Sauce: Have you ever...

...rebelled against your job so hard that you ended up writing a post that comes across as clearly manic?
Have you ever liked your job, but still rebelled against it?
Have you ever suddenly realized that your boss knows about your blog?
Have you ever tried to say nice things about your job because your boss might be reading?
Have you ever felt as if those nice things come across as slightly insincere?
Nevertheless, I am liking my job. It’s new (gloat gloat gloat). I’ll probably talk more about it in a different post sometime, but whoa hey let’s not get too personal here. Next thing you know you’ll be wanting to find out where I live. Which you never will. Because I move every three weeks for that very reason.
Have you ever realized you were about to enter into a rental agreement that lasts a year, and then wondered if you landlord could possibly, even ever somehow, read your anonymous blog and not realize you were joking?
Have you ever felt suddenly uncomfortable with everything you’ve ever said?
Have you ever remembered that one time in high school when you told a guy he should wear size small t-shirts so they would fit him properly?
And then cringed a lot?
And have you ever wondered what would happen if a tornado came along while you were on the toilet?
Would you still end up in Oz or would you go...somewhere else?
Have you ever put “...” in a sentence to make it sound provocative even when you have no idea what you’re talking about?
Have you ever never spelled the word “provocative” in your life, and therefore aren’t sure how to spell it or what it exactly means?
Have you ever felt sheltered?
Have you ever been annoyed by people who ask a lot of questions?
Yeah me too.

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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