Overheard, walking behind tiny little girl in pink skirt, skipping down the street, talking to her mom:
“Everybody has to share the car, but I’m not going to share my car with anybody!”
Okay, maybe I’ll have one kid.
The reason I would suck in customer relations is people like me
Note: This guy is the shiniest, most suit-wearing, conscientious, friendly, customer-experience-oriented employee, like, EVER. He’s adorable. You want to put him in your pocket. And give him a raise.
I pre-paid for 1/2 tank of gas with car rental. Returning it with 1/4 tank:
Me: “I tried really hard to use it up. I was idling, driving over penguins…”
Him: “…how does driving over penguins help?”
Me: “More environmentally destructive?”
Him: “Ah.”
(does inspection)
Him: “Well, looks good… no penguin blood.”
Me: “It rained.”
…later…
Him: “Y’know, there’s not a lot of people you can make penguin blood jokes with.”
…later still…
Him: “And how was everything, how was the service? Was there anything I could have done better?”
Me: “Oh no. Though… joking about penguin blood. That’s just off-colour. I mean really.”
—
ETA: Then he offered me an umbrella for the walk home. Buddy is unflappable. Like a dead penguin. GET IT! Thank you! I’ll be here all week!
A new colour
“…it’s hard to remember exactly what I was waiting for. Although I do know that it was something wholly unfamiliar and thrilling. Like a new colour, one I’d never seen before. Not a mixture: no trace of blue or yellow or red. What would that look like? Even though our physical world makes the existence of such a thing basically impossible, I’d still really like to see that.”
~ David Rakoff, in TAL’s Promised Land episode and his book “Don’t Get Too Comfortable“
You sing your carols, I’ll sing mine.
The first person ready to go in full scarves and mittens at the front door reserves the right to sing distracting songs while the second person scurries around looking for wallets and socks and keys.
There were flurries in Toronto this morning (w00t!!!), so I thought it fitting to sing something “seasonal”. In category, if not spirit. ; )
See this morning’s impromptu lyrical genius below. Sung to the tune of “Winter Wonderland”. If you can’t make the lyrics fit, you’re not squooshing them hard enough.
“In the meadow you will build me a snowman
And I’ll check to make sure you did it right
If you didn’t, I’ll be very an-gry
And teach you about the importance of symmetrical spheres.
Later on, you’ll be cryin’
But it’s meee who’ll be dyin.
Cuz you didn’t do it properly
And I’m ashamed to be seen with you
Walkin’ in a winter wonderland.”
ETA: Husband’s reaction? “Oh yeah, you’re definitely not allowed to have kids.”
CANDY.
The child in me (“No candy thank you. Unicef?”) just ran in a circle screaming “OMIGODOMIGODOMIGOD!!!”, and then fell over in excitement.
AND THERE’S MORE WHERE THIS CAME FROM.
My tummy hurts.
Update: If you ever wonder if sugar-bans lead to addiction, allow me to share this morning’s IM exchange with my big brother:
me: CANDY
him: Candy candy candy candy canday
me: candycandycandy
White Squirrel!
If I believed in omens, and these were Ye Olde Tymes, White Squirrels would totally be good omens.
As I do not believe in omens, and these are Ye Modyrne +1m35, White Squirrels will have to settle for just being FLUFFY & BADASS.
Did You Know?: While the acorn-hucking, baby-tripping regular park squirrels only listen to thrash metal, white squirrels prefer standards. I mean, they’re cool with a bit of Metallica now and then, they just know what they like.
“After his hard day, meet your husband in a nice dress and a pair of heels.”
“I want you to really, fully absorb what I’m wearing right now. Check this action out, head-to-toe.”
Earlier in the day the husband and I went out for lunch. He kept commenting on how nice I looked, though I felt quite “dressed in the dark” chic. Then I realized that I’d come straight from a meeting to lunch, and so was still dressed for work. As in, grown-up clothes.
I posited that just maybe I didn’t actually look that nice at all, but because he’d been coming home a bit late recently, he was only ever seeing me in Home Office Standard. That I had inadvertently calibrated his expectations to mismatched cargo pants and tank top as an “outfit”.
He, sweetly, denied any such thing and insisted I just looked really nice. Until this evening.
When, as we were chatting about why the cup he found on the counter was full of candies (I have my reasons), I suggested he take a minute to really, fully, look. To drink in the full extent of the mad style I treat him to around the house.
I will tell you what I was wearing. But first, hear it through his eyes:
“Oh… Huh. Maybe you’re right — maybe I am dazzled by you wearing normal clothes. Right now you look sort of like you found a pair of pants in the garbage, and you threw on a gunny sack [he’s half-Scottish so he sometimes he uses made-up words], and I don’t even know what to say about your feet… Your hair looks kind of nice.”
Here is the actual inventory of the visual feast I was providing: I was wearing the floopy bamboo chemise-y thing I was planning to sleep in, overtop of my rolled up cargo pants that I wear every day (because I got half-changed and then walked around the house for a while, as is my wont), and on my feet: my cow socks. My hair did look kind of nice.
So, though I think we can agree that what he meant to say about my feet is that they looked AWESOME, I rest my slovenly case. In the adorably love-is-blindspot of his eye.
Wednesday evening at the homestead, or why I am the King of Socks.
In a not atypical evening, the wandering husband texted me to say he’d be taking the long way home (via music stores. le shock.)
I texted back with the wise suggestion that he take the long way home, with a pitstop in the township of roti. Population: us.
He concurred, and asked what I wanted. I said I didn’t care, so long as it involved meat.
He said his phone was running out of juice, and in the last gasps of his battery we said an overly dramatic farewell. “I’ll keep you in my heart always!” “I loooooooove youuuuu….*click*”.
When he took what my Hunger decided was too long (about 20 minutes), I followed up with a “FEED ME!” text. (<-helpful) He arrived home to find me sprawled in fake-corpse mode on the bed (I had died from hunger, obvs.) It was double strength fake looking, since I'd been standing by the front door when his key turned in the lock and I had to boot it down the hall to get in position.
“Nice top”, says he.
“Thanks”, mumble I into the sheets. (Tonight, I died belly-side down). I then suggested I was probably still alive enough for mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
We ate rotis while watching an episode of Babylon 5 (this one starred Grima Wormtongue — what is up with the guest actors on that show…). At the end of the episode, Captain Stingypants decided not to dole out another one. “I still need to get some work done” says he. “I don’t care about what you need!” says I. (<-class) He then asked where I had put his socks. Or, more specifically, he said "King of Socks, what did you do with the socks?" He used my full title as I have taken to, on finding orphan articles of his clothing on the floor, putting them on my head and declaring myself the King of them. See also: "I am the King of Socks." "I am the King of Tshirts." And so on. (He'd watched the coronation vis-a-vis these particular socks shortly before the B5 credits). I informed him that I had put his socks in the hamper, as well as thanking him for using my full title (he also called me "majesty"). He then suggested that "you could come work on the floor of my office." (Me: "Um... thanks?") "If you're quick. Kitty might beat you to it." (She did, but I pulled the ol' nip toy bait'n'switch. Sucker. Every time.) En route to my floor office, we ended up in something couples with more "spacious" houses miss out on: a full-body hallway wrestling doorjam-bracing-knee-hooking-waistband-grabbin' tussle to see who gets to use the bathroom first (answer: me). Then I made him tea. Because I love him. The end.
Home sweet home on the range.
I really, really, know how to spend a Saturday.
HK – P2000 (9mm) (or the Sig, I can’t see in this pic).
Update: It’s the Sig Sauer – P226 (9mm). Thanks Pat! Very first 25 rounds. Important lesson the boyz got to learn off me — take your time with the trigger. Weirdly more important than “aiming”.
Smith & Wesson – M&P-15
.223 cal (civvie version of an M-16)
How a motorcycle is like a big dog. Stay with me on this…
So my brand spanking new shiny red motorcycle is now home safe and sound, tucked in under a tarp (shhh, she’s sleeping).
Which got me thinking about how motorcycles are like kids and dogs.
(No, not that they’re loud and stinky. And you take that back about my baby.)
This is what it’s like when you get your first bike. Swap dog for bike, and little kid for grown-up little kid:
Little kid sees a big dog. Runs behind parent’s legs, but can’t stop staring, wide-eyed, at the dog. Mom: “Do you want to pat the doggie?” Kid shakes head and hides face behind parents legs, clutching at fabric. Seconds later, kid is peering around legs again.
Time passes.
Kid mumbles something incoherent into fabric of parent’s slacks. “What’s that sweetie?”
“I want to pat the doggie.”
Holding parent’s hand, kid walks over to dog. Skin and fur barely make contact. Kid runs back behind parent’s legs. Kid resumes staring at dog.
Time passes. Dog scratches its ear.
Kid tries again. Maybe this time the dog licks the kid. Kid almost loses it, but holds it together. Barely.
Cut to later the same day.
Kid is chasing the dog around the house yelling “I want to play with the doggie!!!” “HERE DOGGIE!!!”
The whole ride home is doggie this and doggie that. Kid. Loves. Dog. (Dog just wants to be friends).
. . .
This is what it’s like with a motorcycle. When you first see it, you think it’s cool. Then you sit on it, and it’s suddenly huge and scary. Then you get used to it, and it gets smaller and smaller and you get bigger and bigger. Until you have one sitting out in your parking spot and you keep throwing on your flip flops to go peek under the tarp at it.
Hypothetically.
Woof.