Noodles: Not that kind of trippin’.

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 you aren’t sure what to do with the gift that is now the rest of your life?

Have you ever eaten an entire bag of fruit snacks even though they were unspeakably nasty, because it’s hard to fall asleep while you’re chewing?

Have you ever given yourself a locked jaw by chewing for 12 straight hours?

Have you ever continued to chew, even though all you could fit in your mouth were carefully positioned flat pretzels and seaweed?

Have you ever followed a slow truck for an hour and then gleefully gotten a chance to pass, at extreme risk to life and limb, right before it turned onto a different road?

Have you ever been driving for so long that you started hallucinating or had to pee in a bottle?
(If so, I’m judging you a lot and you definitely need to get help.)

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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