Get Right to It, Why Not?

(Spelling and spacing kept intact for, let’s be honest, effect.)

From: Mom
To: Me

When: 1:49 A.M.*

Subject: hello frrom overseas


Hi aploo,
I tried to get to your facebook but it did not let me. Can you add [your cousin] aand I as your friends. Would you also send me a picture of [boyfie] please?
[Your aunt] was interested in your choice of peoples
see you soon
love mom

*Time difference. Let it go!

Couple thoughts:

1) My mother isn’t actually on Facebook, but why would I let a silly thing like that stop me from friending her?! Figure it out! Have it on my desk by five minutes ago. (Blood is thicker than logic.)

2) “your choice of peoples” (As the frattie-frattie-boom-a-latties say, NICE.)

"Living" with Parents (If You Can Even Call It a Life)

My dad, circa this morning, to me, when I arrived downstairs: Hello! You look really tired! Did you shower?

Me: Nope. No time. (The Orkin man was coming and I was mandated to be out of the house by 8 a.m. Preposterous!)

Dad: Well, you should put on some make-up.

Me: … (I was wearing make-up.)

Dad: *ruffling my hair, specifically the bangs so that they cover all of my face* There! All better!

Shrimpy Scamps, Scampy Shrimps

In daily grind news, I bought a canister of butternut squash soup the other week because I saw it and immediately thought no one has ever had a butter idea in the history of soupmaking. I decided to save it for a savory occasion since it was a butter treat than a rare, expensive bottle of wine.

Well, this past weekend, I decided a bowl of soup might make a delicious and calming conclusion to a Sunday afternoon, so I asked boyfie to heat me up a small bowl, to which he dutifully complied.

I polished up my best silver spoon (plastic actually), and gave my heart and mouth the go-ahead, and I went forward for a sipparoo.

It. tasted. TERRR-EEEE-BLEEEEE. (i.e., This is terri-bullshit!)

Like a cloyingly sweet, thin veggie smoothie. Just really the worst pay-off for the most starry-eyed anticipation. Don’t get me wrong. I tried “fixing” it. Added pepper. Added crackers. Added limey tang. Added hugs. It was like a toxic broth that just absorbed everything wordlessly, and just added it to the angry abyss of a flavor. I had to dispose of the rest of it humanely (it wasn’t pretty unless you mean pretty ugly).

In other food horror news, my parents left the country last week for worldwide adventures but neglected to mention the tup of rotten shrimp they left for me in the fridge. I caught sight of it the other night, and Dared myself to open it (I would have chosen Truth, but I always ask the tough questions).

Tricky creatures
photo courtesy of Flickr and Eli Hodapp

The odor. Oh, the odor. I don’t even have words. It was a silent scream kind of odor. The kind that haunts your dreams but shows up wearing a bunny outfit with the eyes hanging out. I had to deal with it like an adult so I washed it out while praying and then took the contents, triplebagged them (didn’t help), and then threw the specimen away in a trashcan on a college campus (where questionable odors live peaceful existences in many a dorm room).


Finally, my computer went FLIMFLAM today, and I mean, really conked out completely (this was after weeks of foreshadowing freezes and crash hiccups). I had 17+ windows open at the time, and a lot of good faith at work. It then gave me a series of blue screens…no, not just one…several, as if to say, “This is how broken I am.” Then the IT guy charitably descended upon me merely to say “Yeah, this thing is done. This is not my day.” And I thought, maybe it’s not your day, but to be fair, it’s also not really the poor computer’s day. Ol’ faithful is to be replaced tomorrow!!! One more desktop picture change for good times’ sakes.

Today’s watchable video: For history buffs, but not those with pottytrained mouths. (Via Ham)

Socks to Be You

My parents came back from their most recent spate of travels with gifts in tow!

Well, a gift.

For me!

With much fanfare and ado, my mother presented me with…a pair of socks!

She announced, with ceremonial oohing and aahing and gewing and gawing, that she had spent hours picking them out, and were they ok, and so on and so forth.

I felt as if I were missing something, seeing as how they were, quite frankly, a 3-pack of ankle-length white socks (native to almost any retail outlet across the world). Although to their credit and hers, the keepers of feet were marked “Extra Soft” with a delightful traditional Anglo-style known as “argyle” pattern on the back of each ankle.

Another pair of socks I own. I have really small feet, hee hee.
photo courtesy of Flickr and zak_greant

My dad, as if to fully confirm that something was off about the whole charade of a gift-giving, continued with “She really couldn’t decide which ones to get! She spent forever choosing them!”

Then my mother pressed onward with “Are they ok? I mean, really, do you like them? Because I want to make sure you like them.”

My father said, “Yes. Please. Tell us. Be honest.”

I felt like yelling, quite meanly, “They’re just socks, people!”

But I didn’t. And I can thank my good breeding for that. Now with what accompanying garments to whip out these toe ticklers and for which occasion, I just can’t decide!

No, really, I can’t!



For real.