You’d think I’d suffered a traumatic brain injury in my youth, how much I sometimes REALLY can’t remember things. Like even yesterday things. But I will never, NEVER forget that time we had to put on nice clothes (see: frilly socks) and go to Tanglewood and pretend like were a family unit who was just really into Ducks while a photographer took pictures for my Dad’s campaign so that potential voters could see what a wholesome family man he was / is. WE WILL NEVER FORGET.
Please note that we also brought our own (faux) ducks.
I am 100% not ashamed to admit how much I was thoroughly charmed by Captain America, like the movie, and also the man himself (though the skinny-making of the actor was super weird, like a backwards air-brushing.) In fact, I definitely have romantic feelings for he and his moral code. Captain America reminds the contemporary young woman that it’s best to select mates who used to be little or fat, but have since grown into themselves. They’re just nicer, and better with Guns.
You see what I did there? I said lunchury. Instead of luxury. That’s what I did.
Today, I took the liberty of making myself a nice lunch: chickpea salad, tuscan tuna salad and a sort of sad / never as good as Georgia but not too shabby peach. I have a few working titles for this lunch at the Cafe that is open for business, in my mind:
- edible Christmas in July
- where you Bean all my life?
- You will be very gassy later, so like, look forward to that
I really don’t know what could be better coupled with my announcement than this picture of a baby holding a one armed plank. After years of quietly judging people who do, and resisting, I’m going to try a personal trainer. I’m just five sessions and a mere half month’s rent away from lifting cars over my head! I just feel stuck or something, and like I need someone to tell me to stop eat craploads of peanut butter. I haven’t met him/her yet, I’ve just signed up, but I am REALLY HOPING his name is Vlad, and that he could kill me with one hand, if he tried. Which hopefully, he will not.
I’m weirdly saddened by the fact that all of these small post offices are closing. It’s one of those times where there’s tangible proof that the world really is changing right in front of us (USPS’s business has gone down TWENTY PERCENT since 2006.) It’s going to be mostly the branches of the small / adorable variety that close their doors, IE the BEST ones. I love small towns for the very fact that something like a post office, where in a larger city is big and gray and gross, in the small town is quaint, flowered and perhaps used to house general stores. Or slaves. Maybe instead, to save these places, could we bring our emails to post offices? COULDN’T WE?!
We couldn’t. Or rather, we wouldn’t.
Instead, here’s more pictures of cute post offices, which I spent way too much time finding:
Fans, meet Colonel Alfred H. Terry, or, I’ve decided, Steve Buscemi’s Grandfather. I stumbled across his likeness while searching for a picture that properly represented studying for the bar (Friend is taking the NY one today, and I was going to say something to the affect of, I could never do that.) but instead, I think we should all take a moment and celebrate this funny looking person, and reflect on how funny looking we all are. (But some are just moreso than others.)
Oh hi, old pictures. I’m re-writing a play that takes place in my hometown, Winston-Salem, in 1957 – a love story involving ghost stories, tobacco money and acoustic Doo-wop. I realized that I had just sort of written the play without doing much research about what the heck was going on in W-S then. And so, I spent a nice afternoon yesterday scouring the internets for pictures and stories. I didn’t really find anything that fascinating, but there was something magical about learning how certain interstates / parks / pools etc that I’m so familiar with came to be.