’d left - sounds were muted, and the sunlight came in filtered flashes through the falling sheet of glistening water.  Fish soared past on their long journey to quieter waters, tiny cries of “yippee!” echoing off the rocks as they were swept over the edge.   Moss was soft, slippery, under my feet, and the rock overhead felt embracing, not menacing.  The world was water, and silver, and eternally pouring, and I was part of it all.   Then I clambered out and saw a sign, telling me to avoid the waterfall any cost, some of the risks being slipping, falling, drowning, more drowning, and various other unexpected deaths.   Now, there is a time for being cautious, of course, but to be honest...maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad way to go...falling with a fall in the fall.  

You know those posts that stand in the middle of walking trails, to prevent motorized traffic?  Your dog always goes around them on the wrong side.   They’re usually yellow, or orange, sometimes greenly unobtrusive.    They’re easy to run into if you’re not paying attention.   They’re something I’ve generally thought of as a mild annoyance, barely a hazard.    Until now.    Now I know they are equal in danger to a nuclear power plant, or perhaps crawling inside a microwave for a hot ten seconds.   How do I know this, you ask me?  (No, I did not hit one while driving at high speeds on a pedestrian-only walkway.) While on my road-trip,  I encountered one (while walking...what kind of monster do you assume I am?) that was plastered over with official Warning stickers.   There were two, and they read, simply: Warning:  Deformities And Warning:  Cancer I tiptoed from the scene, and since the stickers did not say exactly how the post would increase your risk of contrac

I went on a road trip last week.  I won’t bore you by telling you a series of travel stories, because I hate when people do that to me, but I will ask you a few pertinent questions. Have you ever been passed by someone whose license plate read “hadehaha”? Have you ever driven for 12 hours and, when asked for the highlight of your drive, been forced to say that the greatest moment was when you saw a sign for a road called “Boody St.”? Have you ever been offered a free hamburger at McDonald’s because they “made one too many”?  And then rejected it because you had no one to give it to and you were already questioning why you wanted to eat even one McDonald’s hamburger? Have you ever been so bored by your drive that you prayed a speeder would pass you so you could drive an eighth of a mile behind them and let them trigger any speed traps?   Have you ever admitted to speeding on a public website?   Have you ever been astonished at returning home alive, so much so that yo

I bet you have. So here’s one of my favorites. BE YOURSELF! It’s not hard.  It’s actually the easiest thing you’ll ever do.  It’s arguably something you should not do.  But hey, if you want to be yourself, nobody can stop you.  Except maybe with a blunt object. In the meantime...you do you.  Whatever floats your boat.  Dance like nobody’s watching.  Find your inner child.  Yada yada yep and uh huh. And if you can’t be yourself, be this kid.

I called about a bike the other day.   It was listed in the paper, For Sale, Used Bike, $45, In a Town Near You.   I assumed, based on the word “bike” that it had a seat and handlebars, which was all that really mattered to me.  The integrity of the brakes was negotiable.  I figured I could fix them if I had to, because had I just changed a tail-light in my car and it took only three weeks and two hours and five sets of wrenches of varying sizes, and I’m pretty sure it’s practically back to how it was before I began.   “Hello,” a woman answered the phone. “Hi, I’m calling about the bike you listed in the paper?” “Ok.” “Can I ask you a few questions about it?” “Ok.” “Oh...okay.  Great!  First, is it still available?” “Which one.” “There was only...one?  The used bike?” “Ok.” “So is it available?” “It can be.” “Great...So....do the brakes work?” “It’s used.” “I gathered as much from the ad.  What kind of condition is it in?” “Used.” “Okay.  Do all t

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.”  

How come people can’t sit still and read without coughing, mumbling, scratching their scalps, and turning pages? Okay so that last one makes sense, but...so loudly? Yes, I’m at the library again, that haven of peace, solitude, quiet.  Let me make it clear:  I’m undyingly grateful to the library.  I may contribute nothing but the occasional late-fee, but it still feels more ethical to come here and write than to steal my neighbor’s WiFi (which I have never done except three times maybe four - it’s a really slow network) (is “network” the correct word?) (maybe I’ll Google it). However, my unconditional esteem for the library does not by default extend to all of the library’s patrons.  They, without fail, possess squeaky walkers, squeaky children, squeaky shoes, squeaky chairs, squeaky computer mouses, and squeaky, far-carrying voices. I assume there must be some relatively unobtrusive humans in this building, but, of course, I can’t hear or see them so it’s hard to get a head-count.

I have trouble with extremely specific and unlikely fears.  For example, that a bug will get stuck in my nose and fly into my brain and control my thoughts for a horrifying three days before I convulse and die.   That isn’t likely.  But it’s possible.   The point is, I tend to overthink situations that could lead to an unpleasant death.  Today, I’d like to talk about one of those situations which has particularly haunted me over the years, and how I finally overcame my fear.  It’s basically a TED talk.  Except I’m going to offer a real solution to a problem and it will take less than five minutes.   Picture this:   A sepia-washed scene.   An apocalyptic-looking car wash, with one of the letters missing.    There are no scented trees left in the dispenser.    The mechanical payment machine takes only quarters and doesn’t give back change.    There is a detailing station to the side - a trash can, a vacuum with a sticky handle, gum on the ground and a half ea

...human beings are pretty pathetic.   See, tiny creatures are perfectly designed to scale giant landscapes with ease.   They have everything they need - sticky toes, wings, featherweight bodies, emergency parachutes, built-in grappling hooks and rope.   How funny to think that any average bug can navigate its way, unaided, from the ground to the ceiling in the world’s largest cathedral,  yet a tiny, bug-sized human would have to be more than an expert mountain climber just to look out an ordinary window.   These are the thoughts you have when you’re lying, helplessly prone, on a very soft couch after a very long nap.  They’re the only thoughts worth sharing, I do believe. 

You know how people use the abbreviation “IDK” for “I don’t know”?  And you know how people commonly misspell “know” like this: “now”? What would happen if those people were one and the same?  Imagine the confusion this could and must cause!   For example: Boyfriend, texting:   “What do you think about our future?” Girlfriend, texting:  “IDK” Boyfriend, texting:  “You mean, you’re not sure about staying together, or you’re not sure about taking the next step?” Girlfriend, texting:  “IDK” Boyfriend, texting:  “Do you want to get married?” Girlfriend, texting:   “I don’t now.”

...I’ve been feeling a little depressed.  Hopefully it won’t come through in my writing at all, but, you know, just a warning.  I really strive to keep things light even at the darkest of times.  To illustrate that, here’s a jovial little poem I wrote this morning.  It’s called:    The Gaping Emptiness of Bare Reality Or The Worst Moment in a Human Life Or The Only Thing Worse than Death There’s something distinctly horrifying, A bleakness and an empty space, Startling and unexpected, Devastating, only because  Of what’s missing, Of what cannot be seen. We remember, and so we expect, and In expecting, we forget to notice, And in forgetting to notice, We open the possibility of Opening our eyes and Seeing, not what we expect, But a void,  a blank stare of a person we used to know Who has forgotten us,  A burned-out pit of the house We grew up in,  An emptiness that belongs to terror, In the  Empty, empty, empty Emptiness  Where