You see I’ve had a thistle up my tush since the most beautiful and coolest wine/beverage chiller ever made (in China) went kaput nine months ago. It was three-months out of warranty. We installed it in our remodeled kitchen exactly 15 months earlier.
I’ve obsessed so much that I’ve been off the blogosphere, and I just learned, off the tidysphere.
I woke up this morning to battalions of tiny black ants marching…
CAMBRIA, Ca—In a tranquil seaside village where the headlines announce chili-cookoff winners instead of “Bloody Scene At (fill in the blanks),” last night’s violent ravaging of a popular icon and the grizzly photos that recorded the incident remain hidden from the public eye. But t in the interest of verifying the demise of the icon, I am releasing the vile photos.
The surprise slaying occurred after my early evening Facebook post “I have to create dinner. I am uninspired.” It was a day of malady. I visited worry world and disappointment land. I dealt with this like any post-menopausal woman—I binged on a handful of leftover Easter pastel Reese pieces. That bounced me into deep lethargy. Cook your own damn dinner. Get me a big fat hamburger and a beer.
Spouse noticed the lack of spring in my step and my darkly rimmed eyes. “You know there’s a big low pressure ridge coming in. That’s what’s wrong with you.” Ten minutes later the weather report confirmed his analysis. I tend to slip down a rabbit hole when a low pressure system nears.
“Great,” I moaned. “Go get us evil food.”
Spouse had been on the road most of the day. His grimace said, “You may as well point me to a noose.” So I took that as a no.
We resolved dinner with some Trader Joe’s organic chicken sausage over a bowl of fresh greens soused with red wine vinaigrette.
“What about oranges and Cool Whip for dessert?” I suggested in an effort to compensate for my earlier binge.
But an emboldened terrorist hid in plain sight. Plus oranges and Cool Whip did not interest spouse. He knew only one thing would pull me out of my slump.
He surgically cruised near the subversive’s colorful compound. With a single swipe of the hand spouse took control of the thug, held it into the air and asked, “How ‘bout this instead?”
I conferred with my high command court (conscience) and decided that the time was now. “Yes, let’s do it!” I exclaimed.
It was a vicious and violent attack without recourse (except to the waistline). This morning the remains revealed the annihilation of a beloved icon. The proof is in the photos.
“I was perfectly sober. It’s just that, somehow, I’m unsure how, but, well, no one else would, and, grants are nearly a thing of the past, and the costs keep coming, and well, what could I do?”
Maybe because the magnetic North Pole has shifted closer to Siberia than what my world atlas indicates, we’re shifting into Mr. Well’s likely interpretation of “ Inception.”
And in that brand new, itsy-bitsy black bag is a Flip—the product of my pre-holiday squawking, “Don’t get me any presents unless it can be read, watched, or swallowed.” The Flip qualified because it creates something I can watch and it won’t require a continuing visit by the dust removal fairy.
My apologies to the gray-haired women who scurried away when they noticed my intense stares. I’m not weird, I was just checking out your hair. Now, that’s some nice gray—I could do that. Or: OMG, she looks older than the pyramids. And: What’s that? Icing on top of her head? Some of those gray heads wore the ever-popular but fashionably exhausted 1980’s wedge , while others can’t let go of that gray poodle-do. I think it was the cuts that scared me […]
I tossed my Queen of Christmas crown over to my eldest daughter, our family attorney. She’s got the babies and the career, so like a good mother, I’ve let her take on the joys of bouncing holiday hoopla, family, friends and career. I say this with impunity because it’s how tradition rolls. (Why do I not hear my daughter laughing out loud?????) However, my Queen of the Roasted Turkey crown remains intact. Yes, I am the Queen of Roasted Turkeys—and chicken too. […]
When we neared the first sign of civilization along Highway 1, spouse declared, “This is great! There’s nothing here.”
“Nothing” indicated a deficiency of swank hotels, chi-chi bistros, and chic boutiques. Not a Starbucks or a Pottery Barn to be found.
I’m agitated. I’m feeling like I want to go all Carl Spackler and build exploding clay varmints. While current politicians and news events still send me to a very large glass of wine at night, that’s not what makes me struggle with thoughts of sharp or explosive objects and chemical warfare.