Save the Date
Posted: February 16, 2012 Filed under: A Zany Life, Just One Thing | Tags: family, Not The Bachelor, search fail Leave a comment »Yesterday, I found this in my mailbox. The photo was mounted on a convenient refrigerator magnet.
Jake and Chelsea were a pretty couple. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a clue who they were. I studied the envelope. No last names on the return address, just first names and a monogrammed P. The smart phone code in the lower right-hand corner (redacted) was useless. I don’t own a smart phone.
I Googled. Found Jake P. from The Bachelor.
Not this Jake.
The postmark: Tulsa. Distant relative? I dug out an address list from a family reunion, dated 2003. Reminder: clean out the junk drawer. No one should keep a list nine years old. On page five of seven: (I have thirty-six first cousins) I found a Jake P. We’ve never met. Armed with a last name, I went back to Google. They’re registered at Pottery Barn.
I won’t be saving the date, but Jake and Chelsea, if you’re reading, have a nice life.
You Like IKE?
Posted: February 15, 2012 Filed under: A Zany Life, Just One Thing | Tags: Google images, Sir Isaac Newton Leave a comment »
The Other Newt
Despite a dearth of content, the hits just keep on coming. Since I wrote about the GOP’s Theory of Gravity, Crisply Spoken has received two-hundred sixty-three searches for Sir Isaac Newton. The internet is so random.
Extreme Home Makeover: Cherry’s Room Edition
Posted: June 20, 2011 Filed under: A Zany Life, Housekeeping, Joined at the Heart, Mouths of Babes, schnauzer follies, Writers Write | Tags: family, writers, writing Leave a comment »In the midst of pestilence and disease, I made over Cherry’s bedroom. New paint, curtains, light fixture. I pulled up the Berber and painted the concrete slab a glossy chocolate. The thing about painted concrete, besides the fact that it’s cheap and trendy, is it has to cure. Six days. You paint yourself out of the room and close the door. Or not. I couldn’t resist a peek. Or two.
Day four, I’m checking the sweaty surface. Will it ever dry? The seventy percent humidity isn’t helping. The phone rings. I turn my back for a millisecond. Talk. Hang up.
“Jasmine? Jazzy?” Where’s the puppy? ”Shit.Shit.Shit.Shit.Shit . . .”
She’s yaps from the middle of the shiny floor. “You can’t catch me I’m the Gingerbread Schnauzer.” Dance. Dance. Dance. Puppy paws on concrete.
Smack. Smack. Smack. “Shit.” The sound of black flip-flops on wet paint. “Jazzy, come. Jasmine, come.”
“Let’s dance, mom.”
“Damn it. Jazzy come.” She bounces. I stick. Her little feet float above the surface. Weighing less than three pounds is an advantage when walking on wet paint. She doesn’t dent the surface. My BMI leaves size seven footprints. ”Gotcha.” I grab the little rat and deposit my shoes in the trash.
On day four, the floor the gets another coat. Hence I live with the expression, watching paint dry.
