Blink code

[to Ivan] If I’m ever in a position where I can’t move and can only communicate with my eyes, help me sent up a code! With blinking. And I will do the same for you.

80th birthday phone call

It was so good to hear her voice—exactly the way I’d know it for years.

“I sure do miss you!” she announced. “I do not care for this other person. It’s not my Amie.”

Privately, my heart lifted to hear this. It *feels good* to feel irreplaceable. But I couldn’t say that. “I know. But give her a chance. It can’t be easy stepping in after all these years.”

And she does.

When I was very young, my mom was single. She was in early 20s, in and out of relationships, melodramatic, and emotional. I adored her.

When we would Drive around in her baby blue Firebird, she would crank up the radio and sing--especially to Journey and to David Bowie's "Space Oddity."  I came to know the words to the songs, and wanted to sing along, too.

"Stop singing!" she would snap, sometimes with great irritation. "I can't hear the song!" 

When I got a little older, she would complain that I couldn't carry a tune and was ruining the song for her. It hurt my feelings tremendously. I remember thinking even way back then that I would let my little girl sing as much as she wanted.

32 years later I have a little girl. A mini-me. And sing she does.

She stands in the yard and sings joyfully at the top of her lungs. She sings heartfelt, original lyrics with great passion into a microphone in the middle of the living room. She sings "Skin-a-marinkey-dinky-dink" from the backseat as we are driving around town with the windows rolled down. She sings lovingly to her Blue Blankey.

Unfortunately she has my voice and can't carry a tune in a bucket, but I love complete lack of self-consciousness and pure joy when she sings.

And Greek olives.

 A (surveying the interior of the refrigerator with dismay):  Ivan, you're messing up my refrigerator door organization. The Sriracha goes on the international shelf. And--look--you have all of the salad dressing over here. This should be on the American shelf with the mustard and ketchup and mayonnaise.

I: The "international" shelf?

A: Yes. See? With the tahini and soy sauce and fish sauce. 

I: Organizing the refrigerator like this is…

A:  ...lost on you?

I: Useless.

On lovies

Sophie: I put Blue Blankey in my mouth. I go to hospital and doctor have to take it out of me and I have Blue Blankey again.

I realized she was describing the extraction of Blue Blankey from her surgically.

Amie: Why would you put Blue Blankey in your mouth?

Sophie: I just like him a lot.

Through rose-colored glasses

I rounded the corner from the produce section to the meat department by way of the deli counter. I remember because I made a conscious effort not to buy any pimento cheese spread and 99 times out of 100 I manage not to. Anyway, I spotted the bag full of tiny plastic cups--marked "Party Cups"--on display at the end of a rack next to the booze room. I immediately thought, "Sophie would love these!" since she is partial to all tiny and/or colorful things, particularly things capable of pouring. I often bring her some small item from the grocery store (a sheet of stickers, a ripe avocado, a fruit she's never tried--and here it is more like 1 time out of 3 in the managing not to), and after doing a quick mental calculation of the ratio between the odds of injury and/or mess and the odds of fun and possibly educational in some fashion, I grabbed them.

They thrilled her, of course, and she immediately began stacking and unstacking them and admiring them in the sunlight.

Ivan walked into the living room drying his hands on a little green towel and observed, "Shot glasses."

"What?" I was confused.

"Shot glasses," he said again. "You bought our daughter shot glasses. I mean, Party Cups? Come on!"

I hadn't really thought of them that way, but, truly, I'm not sure I can recall having any OTHER kind of party with cups this size. Though there are no doubt an infinite number of ways to do so.

Something in the universe wants me to buy pasta.

Yesterday when Ivan came home from work, he said, "I have to show you what Monica gave me."

"Who is Monica?"  I asked.

"A co-worker," he responded, "and a--what do you call it?--'couponer.'"

He proudly brought over five coupons for Barilla brand pasta and warned, "They're only good for a couple more days.  At Giant Eagle."  Apparently if we were to buy any two boxes of Barilla pasta, we could save $0.55.  Five times.

I didn't really take him that seriously.  I vaguely wondered how this had come about (Did she bring them specifically thinking he would want them?  Did she have them and he expressed interest?), but truthfully was tired from a long day and it didn't seem important.

"So should I go to the store and get them?" he asked hopefully.

"What?  No.  Ten boxes of pasta?  Are you insane?"

He seemed surprised.  I continued, "Besides, I guarantee the store brand we buy for a dollar and like just fine is cheaper at full price than Barilla pasta is with these coupons.  In fact, I would put money on it.  Which seems ironic."

"Oh, okay," he said with a hint of disappointment.  "I just thought it would save us some money."

Looking back, I think I was not very charitable in that conversation.  His financial habits have often been a point of contention in our relationship.  I'm the one always suggesting ways to save money.  I'm the one giving lectures about cutting back, doing without.  And while it seemed strange to want to buy ten boxes of pasta when we only eat it on occasion and out-of-the blue to bring home coupons, this was a genuine attempt on his part to please me in that way.  I should have been kinder.

Sophia, however, was excited to come across the little stack of colorful papers that were now on the end table.  She carried them around the rest of the evening, and added them to her collection of colorful paint swatches that she like likes to pull in and out of the little drawer of her table and the microwave of her play kitchen.  At bedtime, she grabbed her favorite two blankets and two stuffed rabbits, and then rushed over to scoop up the coupons.  She often takes random things to bed with her.  Since she's so good about her bedtime and can chatter to herself and play happily for as much as an hour if she's not yet tired, I didn't think anything of it.

This morning she brought all the coupons back down to the living room with her, and when it was time to go she grabbed those, too.  "Honey, why don't you put the coupons on the table and then you can play with them again when we get home?"  I suggested.  She smiled at me and carried them over and tucked them into the little side pocket of the bag I was carrying.  I laughed.

So.  Here I am.  With the capacity to purchase 10 boxes of discounted pasta, sitting at my desk.

My family on Earth is so good to me.

[From a letter to a friend nearly a year ago--reflections on relocation.]

I don't know where to begin.

For the past couple weeks, in particular, I keep looking around thinking, "What the fuck has happened to my life?"  The first two days back in WV I cried constantly.  My mother settled into a chair with a tall glass of wine (with ice) and a bunch of cats on her lap to watch some nameless legal show and ignored me.  It was like being 14 all over again.

I feel homesick, although for what or where I really can't say.  Most likely I just feel homesick for one of my grandparents' front porches in the early 80s, when I had seen or experienced very little of the world and when all I needed was an extra five minutes to play outside before dinner or to finally distract my grandpa from his baseball game so he would talk to me instead ("Papaw, have you ever had a mustache?  How old were you?  How long did you have it?  Would you ever have one again?").  Obviously, I can't go back there.

And that leaves me here.

My friend came to see me.  Judith.  She lived in an identical apartment above me when I lived at 3333 W. Grace Street in Richmond, VA.  23221.  I met her shortly after I moved in.  One weekend morning I was unpacking and cleaning and whatnot, and waiting for my landlord to come and unclog my kitchen sink so I could move on with my day.  Suddenly my upstairs neighbor drained the dishwater in HER sink and my kitchen began flooding.  I threw on my flowery bathrobe and ran upstairs to plead with her to please, PLEASE plug her sink!  Just for now.  Her large dog (a boxer mix named Jojo to whom I would later sing, "Jojo left his home in Tuscon, Arizona for some California grass...") came charging and barking to the door.  After some delay, she cautiously peered out through her cracked front door.  She seemed nice but a bit reserved and more than a little startled by my dramatic, breathless appearance at her front door on a Saturday morning.

When she wanted to visit me upon my unceremonious return to the area, I warned her that I was staying at my father's and he lived a little off the beaten bath.  She said adamantly, "I will find you."  And she did, thank god.  Spending a couple days with her and watching her play with my daughter made me feel normal--like my old self for awhile.

This morning at 6am I stood at my father's kitchen sink eating a half sandwich with last night's slow roasted pork and surveying the landscape, and it felt good.

I can't say much for the events that have taken place in between Judith's visit and that sandwich.

I had a job interview on Friday.  At [a local mental health facility] in Clarksburg, WV.  It is located just feet away from the old hospital in which I was born, and it was a completely baffling experience.  The two women who interviewed me were as sweet as could be and incredibly informal.  Mary Sue and Peggy.  They stared at my resume and then up at me and said, "What brings you here from San Francisco?"

Oh, ladies.  If only I could succinctly answer that question.

The were puzzled as to why I had a PhD in psychology but no license to practice therapy.  At one point, one of them asked the other, "Did you see on her resume that...." The other one cut her off:  "I read it," she said.  "I read every bit of it."

They seemed to want to try to fit me in SOMEwhere in the organization and promised to talk to their HR to see what they could offer me.  "Honey, you might not even want the job after you see the salary," Mary Sue warned.  Possibly as much as $40,000/year less than I made at my last position.

Oh, Mary Sue, I want it.

I heard them talking about me before I was even down the hall.  "She's so nice!" was the main thing I heard.

I am nice.

My mother was dogging San Francisco as a place to raise a child.  "I hear frogs outside every night!" she bragged, as if that fact alone were enough to sufficiently make her point.

"Yes, but I could count every person of color in my high school on one hand and I can still remember all their names!" I countered.  "Because there were so few of them."

"We have the Mexicans and the Orientals here now," she offered.

Yes, it's true.  And if they're not picking our produce, they've opened a restaurant.  My friend Shannon tells me there is a popular Chinese restaurant here that keeps a large bowl of Doritos on the food buffet.  And they're very popular.  And everyone still finds it hilarious to joke that the chicken is actually cat.

To be continued.  Sorry.  I didn't even bother to edit this for typos as I usually try to do.  Stream-of-consciousness.  My household is starting to wake up.  Send.

Letter to CEO of Mattress Discounters (the west coast version of the company)

To:  Mr. Dale Carlsen, CEO of Mattress Discounters 

Re:  Replacement box springs/foundation

Dear Mr. Carlsen:

In August 2012, I purchased a mattress, box springs, and bed frame from the Mattress Discounters located in Pleasant Hill, CA (Invoice #5XXXXXXXX). Actually, a kindhearted relative purchased it for me. (I am unable to find work in the San Francisco Bay Area at the moment and I have a young daughter, so as you can imagine money is pretty tight.) I desperately needed a new one as my old one was begging to be put out of its misery and long ago had given up any attempts to contain the metal coils within it. This was very painful. The protruding sharp metal coils, I mean.

When choosing the merchant from whom to purchase my new mattress, I chose Mattress Discounters without a second thought. I had purchased my very first mattress and box springs from a Mattress Discounters in Richmond, VA in 1999. I was 22 years old (and broke then, too! Ugh.) and was deliriously happy to be moving into my first apartment and starting graduate school. I stumbled upon a Mattress Discounters on W. Broad St. The sales associate was incredibly friendly and helpful and assisted me in locating a mattress and box springs set that fit my meager teaching assistant budget. I'm pretty sure it was the least expensive mattress in the whole store but I didn't care. I had my own place and I wouldn't be sleeping on my hardwood floors in the humid summer heat another night.

Since my experience with the east coast Mattress Discounters was so positive and my budget mattress lasted long beyond its projected lifespan before giving up the ghost, I decided to purchase from the west coast Mattress Discounters.  My initial second experience was also positive: the sales associate was efficient and helpful, my order arrived promptly, and the first few weeks on the new bed were absolutely blissful. During what was, I believe, our second month of new bed ownership, the trouble began. As my partner and I were settling in for the night, I turned over to go to sleep and we heard the cracking of wood from below the bed.  (I'm going to be honest, Mr. Carlsen: it didn't do much for my self-esteem.)  After a few more weeks there was a second sound of wood splitting from beneath the bed. Gradually, the problem progressed to the point at which we find ourselves today. 

I believe we were fairly “normal” users of the bed. If anything, we have been very LIGHT users of the bed. I am the mother of a toddler and a chronic insomniac; I am not in the bed nearly as much as I would like to be. My partner works hard and has a long commute; he is also not in the bed as nearly much as he would like to be. No one is jumping on the bed. There is no rough-housing on the bed unless you count my one year-old daughter diving into the pillows and blankets in order to evade having her jammies put on at night. As for other strenuous activities that often go on in folks' beds, well, Mr. Carlsen, as I mentioned we are the parents of a small child. We are tired. We are stressed about our finances. Let's just say this bed has had an easy life thus far.

The cracking and breaking of the wooden slats in the box spring/foundation portion of the bed has gotten out of control at this point. Each half of the bed sags dramatically so that sleeping in it is akin to curling up inside a taco. It's actually not as fun as it sounds. We have to roll uphill to get to the center of the mattress as well as to the outer edge. As a result I have started having some pretty severe back problems and I am now shuffling and limping and groaning around the house. It's very painful, Mr. Carlsen. I cannot afford to see a chiropractor. My partner and I switch off as to who “gets” to sleep on the couch in the living room.

I contacted your customer service center, and Rose Bauer in Sacramento, CA called me back in a timely manner. At her request, I photographed the mattress and box springs on top and underneath. I also took a picture of the splinters of wood of varying sizes and metal staples that now regularly litter my bedroom floor. (Please recall the oft-mentioned small child in my home. I don't know if you have children yourself, Mr. Carlsen, but babies and toddlers try to eat everything.) Ms. Bauer called me on Friday, May 11 to let me know that she'd spoken with her supervisor because she had some questions, and it was decided that there was so much breakage that it was due to damage on our part and not due to being defective and therefore would not be replaced under warranty. I emphasized to her that we had NOT damaged our box springs. (Honestly, why would we do this?) The men delivered the frame, mattress, and box springs and set them up for us and we haven't even so much as flipped the mattress in the interim. (I know I'm supposed to do it every six months. At least that's what Martha Stewart recommends.) Ms. Bauer repeated the conclusion that the box springs were considered damaged and not defective, and she was happy to offer me a 40% discount on the purchase of a new one.

Is Ms. Bauer accusing me of being untruthful? It feels like she is and I really have an issue with that. Also: spend more money at a Mattress Discounters after this? I don't think so.

I really hope you can help make this right, Mr. Carlsen. I do not believe I am asking for anything unreasonable. I love the mattress. I just need something to put it on that isn't going to collapse if I happen to have eaten dessert that evening. One only purchases so many mattresses in their lifetime; I have now gotten both of mine from Mattress Discounters and, in my opinion, that makes me a pretty good customer. I would appreciate being treated as such.

Sincerely,

Amie X. Xxxxxxxx

The good things

Things are pretty dire right now.  My unemployment has ended, and today I am placing my beloved bird Cricket in a new home.  If I let myself think about it all more than a couple seconds I melt into a puddle of fear and sadness.

So I need to focus on a good thing for at least a few moments.

I have a history of being a sad bastard on my birthday.  It's always been less about getting older  (though that is becoming more of a factor these days) and mTore about having way too many expectations and then being disappointed when no one lives up to them.  (The month is still young, however, and there is still time for me to catch up!)

There was, though, the year (2008?  I think it was?) my old book club and my friend D.P., in particular, had the sweetest and most thoughtful little surprise celebration for me at our monthly meeting.  I still have the origami cranes from that.  And the melted record album bowl.  And the cards.  Because it was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.

Anyway.

Ivan called me from work on Thursday, breathless with excitement.  I was surprised, because usually when he calls from work he sounds much more tired.  He started telling me what all errands he'd run during a couple hours he had off earlier in the afternoon, and then he burst in with, "and I got you something!"

He told me all about how he had wanted to find me something so special, something that could possibly convey the depth of his love ("That's a lot of expectations for one present," I pointed out as he shushed my skepticism.)

"I went to Haight Street," he said, "because there are so many weird goddamn shops close together that I figured if I was going to find something for you it would be there."  I rolled my eyes.  "Did you know there's a store there for Edwardian fashion?  Like, nice stuff.  I bet they only get customers one time a year..."

"Halloween," I broke in, just as he said, "Burning man."

"Anyway," he continued, "I went from store to store.  I even went into the Edwardian place.  Who knows?  Maybe they have something for you in there.  But I couldn't find anything.  I could find anything just right.  That said what I wanted to say.  I gave up.  Honey, I had given up!  And then I saw it.  Out of the corner of my eye.  There it was!"

"What, in a window?" I asked.

He went on to tell me about how the store clerk had been so helpful to him as they examined his options.  My curiosity grew and grew.

"You're going to love it!" he promised.  "You're going to know instantly why I got it for you and you're going to understand what you mean to me."

This was dramatic language even for Ivan.  I could barely disguise my doubt and disbelief, though I was completely intrigued by whatever item he thought could accomplish all this.

He wasn't done.

"Also I'm going to prove you wrong over what you said at Christmas.  How you said I didn't get you at all.  I do get you!  I get you and I love you so much!  You mean so much to me.  Do you want it now?  Yes!  Let me give it to you now!  I don't think I can wait."

I was completely blown away by the level of enthusiasm he was showing for this (and it doesn't even involve Warhammer!) but I said, "Look.  You would not believe the history I have for negotiating my presents early.  But I want to wait for this one.  Things have been so hard for so long for us and my birthdays usually feel so crappy to me that it would be really nice to have something to look forward to on my birthday."

He was doubtful and pointed out that he had to work on my birthday and I would be home alone with the baby.  I knew that, though.  And I don't even need the present.  The thought and effort that he put into really touched me, and this birthday, in one of the last days that I will be able to stay home with my girl before something--one way or another--changes.  This is enough. 

Fighting words

"The front door's open.  You don't have to make a scene."

By way of explanation

I:  What's wrong with that girl?  Is she right in the head?

A:  She's from Indiana.

I:  Ah, okay. That explains it.

The nature of the universe

Me:  I have a question for you.

Ivan (with his back to me at the computer):  Okay.

Me:  It's just something I was thinking about last night and it occurred to me that I didn't know how you would answer the question.

Ivan:  Okay.

Me:  And all you need to give is a yes/no answer.  I'm not trying to force you into a conversation about this.  I just want to know fundamentally what you believe.

Ivan:  Okay...

Me:  Do you believe in predestination?

Ivan (turns around):  What the fuck...?

Me:  You know, fate.  That we're all traveling down the road we were meant to travel.  Everything's laid out for us.  Can you boil down 'yes' or 'no' whether you believe in that or not?

(What followed was his half hour long thoughtful, off-the-cuff articulation of his views on predestination, the existence of God, and the nature of the universe while I listened.)

Me:  (pauses)  You know, I forgot that about you.

Ivan:  (raises his eyebrows inquisitively)

Me:  I forgot how you can TALK like that.  You explain yourself so well and you're so thoughtful.  I fell in love with you while you were doing that.  I forget that you can do it because we get bogged down in these mundane conversations about going to work and the baby and what's going on today.  I just forgot how much I love to listen to you.

Ivan:  (ducks his head shyly and laughs)

Anywhere you want to go

Yesterday I got out of the house for a few hours. I mainly had to run boring errands, but it was nice because I FELT like running those boring errands. My final stop of the day was an appointment with my therapist, Yuan-Lin, who I have really grown to love. I was a little early, so I walked the last few blocks and took my time. I meandered and swung my bag back and forth, lost in thought.

At the corner of 34th and Balboa, a guy about my age interrupted my reverie. "Do taxis run out here?" he asked, leaning against a building.

I frowned and shook my head. "No, sorry," I replied. "You won't really see them out here. If you were to see one it would be down around 36th where all the business are, but we're a little too far out."

He nooded and said, "Right on. Thanks." And then he proceeded to quickly walk ahead of me in the direction of 36th Ave. I continued my slow trek.

When I got to the corner of 36th and Balboa, I noticed the same guy again. "Hey, good luck," I told him as I walked past.

He laughed and suggested, "Maybe you could just take me with you?"

I laughed too, and called over my shoulder, "I'm not going anywhere you want to go!"

"I doubt that!" he called back.

By popular request: An update on bow-tie bank boy

A few folks have commented or written to ask for the follow-up story on the sweet man from the bank I mentioned in my last post. It had been nearly a month since my strange interaction with him, and I was pessimistic that he would still be a Wells Fargo employee.

As I took my place in line, I was surprised and pleased to see that he WAS, in fact, working that day. I noticed immediately that he was not sporting a bow-tie, but instead a regular tie. I was lucky enough to have him as a teller.

He never smiled once. He didn't ask me how I was doing. He was lethargic, and quietly took care of my transaction--none of the spunk or charm that had made me notice him before.

I wanted to tell him I understood. I wanted to whisper words of encouragement: "Don't let the man get you down!" But a person who appeared to be his supervisor was only a couple feet away, and I worried that I would cause him further trouble.

Admittedly, I was also afraid he would think I was hitting on him.

I walked away feeling a little sad. They've broken him!

Getting worse all the time

Recently, I was at the Wells Fargo at 19th Ave. and Geary Blvd. I stood in line trying to be patient and also to avoid looking at the little television that shows you what you look like standing in line at the goddamned bank. I hate those things.

When it was my turn, the teller who was helping me was a young guy who's been working there for awhile. He has always been friendly and has a penchant for smart little bow ties. On this day, he looked tired and his smile wasn't as big as usual. "How's your day going today?" he asked as he took care of my deposit.

"It's going okay," I responded, "how about yours?"

"Yeah, that's about it. Okay. But getting worse all the time." He smiled ruefully.

This caught me off guard and I wasn't quite sure how to respond. I kind of liked it, though. I have a special fondness for people who don't always give the run-of-the-mill "fine, thank you" answer. I commented on it to Ivan when I returned home.

A couple days later, a voicemail was left on my phone. It was a representative from Wells Fargo wanting to talk to me about my interaction with that particular teller on my visit to the bank.

Poor guy. When I go to the bank today, I have a feeling he won't be there.

Maybe only appreciated by gamers (thus, 0.0001% of my readers)

Ivan plays an online, fantasy, player-versus-player game (a MMORPG, to be more precise) called Dark Age of Camelot (DAoC). Admittedly and embarrasingly (because of my stereotypes about gamers) I've gotten into playing it in recent months, too.

Last night in the shower I was so furious with him for what he has done as I washed my still sore places that I was screaming at him in my mind. When I got out and dried off, I needed to do something.

I logged into his main character in DAoC, a known, templated, high realm-rank healer, Atreri, and went to the frontiers where other characters (or "toons") were getting ready to go off into the battlegrounds. I started going up to other people's toons and using the game's emoticons to make rude gestures at them, wave away their stench, and roll on the floor laghing at them. People started making rude gestures back and lots of them asked, "Dude, who the hell are you?" and "What the fuck is your problem?"

I finally announced in region chat that I was pissed off at my boyfriend and this was his toon so I was doing weird things with him. People found that amusing and one dude asked, "Hey, can I have his gear?" After that, all the toons around me started hugging me.

It was a weirdly touching moment.

My house. Where difficult silverware goes to die.

When I was growing up, one of my main household duties was the nightly task of washing dishes and cleaning up the kitchen after dinner. God, I hated it.

My mother's silverware drawer was a constant annoyance to me. On one side, our spoons, forks, and knives sat neatly in their little trays. The rest of the drawer was a chaotic mess of other, less frequently used cooking- and eating-related utensils: vegetable peelers, spatulas, corn on the cob holders, and so on. I quickly termed this the "difficult silverware" because these items were hard to organize, often oversized, and seemed to require endless rooting through the drawer to find.

In my adulthood, I have tried to alleviate this problem by having a large ceramic container sitting on the counter that holds and provides easy access to all the larger items. I, too, have a mass of garlic presses, measuring spoons, fondue forks, and shish kebab sticks messily taking up space in the other half of my silverware drawer. But at least I have made some progress on the organization front. My mama didn't raise no dummy.

I have noticed that Ivan has very little interest in my personal system of silverware organization. (The same could be said for his position regarding my systems for washing dishes, arranging the medicine cabinet, cleaning the bathroom sink, and putting away groceries, but I suppose at the moment that is neither here nor there.) We share the task of washing dishes, but in recent weeks and months when I have not felt well he has cheerfully born the brunt of it (unless we played cards and placed bets on who had to wash the dishes and I lost--also neither here nor there).

Ivan's kryptonite is putting the clean dishes away. He hates it. He is brought to his knees. He will beg and plead and cajole me that he will wash the dishes if only I will put the clean dishes away. Some days this sounds like a reasonable request. Other days it does not. If left to his own devices, he will put away simple items like plates and bowls and cups. The rest he stacks randomly around the kitchen or else takes a wild guess as to where it might belong and stashes it there. On some level I find this amusing, but when I am in the middle of cooking and politely looking for an item ("Where in the hell is the mixing bowl?") it makes me crazy.

This is how the ladle and the whisk have disappeared.

Really, it could be so easy! They could be proudly sitting in the container on the counter, ready to be called to duty again. Instead, I root through drawers and cabinets complaining, "How far could the goddamned whisk have gotten?"

To which he replies, "Which one is the whisk again?"

They have both been missing for weeks, and to his annoyance I never miss an educational opportunity to remind him of their usefulness and to bemoan their unknown whereabouts whenever I can.

I think about them sometimes even when I am not cooking. I like to imagine they are now free from servitude and pursuing other, non-functional interests and talents they might have. I suppose they will turn up eventually. Maybe when I move out of this apartment. Or, sure as shit, as soon as I decide to replace them and buy new ones.




I call this one "Sans Ladle and Whisk."

Future tense

A: "Voy a preparar su ensalada en diez minutos."

(P.S. My Spanish RAWKS!)

(P.P.S. Is that right, Cindy?)

Let them eat cake.

I (while pouring me yet another glass of wine): I'm such a...what's the word? Co-facilitator?

A: Enabler.

I: Yeah.