Someone who knows my deepest, darkest desires gave me the most splendid present ever: a book. But not just ANY book, it is titled Curious Lists: A Creative Journal for List-Lovers. And boy, am I ever a List-Lover.
I will share with you, internet, some of my favorite (completed by me) lists from this book.
Haikus About Duct Tape
A roll of silver
Poised to fix any hole at all:
a shiny soul patch
The MacGuyver of
my toolbox, anchoring the
bottom with your weight
The shy-er cousin
of red electrical tape
your girth is useful
Monday, June 28, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
I am smitten...
When I giggle and warn you, during our 10:30pm phone conversation, that I have just taken NyQuil and you reply, "Awesome. We're talking all night. Go get a beer."
When, driving me home after an amazing date, you let me blast my favorite Yeah Yeah Yeahs song and sing along loudly with all of the windows down.
When I am forced to buy my favorite type of yogurt in blueberry (which I don't care for), because that is all that is left on the shelf, and I eat it and find it to be AMBROSIAL.
When you indulge my secret crush on a certain British vampire-actor and buy me a calendar of him for Christmas.
When you label the wrapped calendar with a tag that has a fanged-smiley face after the From:.
When, in an effort to out-child me, you produce beautiful twin boys who I already love.
When you still remember the reasons behind those 2 times we almost got thrown out of 11th grade Biology.
When, driving me home after an amazing date, you let me blast my favorite Yeah Yeah Yeahs song and sing along loudly with all of the windows down.
When I am forced to buy my favorite type of yogurt in blueberry (which I don't care for), because that is all that is left on the shelf, and I eat it and find it to be AMBROSIAL.
When you indulge my secret crush on a certain British vampire-actor and buy me a calendar of him for Christmas.
When you label the wrapped calendar with a tag that has a fanged-smiley face after the From:.
When, in an effort to out-child me, you produce beautiful twin boys who I already love.
When you still remember the reasons behind those 2 times we almost got thrown out of 11th grade Biology.
Recipe for Awesome
An incredible way to spend 40 minutes of your evening is making risotto. Allow me to explain how truly awesome that 40 minutes can be:
- Begin cooking: chop onion, saute with butter, add risotto.
- Pour wine (a small amount into the pan, a large amount into your glass).
- Turn on radio, add chicken stock to pan.
- Stir, sip.
- Dance.
- Stir, sip.
- Add more chicken stock.
- Stir, sip.
- Dip it low.
- Began singing along to songs where you don't know the lyrics, but make up your own that sound infinitely better anyway. Add more chicken stock.
- Pour more wine (glass, not pan).
- Rotate pelvis rapidly while stirring.
- Taste risotto and be amazed at your skills.
- Add more chicken stock, dance and sing to Michael Jackson's Bad while singing, "You know I'm bad! I'm bad! JAMAL!"
- Stir, sip. You might need a refill at this point. Trust me, it helps with the cooking (and dancing).
- Add more chicken stock.
- Stir, sip, seriously consider auditioning for American Idol.
- Finish risotto with an egg yolk, a squeeze of lemon, Parmesan, pepper, and a dash of half 'n half.
- Gobble up amazing dinner (also good with steamed asparagus, or shrimps, or mushrooms) and marvel at your remarkable cooking and dancing skills. Repeat between bites: "I am phenomenal."
I Wish I Was A Punkrocker
I can really get behind music that features:
(If you find a song that has all three of these I will probably propose to you.)
- steel drums
- a ukelele
- marching band percussion
(If you find a song that has all three of these I will probably propose to you.)
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Bright are the stars that shine...
I can no longer keep it to myself: I have been having a love affair since late 2001. And I have to tell you this also: If you saw my love, you'd love him too.
He is of Egyptian lineage, and has deep, deep brown eyes. His face is so beautiful that it almost looks like he is wearing makeup. He is one of those people that is always cold, even in the summer. He loves the beach, but not in the cheesy, Playboy centerfold-fake way; he genuinely loves it. He would camp out, eat fish, and live on the sand.
He is very introspective, but at the same time, a giver. He loves to sit in my recliner, but not in the reclined position. He is a very good listener, and is rarely the first person to break out of a hug. He has a rather large overbite, but it is charmingly attractive. He secretly longs to be a tap-dancer.
He eats like a pig but stays remarkably trim. He is a very fast runner, which is kind of how we met. He would always rather be on a golf course and thinks that cats are not to be trusted. He loves babies and sneaks bites of their food when he thinks that I am not looking.
He respects my space and will only sleep in my bed if invited. He will always want you to turn on the fire, and will never talk you out of baking anything. He likes to play games, but only with certain people (me, or course, being #1 on that list...did I mention how smart he is?).
My love is patient, kind, giving, and smells soft and musky and never unpleasant. Sometimes he could use a rinse of mouthwash, but I would never hold that against him. He will try any food once. He hates to see me cry, and tends to worry if I am in the bathroom for too long.
Sometimes he talks in his sleep, and I do not begrudge being woken up to that. He would take a bullet for me, and has told me this many times. He does not like loud music, or football games, but will let me put my feet on him when they are chilly and need to be toasted.
He is quietly poetic, endlessly faithful, and has been a big inspiration of mine for the past nine wonderful years. Plus he also loves, loves, loves to annoy Scott B. which is also one of MY very favorite pastimes. For these reasons, and oh so many others, this love of mine will never die, as long as I have him near me. And I love him.
Stanley Doo
He is of Egyptian lineage, and has deep, deep brown eyes. His face is so beautiful that it almost looks like he is wearing makeup. He is one of those people that is always cold, even in the summer. He loves the beach, but not in the cheesy, Playboy centerfold-fake way; he genuinely loves it. He would camp out, eat fish, and live on the sand.
He is very introspective, but at the same time, a giver. He loves to sit in my recliner, but not in the reclined position. He is a very good listener, and is rarely the first person to break out of a hug. He has a rather large overbite, but it is charmingly attractive. He secretly longs to be a tap-dancer.
He eats like a pig but stays remarkably trim. He is a very fast runner, which is kind of how we met. He would always rather be on a golf course and thinks that cats are not to be trusted. He loves babies and sneaks bites of their food when he thinks that I am not looking.
He respects my space and will only sleep in my bed if invited. He will always want you to turn on the fire, and will never talk you out of baking anything. He likes to play games, but only with certain people (me, or course, being #1 on that list...did I mention how smart he is?).
My love is patient, kind, giving, and smells soft and musky and never unpleasant. Sometimes he could use a rinse of mouthwash, but I would never hold that against him. He will try any food once. He hates to see me cry, and tends to worry if I am in the bathroom for too long.
Sometimes he talks in his sleep, and I do not begrudge being woken up to that. He would take a bullet for me, and has told me this many times. He does not like loud music, or football games, but will let me put my feet on him when they are chilly and need to be toasted.
He is quietly poetic, endlessly faithful, and has been a big inspiration of mine for the past nine wonderful years. Plus he also loves, loves, loves to annoy Scott B. which is also one of MY very favorite pastimes. For these reasons, and oh so many others, this love of mine will never die, as long as I have him near me. And I love him.
Stanley Doo
Friday, June 25, 2010
Tonight, tonight
I had a piece of cold pizza and about 7 Russell Stover's chocolates for dinner. It has been that kind of day.
Now I am watching Remember Me, again. This movie got dumped on because of the ending, but I really liked it. Admitedly I was initially drawn to it because of the panty-melter, but, as a viewer with such shallow expectations, I went into it expecting melted undergarments, and ended up laughing some, being genuinely impressed with the story, and moved by the ending. I prefer movies that make me ponder a bit, so this did not disappoint (on many levels).
Now I am watching Remember Me, again. This movie got dumped on because of the ending, but I really liked it. Admitedly I was initially drawn to it because of the panty-melter, but, as a viewer with such shallow expectations, I went into it expecting melted undergarments, and ended up laughing some, being genuinely impressed with the story, and moved by the ending. I prefer movies that make me ponder a bit, so this did not disappoint (on many levels).
The saddest thing I can imagine...
...is having nothing to say.
(Luckily that is not a problem I often encounter. But I imagine it to be pretty devastating.)
(Luckily that is not a problem I often encounter. But I imagine it to be pretty devastating.)
Word Hungry
I was raised by a pack of readers. Literally. And as any voracious reader knows, the best time to read is while you...eat.
Growing up we had piles of varying types of literature in our kitchen, ranging from gardening books to random pre-teen dramas, like Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself. (Actually, according to one of my childhood friends, this book was the Celine Dion to the Vegas of our kitchen table; it had a running showing of over 8 years.) All of it was there so that at any given time, one could just pick up a book, open it to anywhere, and commence reading. The subject (or audience) didn't matter...it was the reading that mattered.
Because of this multi-tasking at mealtimes, it could take me anywhere near an hour to finish my food. If other people were eating as well, they would also be reading and quietly chewing--it was the best of everything: food and words and silence! Naturally as this was how life was in our house, I thought that this was normal. It was sometimes difficult to eat at someone else's house without anything to read--it was like eating naked! What was I supposed to do, sit and TALK? I had food in my mouth!!
It is for this reason that if you open up one of the billions of books that travel between the members of my extended family's homes, you can often find a page with a smashed crumb or faint orange-cheesey fingerprint on one of the pages. They are the "A Reader-Eater Was Here" cave paintings in our history. Sometimes you can even use the edible detritus to determine who the last person was to read that particular book: anything chocolate=my sister; a dried, sticky drip of apple butter=my Gran.
As I got older and started living with other, non-reader-eaters, I realized that this isn't really the mealtime norm, per se. (Actually I came to realize that a good many things that occurred around our house weren't the norm...but that is another post altogether.) I adapted to eating and watching tv (college), eating and web-surfing (jobs), and eating and feeding (kids), but my preference is still, and will always be, to settle down at the kitchen table with a book and a plate-full of delicious.
[Aside: I suspect that this incessant reading was either the solution to, or the cause of my nosiness. I cannot NOT read. I will read labels, toothpaste tubes, instructions, ingredients, anything I can spot with words on it. I have to know what it says. There may be SOMETHING THAT I DON'T KNOW! I cannot live in a world with unread signs. Dan, however, would be quite at home there.]
So you can imagine my surprise and joy when at breakfast this morning, Jack sat down to eat his toast at the table and asked me for a book.
"Which one?" I asked him (they are everywhere).
"Oh, I don't know. How about that Simpsons book?"
I gladly handed over Dan's Simpsons encyclopedia and had to take a picture as my little budding reader-eater followed in his Mom's (clearly superior) genetic footprints, leaving his toast crumbs as a testament of this, hopefully for his sister to find.
Growing up we had piles of varying types of literature in our kitchen, ranging from gardening books to random pre-teen dramas, like Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself. (Actually, according to one of my childhood friends, this book was the Celine Dion to the Vegas of our kitchen table; it had a running showing of over 8 years.) All of it was there so that at any given time, one could just pick up a book, open it to anywhere, and commence reading. The subject (or audience) didn't matter...it was the reading that mattered.
Because of this multi-tasking at mealtimes, it could take me anywhere near an hour to finish my food. If other people were eating as well, they would also be reading and quietly chewing--it was the best of everything: food and words and silence! Naturally as this was how life was in our house, I thought that this was normal. It was sometimes difficult to eat at someone else's house without anything to read--it was like eating naked! What was I supposed to do, sit and TALK? I had food in my mouth!!
It is for this reason that if you open up one of the billions of books that travel between the members of my extended family's homes, you can often find a page with a smashed crumb or faint orange-cheesey fingerprint on one of the pages. They are the "A Reader-Eater Was Here" cave paintings in our history. Sometimes you can even use the edible detritus to determine who the last person was to read that particular book: anything chocolate=my sister; a dried, sticky drip of apple butter=my Gran.
As I got older and started living with other, non-reader-eaters, I realized that this isn't really the mealtime norm, per se. (Actually I came to realize that a good many things that occurred around our house weren't the norm...but that is another post altogether.) I adapted to eating and watching tv (college), eating and web-surfing (jobs), and eating and feeding (kids), but my preference is still, and will always be, to settle down at the kitchen table with a book and a plate-full of delicious.
[Aside: I suspect that this incessant reading was either the solution to, or the cause of my nosiness. I cannot NOT read. I will read labels, toothpaste tubes, instructions, ingredients, anything I can spot with words on it. I have to know what it says. There may be SOMETHING THAT I DON'T KNOW! I cannot live in a world with unread signs. Dan, however, would be quite at home there.]
So you can imagine my surprise and joy when at breakfast this morning, Jack sat down to eat his toast at the table and asked me for a book.
"Which one?" I asked him (they are everywhere).
"Oh, I don't know. How about that Simpsons book?"
I gladly handed over Dan's Simpsons encyclopedia and had to take a picture as my little budding reader-eater followed in his Mom's (clearly superior) genetic footprints, leaving his toast crumbs as a testament of this, hopefully for his sister to find.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
I am beguiled...
When you put your friend on speaker phone so that I can giggle at both sides of the conversation.
When you bring me pork-roll sandwiches and coffee in bed. Twice.
When you tell me that you really love our baby, even if she is "a Chinese."
When you sign your text messages, "Love Dad."
When you laugh for me, but only when no one else is around.
When you let me squeeze your furry body when I wake up from a bad dream in the middle of the night.
When you let me lick the beaters when you make frosting, even though I am over 30. And sometimes the spatula too.
When you greet me with "Hey Skinny!"
When you go splitsies with me because I couldn't decide between the chicken sandwich or hamburger.
When you let me tease you about your briefcase and transitions lenses.
When you insist that I take your wife's new car for a test drive.
When you buy me a shirt for Christmas and it is my favorite thing to wear.
When you let my baby yank on your ears, and are not offended when I laugh.
When you indulge in my fondness for combining words and let me refer to your chest as your "hairea."
When you bring me pork-roll sandwiches and coffee in bed. Twice.
When you tell me that you really love our baby, even if she is "a Chinese."
When you sign your text messages, "Love Dad."
When you laugh for me, but only when no one else is around.
When you let me squeeze your furry body when I wake up from a bad dream in the middle of the night.
When you let me lick the beaters when you make frosting, even though I am over 30. And sometimes the spatula too.
When you greet me with "Hey Skinny!"
When you go splitsies with me because I couldn't decide between the chicken sandwich or hamburger.
When you let me tease you about your briefcase and transitions lenses.
When you insist that I take your wife's new car for a test drive.
When you buy me a shirt for Christmas and it is my favorite thing to wear.
When you let my baby yank on your ears, and are not offended when I laugh.
When you indulge in my fondness for combining words and let me refer to your chest as your "hairea."
Overheard
At the bank today, a man on his cell phone waiting in line behind me:
"Weeeeellll you know that Theodore is gonna be there. We'll just have to put up bug-zappers and buy some ice. Do you still have those ear-pugs? Mmmhmmm, and bring some extra beer."
I would really like to know what issues Theodore has that necessitate all of those bizarre items. Not entirely sure what it could be, but it sounds like something I could get onboard with.
"Weeeeellll you know that Theodore is gonna be there. We'll just have to put up bug-zappers and buy some ice. Do you still have those ear-pugs? Mmmhmmm, and bring some extra beer."
I would really like to know what issues Theodore has that necessitate all of those bizarre items. Not entirely sure what it could be, but it sounds like something I could get onboard with.
Monday, June 21, 2010
How old is old?
Today as I picked Jack up from school, he regaled me with the history of his preschool while we strolled the halls on our way to the exit.
"You know, this school is actually not that old," he explained.
"Well, how old is old?" I asked.
"Eh? I am four."
"I mean, you said 'old' so I just want to know, what does that mean? How many years?" I inquired.
He paused, mid-stride. "Well...is 50 old?" he asked.
"Sure," I said. "Pop-Pop is 50...ish."
"OK. Then this school is actually not Pop-Pop-old."
"Good to know," I said, as we continued on our tour.
"And someone actually threw up right here!" he exclaimed, gesturing to a small spot on the carpet.
"You know, this school is actually not that old," he explained.
"Well, how old is old?" I asked.
"Eh? I am four."
"I mean, you said 'old' so I just want to know, what does that mean? How many years?" I inquired.
He paused, mid-stride. "Well...is 50 old?" he asked.
"Sure," I said. "Pop-Pop is 50...ish."
"OK. Then this school is actually not Pop-Pop-old."
"Good to know," I said, as we continued on our tour.
"And someone actually threw up right here!" he exclaimed, gesturing to a small spot on the carpet.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Dream a Little Dream
Dan's Father's Day wishes have been as follows: (My commentary in parens.)
- Go see Toy Story 3. (Done!)
- Eat steak AND shrimp for dinner. At home. With potatoes. And an appetizer. (This may lead some of you to the conclusion that I don't regularly cook amazing dinners. Not so. He is just a simple kind of man. With a predictable appetite. Although the dual-meat thing is not something that I usually indulge, so that is the bulk of this wish.)
- Watch golf on TV all weekend with no complaining from yours truly. (AMAZINGLY enough I have managed to adhere to this wish. It is a one-pass phenomenon.)
- Go to the gym. (The subtext to this one is "ALONE." Usually we go together at lunchtime, and he is forced to stay UNBEARABLE EXTRA MINUTES while I stretch or, God forbid, workout for longer than 40 minutes at a time.)
Deliverance
Dan and I enjoyed an afternoon of pretending to be the parents of an only child today as we took Jack to see Toy Story 3. (The most convincing act was Jack's unadulterated greed.) My parents watched The Hamlet at our house so that we could fulfill Dan's Father's Day Wish (#1).
[Totally irrelevant to the story I've already started: Every time my parents babysit the kids they manage to find an installation of the Lethal Weapon franchise on the television to watch. It's uncanny--it is on EVERY TIME they've been here. And after they've left, their absence is heralded by Danny Glover and explosions. And children whining.]
I insisted that we arrive at the movie theater early to secure good seats, and even defied movie theater law by bringing sandwiches and cheese balls and a Coke refill in my hideously large purse. (I am a pro.) The movie was adorable, with the requisite laughter and tears, along with some excessively loud whispering from Jack, the novice movie-goer. As this is only his second venture to the Regal Cinema @ Beaver Creek (our favorite theater, also affectionately known as "The Regal Beav" as a nod to Three's Company), I was astounded at how well-behaved he was. The movie was predictable punctuated with teeny voices and cries, which, in my opinion, only made it more legitimate. (Funnily enough, as a parent, I don't usually get upset when other children misbehave, only my own. Sometimes, secretly, I take tangible pleasure when other children misbehave as it affirms my belief that IT CAN HAPPEN TO ANYONE.)
Everyone loved the movie, all snacks were consumed, and as we headed home, Jack inquired if he could "have a treat since I was so good at the movies."
Dan, not one to be easily duped, replied, "Ahh, no. Your treat was going to the movie."
"That was YOUR treat." Jack said pointedly.
"Look, a cow!" I exclaimed, hoping to diffuse the escalating treat embargo.
The topic eventually was switched as Dan mentioned that he wanted to call his Dad when we got home.
"Your Dad is at our house already," Jack told him.
"That is MY dad," I explained. "Grandpa, who lives in Maryland, is Daddy's dad."
"Uh, no. Pop-Pop is Daddy's dad and your dad."
(Gross.)
"Who is Leslie's Dad then?"
"She doesn't have one. Or a mom." (This explains a lot, I thought.)
"Jack, Pop-Pop has two kids--Leslie, and me."
"You're not a kid!" Jack cackled. "You're a big girl!"
[Totally irrelevant to the story I've already started: Every time my parents babysit the kids they manage to find an installation of the Lethal Weapon franchise on the television to watch. It's uncanny--it is on EVERY TIME they've been here. And after they've left, their absence is heralded by Danny Glover and explosions. And children whining.]
I insisted that we arrive at the movie theater early to secure good seats, and even defied movie theater law by bringing sandwiches and cheese balls and a Coke refill in my hideously large purse. (I am a pro.) The movie was adorable, with the requisite laughter and tears, along with some excessively loud whispering from Jack, the novice movie-goer. As this is only his second venture to the Regal Cinema @ Beaver Creek (our favorite theater, also affectionately known as "The Regal Beav" as a nod to Three's Company), I was astounded at how well-behaved he was. The movie was predictable punctuated with teeny voices and cries, which, in my opinion, only made it more legitimate. (Funnily enough, as a parent, I don't usually get upset when other children misbehave, only my own. Sometimes, secretly, I take tangible pleasure when other children misbehave as it affirms my belief that IT CAN HAPPEN TO ANYONE.)
Everyone loved the movie, all snacks were consumed, and as we headed home, Jack inquired if he could "have a treat since I was so good at the movies."
Dan, not one to be easily duped, replied, "Ahh, no. Your treat was going to the movie."
"That was YOUR treat." Jack said pointedly.
"Look, a cow!" I exclaimed, hoping to diffuse the escalating treat embargo.
The topic eventually was switched as Dan mentioned that he wanted to call his Dad when we got home.
"Your Dad is at our house already," Jack told him.
"That is MY dad," I explained. "Grandpa, who lives in Maryland, is Daddy's dad."
"Uh, no. Pop-Pop is Daddy's dad and your dad."
(Gross.)
"Who is Leslie's Dad then?"
"She doesn't have one. Or a mom." (This explains a lot, I thought.)
"Jack, Pop-Pop has two kids--Leslie, and me."
"You're not a kid!" Jack cackled. "You're a big girl!"
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Ready...Set...Go?
Sydney is teetering on the edge of mobility. She is about ready to burst from her easy-to-manage, chubby chrysalis into a blurry, moving mess. I can feel it in my bones. My aching bones.
Wave that flag!
She gets up on her hands and knees and rocks...I've never seen a baby do this in person, only on America's Funniest Home Videos. Then she will straighten her knees and move into a rather impressive pike position like she's doing yoga. Then she slides back down to her belly and checks to see who was watching this maneuver. Sometimes she does this in rapid succession which makes it look like a very plump inchworm is backing it's way across our family room. Jack finds this to be hilarious.
I told him, "Keep laughing buddy, she's going to make a bee-line for your most prized possessions as soon as she gets that little rump in a forward gear."
"Mama, you're crazy!" he screams.
(This may be true.)
She gets up on her hands and knees and rocks...I've never seen a baby do this in person, only on America's Funniest Home Videos. Then she will straighten her knees and move into a rather impressive pike position like she's doing yoga. Then she slides back down to her belly and checks to see who was watching this maneuver. Sometimes she does this in rapid succession which makes it look like a very plump inchworm is backing it's way across our family room. Jack finds this to be hilarious.
I told him, "Keep laughing buddy, she's going to make a bee-line for your most prized possessions as soon as she gets that little rump in a forward gear."
"Mama, you're crazy!" he screams.
(This may be true.)
Monday, June 7, 2010
"JACK."
Sydney has said it. She calls him like a siren. As soon as she hears his INCREDIBLY LOUD VOICE (usually from several miles away), she perks up and looks around like a goose. "Ah Jack!?" she says, pushing my face to the side so she can see past me to the invariably approaching tumbleweed. It is adorable beyond belief, and it always makes me smile. It's a fool's smile, as I'm sure these are just the early bonds being forged in an iron unity that will destroy me as a parent. But I am nothing if not optimistic! After all, how far can a ghostly white tumbleweed and a fat little ham get on their own?
Surfer Dude Infestation
Jack has been experimenting with...for lack of a better term, lingo. He slips things into conversations here and there, testing the waters, determining if certain words will earn laughs (Me) or menacing glares (Dan).
The beach house that we rented this year (for far too short a time) was incredible for many reasons--it was ocean-front, had a great pool, was impeccably clean...but it was mostly awesome because it had an elevator.
AN ELEVATOR!? You say. Unnecessary! Foolish! Begging-for-rust! All of these are true, but you're leaving out one very important exclamation: Heaven!!!
It was bliss tonot lug a huge cooler, suitcases, baby crap, groceries, and 4,000 beers up rickety wooden stairs like we have done every other vacation. Just step, step, ding, and you're there! No work at all! It was marvelous, in the perfectly lazy way that a vacation should be.
One evening as we were all crowding into the elevator to ride down to the driveway, Jack was dawdling (as usual) and Dan yanked him in by the shirt. Jack shook off Dan's grasp and looked up at him with obvious disdain. "Dammit Bro!" he exclaimed as he adjusted his collar. My Mom and I immediately locked eyes and clamped hands over our mouths in an effort not to make a peep. Luckily Dan had not caught what Jack had said, and I waited a good several minutes before whispering it to him in the car, between giggles. Dan just shook his head. "But I didn't laugh!" I told him. "It's a beach miracle!"
The beach house that we rented this year (for far too short a time) was incredible for many reasons--it was ocean-front, had a great pool, was impeccably clean...but it was mostly awesome because it had an elevator.
AN ELEVATOR!? You say. Unnecessary! Foolish! Begging-for-rust! All of these are true, but you're leaving out one very important exclamation: Heaven!!!
It was bliss to
One evening as we were all crowding into the elevator to ride down to the driveway, Jack was dawdling (as usual) and Dan yanked him in by the shirt. Jack shook off Dan's grasp and looked up at him with obvious disdain. "Dammit Bro!" he exclaimed as he adjusted his collar. My Mom and I immediately locked eyes and clamped hands over our mouths in an effort not to make a peep. Luckily Dan had not caught what Jack had said, and I waited a good several minutes before whispering it to him in the car, between giggles. Dan just shook his head. "But I didn't laugh!" I told him. "It's a beach miracle!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
