non sequitur in 3 parts

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I had some errands to run after work last night, so I stopped off at home and threw on my favorite (of late) t-shirt and some jeans. Aforementioned t-shirt is white with a line drawing of a french bulldog.

Wait, let me see if I can find it online.

Nah, can’t find it exactly, but here’s something that’s reasonably similar:

So half an hour later, I’m wandering around Bed Bath and Beyond in the bedding section and a guy who was getting ready to do some restocking wheeled a 15 foot ladder by me and yelled out,

“HEY! I used to have one of those dogs! He died though.”

He stopped the ladder and peeked around the corner he’d just passed to make sure I’d heard him and to await a response.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!”

“It’s ok.”

And then he wandered away again. After a moment or two, I continued perusing the pillows and duvet covers. I made it all the way over to comforters and bedspreads when the guy came sprinting back over to me just to say,

“We never let him inside the house!”

“Oh that’s…um, why?”

“He was a nervous farter.”

We both enjoyed a good belly laugh and snortle or two, and then went our own ways. I like laughing with strangers.

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I find it interesting how often the following phrases are used in social media.

1.) ‘Nuff said. The irony is often lost on the poster themselves. They seem not to realize that “enough” is literally not being said.

2.) Dear______ , Love _______.  I’m guilty of using this one, and I do think it’s occasionally clever. Though, rarely when I use it.

3.) Nothing says ______ like ________.  Example: “Nothing says Christmas like cinnamon raisin cookies!” This truism is often only true for the individual making the statement. For instance, I hate cinnamon raisin cookies and they expressly do NOT say Christmas to me. Occasionally, this phrase could be used with irony, in which case “Nothing says Christmas like cinnamon raisin cookies!” would be funny and true.

4.) Gotta love ______.  Example: “Gotta love waking up to poop spewing out of your toilet at 5:30 in the morning!” Implied irony 98% of the time. Irony omitted only when used incorrectly.

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Could anyone else use a nap right now? Come ON Tuesday! For the love.

Living The Dream

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Today, I have to finish going through every page of 148 student files totaling up how many hours they’ve each logged in their internships this semester. It’s all just adding and counting and tallying and data entry (read: no brain power involved.)

The game that’s getting me though the day is imagining I’m a victorian accountant a la The Offices of Ebeneezer Scrooge. I’m at a tall standing desk with a gas lamp on the wall and a well of ink that I have to keep dipping in to. The paper is parchment. There is a bucket of coal that is nearly empty in the corner.

A copious amount of tea is also helping to keep this illusion alive.

This trend has been bothering me for a while

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Naming books after a character (commonly female), based off of their relationship to another character. Maybe it’s that thing within me that hates to be defined by something other than myself or my own accomplishments.  I don’t go around calling myself the Teacher’s Daughter, or the Writer’s Wife.

I found several other examples including: The Shoemaker’s Wife, The Apothecary’s Daughter, The Orphan Master’s Son, and The Blacksmith’s Son.

ONE CONCESSION: I do suppose these titles might be more interesting than just calling the books Bess, Magdalena, Clare, Phoebe, Sarah or Teresita.

The only title I can find that makes me think “hm, ok, that’s fine” is The Tiger’s Wife (which I haven’t read) which refers to an unnamed deaf-mute woman who befriends a tiger.  That is admittedly kind of cool.

How it Flew from Her

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From her mouth. It gathered its small, soft body and leapt
forward, up and out. And then it was gone. She knew
because of the dark hollow in her chest, like the place a woodpecker makes,
keeps making, until it’s emptied the wood of food
and moved on. She didn’t try to stop it, because she didn’t know
what it was; what came from her mouth
looked like a white moth, the kind that eats wool, so she clapped her hands,
chased it to the window, pulled the shade down
and pretended that was that. It’s surprising it stayed
as long as it did, because most of all, she made it wait. She made it wait
while she beat a dead horse, hit the nail on the head, drove her point home,
split hairs, threw fat on the fire, killed birds with a stone.
Naturally, it grew tired of waiting,
tried to tell her, made a few practice runs, beat its wings;
she could feel it, don’t tell me she couldn’t, she could hear
the wings beat. She still feels it, like when you lose an arm or leg
and it aches but there’s nothing there
to ache. That’s how hollow she feels. She talks a lot, laughs
with her mouth open wide. Not everyone knows why,
but I do: she’s making a place for it to come back to.

- Amy Dryansky

 

(Discovered this bit o’poesy thanks to MightyGirl.)