Her English teacher said, “Aw, snap.”
I wish I was a food designer. I’m sure they’re out there. People paid to come up with flavors of things like chips, jelly beans and protein bars.
I think a girl named Twig makes all the protein bar flavors. They all in come in some kind of animal feed flavor – oats, wheat, or rice (crispy’s) and sugar.
Sure these things are good for a day or two and then they begin to wear on me. Fruit and grain, fruit and grain, day after day. Sure they throw in a few nuts every now and then, but it’s the same basic taste.
With my flavors I could open a Protein Bar Bar. So this is me ordering in my Protein Bar Bar.
“I’ll have the Chicken Fried Steak and Gravy Protein Bar, a side of Shrimp Fried Rice Protein Bar and a Margarita Protein Bar. Oh what the heck give me two Margarita Protein Bars. I’m not driving tonight.”
The waiter would chuckle and say, “Excellent choice, Madam.”
My sister would say, “Do you have the Lobster Dipped in Butter Protein Bar on the kids’ menu? I’m not very hungry. Can I substitute a Martini Protein Bar for the drink?”
I would roll my eyes behind her back and the waiter would chuckle again.*
When he left I would say, “You know they have a special key on that computer that says “Spit in the Food” and he just used it on your order.”*
She’d squawk, “No they don’t,” but she would closely inspect her food.
She thinks I don’t notice, but I do.
After she devours her little, tiny meal, she’d want a bite of mine which in reality would be half my food.*
When I’m sick, I would have a Chicken Pot Pie Protein Bar and think about my Grandma.
And sometimes late at night when no one’s looking, I would have 4 or 5 Chocolate, Chocolate Truffle Ice Cream Protein Bars and maybe 2 or 3 Turtle Cheese Cake Protein Bars. The next day I would pretend I didn’t know who ate them.*
Yeah, my protein bars would be like meals at the Jetson’s.
(*This story does not in anyway reflect the things I might or might not do in reality and as for my sister who thinks your friends might see this and think it’s about you, you might want to consider why.)
My Boss has been curious about Twitter. His daughter has an account and he wanted to check out what she might be up to. So he created an account.
The next day he came to me and said, “I’m not sure how, but my daughter figured out I was following her.”
I asked, “What’s your user ID.”
He said, “His first and last name.”
“I think that might be the issue.”
He sent me a text that said “What’s your phone number?”
I sent back, “I think you just texted it.”
My boss has the same first name as someone else I know. I was going to be working late so I wrote the following email.
I’m working late tonight. I’ll have to cancel dinner.
I accidentally sent the email to my, who wrote back –
“We need to finish all the test cases tonight. I’m going to pick up some pizzas.
P.S. I love you too.”
I love my boss. He understand better than most, nobody’s perfect.
It was early one spring when I found myself on a French highway between Normandy and Paris with my panties strung on a line across the back window of a silver sports car. French truck drivers, not unlike American truck drivers were quick to express their approval of my delicates flapping in the breeze as I zoomed back to Paris.
This would never have happened if I hadn’t decide liquor was more important than panties. You see I worked in Europe three weeks of every month. So naturally, I decided I could forego clothing to create luggage space for more wine and champagne.
This time my brilliance got the best of me. I found myself in the unfortunate position of being in a hotel in rural France without clean panties.
Never fear, I thought, a quick wash in the sink and they’ll be dry and ready for the flight back to the U.S. in the morning.
Unfortunately my “delicates” were still wet. Not to be outwitted by panties, I grabbed a string from the hotel owner and strung it across the back window of the sports car I had rented. I set off for Paris, my windows down and my line of undies flapping behind me.
Admiring truck drivers honked at me all the way back to Paris. I pulled into the car rental lot to the shocked horror of the Parisian employees. They found me ripping my underwear out of the back window and shoving it into my suitcase just in time to catch my flight. Lesson learned keep better tabs on your panties when traveling.
love paper, old books, pretty patterns, and foreign magazines. I rescue broken books and posters from the garbage heap. And then they’re all just here and I can’t do anything with them. Tonight I have the urge to rip them all apart; keep the best parts; shuffle them around; and bind them back together, making something different.
It’s this souped up hyper feeling and all I can think about is tearing these books. It’s an itch you can’t scratch. Why can’t I get some obsessive urge to do something positive? Will I spend the next three days ripping up books to find myself surrounded by piles of paper?
Already I know this feeling will be followed by a round of anxiety and then exhausted depression. That part I’m afraid of. If I knew I would wind up with something; a great novel, a painting, or some break through research, I would plunge ahead, depression be damned.
Maybe just tonight under the cover of darkness I’ll free some pages from their old bindings. I’ll take my medicine and in the morning I’ll try to redirect myself in a positive direction.
My paintbrushes are not kitty chew toys. Please stop taking them from the jar on my desk.
Please stop lying on my freshly painted work. I know “up” is your favorite place. But I put them “up” high so you wouldn’t get to them.
Though the paints are nontoxic, I don’t think you should drink the rinse water. Does it really taste that great?
When I went to answer the phone that was not permission for you to walk on my stamp pad and then across my desk.
When I woke up this morning and you were sleeping with your head on the pillow next to mine, I forgot all the annoying things you did yesterday.
(Feeling much better, finally starting to get myself back into balance. Thanks for your kindness and patience.)