Drainage = Good

I love garbage disposals. They are sleek, unobtrusive and---THEY EAT ALL YOUR TRASH.

I just made dinner and there was a lot of chopping involved. As I cooked, I put all of my trash (things I don't want, won't use and that will go rotten if they aren't destroyed) into a bowl, dumped the bowl into my sink, flicked a switch and IT WAS GONE. Just like that---*poof*. As I watched all my unwanted trash shoot down the sink I thought "Garbage Disposal: I love you." (I also thought "loser. why don't you have a compost heap? just because you don't get what they are ---that's no excuse not to have one" but that's another story)

Who invented this miraculous piece of machinery? It makes me proud to be a human. Garbage. Disposal. What a great idea.

Keep In Touch,
The Thinker

Friday Drive Home = Good

When I leave the office on Friday, I swear to god---in my mind, I am planning on curing cancer by the time Monday morning rolls around. Monday---when I go back to work and drink someone else's choice of coffee and scramble to take a bowel movement, in privacy, like a fugitive from justice.

But Friday through Saturday afternoon---when it's still fresh---there is this ten hour span of time that is pure bliss. I know that the next 48 hours spreads out in front of me like a road trip to heaven. The laundry I will do. The dusting. The organizing. The sorting of the paperwork and the collaging I've always wanted to do. The ridding of clutter. The resting and thinking. And finally: the gardening. Before the Sunday Weirds creep in and it all starts to feel vaguely unsettling.

Mostly, though, I'll be relaxed. So relaxed, that by the time the weekend is over I won't be able to speak. I won't even speak in meetings! I'll just drool and people will intuit what I am saying. Or I will be so loosey-goosey that when I do speak I'll put people in a trance and they'll sense what I am saying through their "Choose Your Attitude!" notepads.

Respectfully Yours,
Vice President
Department of Go Away

No Stink = Good

I bought gladiolas for, like, a dollar fifty at Trader Joes on Thursday and they are as vibrant as ever and the water they are in doesn't stink like a dead animal corpse poopy cess pool.

I love when this happens. When I splurge on flowers and I bring them home and I pray that they won't TURN TO TERROR STINK within fifteen minutes where they have me wondering if I should call the ASPCA to investigate what I believe to be a decomposing buffalo under my floorboards. When this doesn't happen and they last. I love that and I realize that the Green Beret type manuevering I underwent to secure a parking spot to get the gladiolas at Trader Joe's---it was totally worth it.

Sincerely,
Mrs. Random Acts Of Corduroy

Bad Ventriloquist = Odd, True

I'm listening to Larry King interview Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and Larry asks him a question and Mahmoud answers in a kind of Mumbly Presidential Iranian I'm Not Fond Of Jews At All kind of way and the voice that speaks that is supposed to represent him starts talking after he's rattled off a couple of sentences and she sounds like my elementary school teacher in 4th grade. Her voice is very: I Bake Cookies. Or I Like To Wear Negligees To Spice Things Up In The BooooooDoir.

And I'm wondering if maybe she was the only person available. Because her voice is the least matching voice of ANYONE I could possibly think of for Mahmoud. It sounds like she's arguing with him or she's doing this instead of selling Mary Kay. Was Clint Eastwood not available today?

This happens a lot on NPR. I'll be listening to some interview of some dignitary from Paraguay and the interpreter will come on sounding like an insurance salesman from Yonkers and I'll think "what the hell is going on?" Or Bob Simon will be interviewing the head of the Korean Mafia and the person's voice translating will sound like she just woke up after a girl's night and her favorite movie is Prince Of Tides.

Because The Voice of The Person is so non-chalant and I'm All Drowsy Eating Cookies, after the interview is over, I'm thinking---WHATEVER--the Korean Mafia. All we need to combat that are Appletinis and really good moisturizer."

Best,
Mayor of Shut-Up

Your Hair Is Against The Law = True

Every time I see Sarah Palin on T.V. I picture her standing on the corner of 6th and Brooks at 7:00 A.M. and I think for sure she'd get arrested for that updo.

Don't you need a permit for that thing?

Hope To Talk Soon,
Mrs. Don't Call Me Ma'am

Mindspring = True

Sometimes, when I get an email I look to see where I am in the address list order and I feel oddly confident when I find that I'm early on in the list.

"When Gert was trying to decide where to relocate the vending machine, she for sure needed my input." I think, proudly.

Like, if I'm in between a "V" and a "B" and I'm an "A"--- It's clear that the address order was not alphabetical. And I am a winner--because I've sprung to mind quickly and you must admit that there are worse things than springing to mind...quickly.

Yours In Paranoid Defensiveness,
Harshy Harsherson
Harshtown, USA

Change of Season = True

I live in Venice and lately, I've noticed that those long, flowy, polyesterish moo-moo things that were all the rage during summer are going by the wayside.

And I can't remember the last time I saw a pair of gladiator sandals or those little cabana boy hats that Brad Pitt wears that serve no purpose.

Soon the jeans will be tucked into the boots and there will be many, many, many elaborately knotted scarves worn. Even in the shower.

Judgementally Yours,
Shirley The Communist

There Are No Snickers Bars At Whole Foods = True

Within the parish that I abide, in Venice the Whole Foods finally opened at Rose and Lincoln and there has been an alarming amount of rejoicing.

At last. A food temple, within walking distance, where I can buy a yoga mat, apricot beer, soy candles, organic paper towels infused with lavender, anything "stone ground", $47.00 whole wheat pasta and really powerful tampons. I cannot think of anything else anyone would ever want. Ever.

Last night my husband and I walked from our house to The Temple and picked up some broccoli and tomatoes. I need to tell you that the tomatoes were not heirloom. Heirloom tomatoes are Very Venice. Not heirloom is Very Un-Venice.

"These aren't heirloom." I said to my husband.

He looked at me like when he looks at me when I try to explain how to use the Turbo toilet cleaner. Can't we...just...be...I picturing him thinking. No! We can't just be! We must buy heirloom. Tomatoes. With antique gold chains.

We opted for the normal toms and brought them proudly to check-out. I think they let us buy the regular, sub-par tomatoes because my husband surfs and surfing is Ultimate Venice, therefore cancelling out anything remotely resembling Un-Veniceness-ous-nesh-ocity.

On the way out, we pranced past the throngs of happy people eating cous-cous (apparently happy for having scored a FREAKING PARKING SPOT) and noticed a big pile of crap on the sidewalk (the kind of crap that looked like it was dropped, SUDDENLY by a small family that had been attacked by a murderous tribe of Pawnee Indians) ---dirty plastic bags, a book with shredded pages, a shampoo bottle that looked like it'd been run over by a Prius and, of course, the usual crumpled, poopy underwear.

In the split second I strolled past, I flashed on who might be missing their undies and felt a moment of horror. What the hell is going on with someone that their soiled underwear ends up 20 feet from gleeful screenwriters overpaying for unsalted butter?

Sincerely,
Mrs. Mildy Organic