BEFORE: Hot John Hamm aka Donald Draper, whom I would call Boss.
Is it just me, or did John Hamm’s face jump the shark between seasons? He looks like an alien now, as opposed to my fantasy boss. That’s all I’m saying.
At Whole Foods tonight, I was about to help myself to a chunk of gruyere, until I saw a toddler break free of his dad, run to the cheese station, stick his hands above his head and wildly jam them in the opening of the cheese stand feeling for any pieces of cheese he could grab.
At that point, I kind of threw up in my mouth. Needless to say, I passed on the gruyere.
Something about babies’ and toddlers’ hands and mouths disgust me. Maybe it’s because I’m completely lacking a maternal instinct, or maybe it’s because – as often as not – these parts of kids are coated with some unidentifiable greenish-yellow mucus. Call me crazy, but I would rather eat a grape off my toilet seat than let a child hold it before putting it in my mouth.
Perhaps one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever witnessed is this move: Mother is spoon-feeding her child… Food misses kid’s mouth and ends up all around it… Mother cleans up face by collecting the puree in a spoon – then eats it herself… ACK!
And that’s why I don’t have babies: I would be a non-stop puking machine. Then again, I might actually stand a chance of losing the baby weight.
No. Don’t worry: I will not reproduce.
You’re welcome.
Last night I re-caulked my guest shower.
I know. You’re thinking, “Damn. This girl sure does love some caulk.”
And you’re right. I caulked my old bathtub before moving, my new bathtub (twice because of faulty caulk), and now my new guest shower. I am turning into something of a Caulk Artist (not like this guy, who is a clever Cock Artist).
Seriously, click on that link. It will provide you with two minutes of magic, the likes of which you haven’t seen since you last purchased a MAD Magazine.
Anyway, the problem with caulking is that I’m a perfectionist. Caulking is easy; it’s the prep work that sucks. I spend days tearing out caulk, using a razor blade to get every last trace out, then a sanding sponge and dustbuster to make sure it’s 100% clean and ready for new caulk. So although I’m good at it, I kind of hate it.
Which got me to thinking… most people probably hate it.
And that lead to a brainstorm, which sounded something like this:
If ever I lose my day job, I could make a living by caulking people’s tubs for them.
There is a need for that.
I always look in people’s tubs when I am at their house peeing, and I am disgusted.
This is a business plan waiting to be written!
Wait. What would I name this business?
Stop, Caulk, and Roll? (Because it’s a mobile business!)
Caulk and Balls? (Would somehow need to incorporate ball bearings. Not sure how.)
Caulk-a-doodle-doo! (Enough said.)
Caulk-a-memi. (Again.)
Piece of Caulk! (For the Martin Short fans in the bunch.)
Back to the drawing board.
My father is an ardent environmentalist, so I grew up accepting certain practices as normal, only to discover as an adult that most people do not, in fact, live that way. I’ve been away from home long enough that when I do go back, I am guiltily reminded of how far off the farm I’ve wandered.
I was on the back porch of my parents’ home in Michigan this last week, eating dinner with them, when the phone rang. My mom took the call and it was one of her fellow members from Garden Club. They talked for a surprising length of time since my mom is not a phone person, but even more surprising was what they talked about.
“Two tinkles to a flush,” I heard her proclaim. “That’s the only rule!”
The forecast called for rain, so my mom picked up a few movies to take to the cottage with us this weekend. Friday night we popped one in – a foreign movie set in Jerusalem. The opening credits rolled to music, but as the first scene started, subtitles appeared on the screen.
Dad: Anne, can you read that?
Mom squinted.
Mom: What are you talking about?
Dad: The words on the screen. This is subtitled.”
Mom: What?
Mom squinted at screen again.
Mom: Well I’m not going to read the whole thing. Piss on it.
Earlier, she had cracked me up on our drive to the cottage. She was telling my dad about someone in the community, but my dad couldn’t place the guy.
“Yes, John. You know him. Remember? He’s the guy who let his dog shit right next to Jim’s car?”
The thing is, with that description, my dad knew exactly who she was talking about.
She has a way with words, my mother.
pithypants 