Will is the type of person who has one pencil and one pen, both of which are kept in particular spots. He keeps the same instruments for years. Years! He actually purchases replacement lead and erasers for his sole mechanical pencil.
I, on the other hand, have dozens and dozens of pens and pencils, and yet the one I really want to use is nowhere to be found.
My cousin, Andrew, and I were riding in the backseat of my grandma's car on the way to dinner at a Chinese restaurant. We were responsible for the directions, but Andrew had left the directions at home and we only sorta knew where we were going.
My dad was driving and getting increasingly agitated by our less-than-stellar backseat navigating. He inquired about the next street we needed to turn on, which we sorta knew the name of, and Andrew matter-of-factly pointed out that we had either "already passed it or it was just right up ahead."
On the Metro this morning, I was sitting next to an older man who was holding a large, clear Tupperware container full of Nilla Wafers on his lap. What's strange about the situation was not the container of wafers, however, it was that the man's outfit--the pants and the shirt and the sweater--were precisely the same color as the wafers. The outfit and the cookies were such an exact match, from head to toe all golden yellow, it couldn't have been on accident. Maybe he was attending a potluck where one was required to dress as the food they contributed?
I'm asking the Typepad Question of the Day today! Here it is:
I'd pick two:
Junior Mints (for everyday eating) and Chowards Violet Mints (for visiting dignitaries).
What would be your official White House candy?
Something tells me that I should not buy this fabulous bicycle basket. I'm thinking it would take, oh, SIXTEEN SECONDS for it to be stolen. And only that long because we live in a super-safe town. Anywhere else and it would be gone in four.
You know you live in a college town when your barista can explain to you the chemical composition and nutritional benefits of coffee, not just because he is trying to sell you a cup, but because he is a freaking toxicology major who spends the other part of his day in a campus laboratory studying the effects of chemicals on living organisms. Oh, and he plays chess and studies for the Graduate Record Exam when there is no milk to foam or tea to brew.
Our town is a little bit on the hoity-toity side--highly educated, insulated, relatively affluent--which is why it was pretty surprising to see a man clipping his fingernails in Starbucks this evening. But, you know, he was doing it while enjoying an espresso in his Columbia sportswear.
I have decided to order the Low-fat Strawberry Coffee Cake at Starbucks, when I make the mistake of asking the girl at the counter if it's good.
Being a blogger can sometimes put you in awkward situations. Like, say for instance, when you are having a lovely outdoor dinner with a lovely group of people and suddenly you just have to pull your camera out of your purse to take a photograph of a random man wearing a pink cow print shirt. (Or is it leopard? Cow or leopard? Clearly, I am not very knowledgeable in the area of spotted animals.)
Because letting the awesomeness of that shirt go undocumented would be so very wrong.
Will (while placing frozen fish sticks on a cookie sheet): Would you eat a fish stick for a B, right now, on that appellate brief?
Me: Yes, I think so.
Will: Would you eat five fish sticks for an A?
Me: Ew. No way. An A is so not worth having to puke up a hunk of breaded Alaskan Pollock.
I am going to a party tonight with Will's softball team--a tri-tip and margaritas kind of party--and this email came round:
There is still room in the limo if you would like to be picked up for the party and dropped off back off when its over (we will walk you to the door if necessary). I would like to create the pick-up route soon so please get your request in.Alas, we are not taking the limo because Will has a triathlon this weekend so he will not be drinking but, hello, sounds like I will be having some margaritas tonight.
I just overheard my husband say:
There is cat hair ALL OVER this blanket. I swear, I'm just gonna lint-roll the cat.
Lint-roll the Cat: v. (lint-rōl) to apply a roll of adhesive paper directly onto a feline, thus removing loose hair directly from the animal and preempting the transfer of said hair to other household surfaces.
Last night, Kathryn and I shared a big ass pitcher of beer downtown and then rode our bikes home in the middle of the night.
This morning, I woke up at 7:00 in the morning to the sound of a jackhammer tearing up the street directly outside my bedroom window.
There should so be a law against running heavy machinery before 10 am during spring break.
I found this in my unpublished draft folder, written on February 12:
So, I never did answer all your questions, much like I never posted my wedding photos, much like I never finished the tour of my new apartment. It's how I keep you coming back.Getting things what? Done? Amazingly enough, my self-proclaimed "renewed commitment" didn't even last long enough to finish the sentence.
But, I have a renewed commitment to getting things...
About 10 minutes after eating a hot dog from The Hotdogger, Will announced that his stomach hurt.
I wanted to feel sorry for him, really I did, but he ordered a hot link covered in hot salsa, hot peppers, hot chili, cheese, diced onions, and tomatoes. This dog, which caused him to literally sweat, was appropriately named "The Gut Bomb."
He claims that it is the dog that "any self-respecting man would order."
So my cell phone rings and my caller identification informs me that it is Will calling. I pick up.
"I have really bad news," he says.
I can hear a panic in his voice. Some anxiety. Some distress.
"Are you sitting down?" he asks.
"I'm across the street at the market and I have to tell you something that you are not going to like," he informs me.
Not going to like?
"The thing is," he continues, "they are completely out of peppermint ice cream and the stock boy doesn't know if they will be getting anymore in."
Bad news? Bad news? THAT'S PUTTING IT MILDLY!
Just when I thought I was thoroughly out of things to write about, a package arrived in the mail from my mother-in-law. Inside the package was a fun little note and a dress for my wine.
That's right, a little pink dress for my wine to wear when she goes out at night.
The dress is quite versatile and, until the wine gets a night on the town, the Monin Caramel Syrup will be modeling the dress during morning coffee.
My mother-in-law and my wine, both fabulous.
I have a celebrity neighbor.
The guy in the apartment across from us was the 1st runner up in California's Best Bagger Championship and will be attending the National Grocer's Association Convention in Las Vegas, Nevada next year.
Our neighbor can bag groceries with precision faster than you can swipe your American Express. What does your neighbor do?
Chandler: Hey, Joey. Playboy published my joke.
Ross: No, it's MY joke.
Chandler: No, it's mine.
Ross: No, it was MY joke.
Joey: Hey, hey, hey. You guys. You know they put pictures of naked chicks in there, right?
Ross got paid $100 for the joke that he (or Chandler) made up and you can get $100 from submitting a Playboy Party Joke as well.
The question is: would you cash the check and get your $100 or keep the Playboy check with your name on it for posterity? I never would have guessed it, but Will says he would keep the check. If he would be willing to forego $100, he who loves to put money in the bank and never take it back out, how many Playboy checks are out there, uncashed, framed on some guy's wall?
According to Jake Halpern, three times more teenagers want to grow up to be a celebrity personal assistant than a United States Senator.
It's amazing to me that people would rather pick up dry cleaning than have it picked up for them.
Last week, my friend Anna's boyfriend got promoted. He works in the wind turbine business, putting up those giant windmills that convert kinetic energy into mechanical energy. He used to have some engineer title, but just got promoted to:
Head Erection Division, Overseer of Seimens.
That is awesome.
Despite the fact that we will be moving, possibly across the country, this summer to attend law school, I cannot stop from purchasing rolls and rolls and more rolls of beautiful organdy, satin, and velvet Christmas ribbon at JoAnn's 75% off sale. The more ribbon I bring home, the more Will reminds me that we will probably not be shipping a box of discount ribbon, no matter how pretty, across the United States.
Will, my sister, and I were walking to the car today when I caught sight of myself in a large classroom window. I pointed out how horrible I looked, how my makeup had mysteriously disappeared off my face during the school day, and how my mascara had somehow smudged under my eyes.
"Yep, I have to stop at home before book club," I announced, "and redo this mess."
My sister, April, who is 16-years-old, replied that life was so much simpler for boys, who did not need to worry about things like mascara smudges or cakey foundation or eyeliner.
"It's easy for boys," she said. "Boys are just either cute or not."
My purse is a mess. Cards, cash, coins, receipts, and lip glosses are all just thrown in with no method of organization. When I unzip it, dollars actually leap out.
After locating my Costco card, finding and straightening out 16 crumpled dollar bills, and digging for 77 cents, the checker lady suggested that I look into purchasing a wallet and a coin purse and that I should try to keep my Costco card in the same exact place so I'll always know right where it is.
Costco Checkers: My Other Mother.
Today one of my favorite students and I were discussing a situation at school, the one that caused me to write that one post where I got all preachy. The discussion revolved around whether I should fight for the right thing or save my breath.
Me: Well, I'm not gonna to die on a cross for it.
Student: I'd die on a cross for it.
Me: Oh yeah?
Student: It's a strong way to go out. Worked for ol' J.C.
Me: J.C.? Oh...yeah, I guess so.
I spent the day at a cheerleading competition, The USA All Star Nationals, and I honestly did not know whether I should laugh or cry at the thousands of girls who were collectively wearing more hairspray than the entire US population wore in the 1980s. Most of the girls were using the water bottle pocket on their backpacks to tote Aquanet. And the eyeshadow, oh lord, the eyeshadow. It was a convention full of little Tammy Faye Bakers.
My sister made finals, so the fun (and the teal glitter eyeliner) continues tomorrow...