I like fences. Fences separate one area from another. They establish territorial boundaries, without having to pee on a fire-hydrant. There’s no mistaking the objective of a fence. Just ask an inmate.
Plus anyone can build a fence.
The real talent is being able to sit on one. Depending on the fence itself, it could be a balancing act worthy of an Olympic medalist. You’re continuously one sneeze away from what I’m sure would be a very ungraceful drop, or being ousted by a giant squirrel, and my money’s on this guy.
So congratulations to you Starbucks. You’re the Cirque du Soleil of fence-sitting.
How exactly did that internal memo read anyway? Something like this, perhaps
While I would love to entertain you with the tale of my adventures over the past year; laying the groundwork for a new salt mine at the foot of the Himalayas; single-handedly saving an ancient sea turtle from an abandoned fishing net whilst snorkelling in Hanauma Bay; or the time I met Michael Fassbender while he was filming in Liechtenstein and after a brief romantic tryst he became obsessed with me and a bitter separation ensued; alas, I cannot. I’ve signed a confidentiality agreement.
Just kidding. None of that is true. Although
A random conversation with my offspring yesterday morning…
OS: That guy’s always sitting there.
Me: Perhaps he’s Guardian of the Milk Crates.
OS: Maybe he’s waiting for Jesus.
Me: Well if Jesus ever shows up at a convenience store, you be sure to let me know.
OS: You know that even if it’s a guy that looks like Jesus, I’m still calling you.
Me: And what would he look like?
OS: You know, he floats down on a cloud, with long flowing hair, wearing sunglasses and playing a guitar.
Me: On his own personal cloud?
OS: Of course, he’s Jesus. And they’re epic aviator sunglasses like 4 sizes too big.
Me: Is he black or white? Continue reading
I have a shoe problem. Not in the Imelda Marcos sense, (although I would sell my first-born for a pair of LV”s), but rather in the Murphy’s Law sense. You see, we have a love/love relationship, my shoes and I. I love them, and they love to break on me and ruin my day on a regular basis. It usually happens at work, which is only mitigated by the fact that a friend happens to keep a box of shoes under her desk. Come to think of it, I have no idea why she keeps an entire box of shoes under her desk. Perhaps there’s some sort of underground shoe fashion show/fight club thing that I’m not aware of. I shall have to investigate further. In the meantime, instead of walking like I have an old war wound when my shoes break, I borrow a pair of hers and pray that I don’t look too fashionably uncoordinated. I once broke a boot heel walking across the street to the train station after work and had the choice of either walking with a serious limp, or tip-toeing it with that one foot and pretending there was nothing wrong. I tip-toed. I’m vain like that. It happened again
They say 40 is the new 30.
Having never been much of a conformist, I’ve decided this doesn’t work for me. Since I have every intention of living to the ripe old age of at least 90, I’m going to live under the “45 is the new 40” banner, in which case I’ll deal with “40 being the new 30” at that time.
Confused? Here, this might help…
Anyway, until such time as I do reach 45, I will be celebrating my 39th birthday in perpetuity. Please chose all cards accordingly.
Of course, I kid. In actuality, I could care less that I’ll be 40 this year. I don’t feel 40. I’ve been told I don’t look 40, (although this is usually from younger people who have no concept of time or age, but I’ll take the compliment, and run with it all the way to the botox clinic). Nor do I act 40, much to my son’s dismay. Hey, he’s 18, he should be used to it by now! Continue reading
I remember it like it was yesterday.
Actually, I can barely remember yesterday so let me start again.
I remember it like it was 4 minutes ago. I was visiting my cousins in Tulsa, and alone in the house because they’d gone grocery shopping, when a tornado warning appeared on the television.
There was no break in regularly scheduled programming. No “This is a message from the Emergency Broadcast System”. Just a nonchalant box in the top right corner showing a little map of the where you may not want to be if the funnels of doom touch down. Where was the warning of imminent death and destruction? The sirens? The army marshaling people to the nearest underground bunker/missile silo? Wouldn’t it be more appropriate for James Earl Jones’ voice to come booming through the television telling people to flee for their lives?
One minute I’m happily surfing through the multitude of channels that are not offered north of the border, the next I’m plotting the quickest escape route and packing a survival kit. And I had no idea where they kept their flares.
While simultaneously trying to start the generator and calculating the length of time and dimensions required to dig an underground shelter that will house two adults and one neurotic teenager, my cousins came home.
We were in no danger. The little map only warns of the possibility of a tornado. There was no need to panic and could I please put the shovel down. Ungrateful bastards. Continue reading