...they showed me a world where I could be so dependable/clinical, oh intellectual, cynical...
I always wash it when I'm done.
You do not.
Yes I do.
No you don't.
People are always bringing me kitchen implements, which I, spineless, keep. My sister, especially, partly to have tools at her disposal when she cooks at my house. Sorry, babe, still not fixing the oven for ya. It broke sometime last summer, I think. I haven't missed it.
This item, though, I brought upon myself. Well, sort of. I brought one home, he liked it, I melted it in the dishwasher. (Accident! honest!) He insisted on replacing it. We'll call it a chopper, because, in fact, it IS a chopper
(A friend referred to a "food processor." "That looks like a blender," I said. "Is there a difference?" Maybe not. But since I can't imagine making Margaritas in a food processor or coleslaw in a blender- call me narrow minded- I think there might be. I'm not happy about having both, but I can't decide which to unload. Spineless, I tell ya. Don't even get me started on the juicer. Love the juice, hate the juicer. Sorry again, babe.)
Anyway, he loves it, I hate it. Never use it, or the colander, because I hate to wash either of them. I say he never washes it; he says he always does. The truth is somewhere between, though not EXACTLY in the middle. It's much closer to MY side.
I approach the sink. He's cooked spaghetti, meat sauce, garlic bread, the works. In his fashion, he's used every pot-plate-bowl-teacup-spoon-knife-strainer-eggbeater (?). But there, lying in its many pieces on the drainboard, is....the chopper.
It's the only thing he washed...but he did wash it.
What people I don't know are up to:
EuroTrash is afraid of being electrocuted while walking in NYC.
Orson Scott Card is directing Fiddler On The Roof in May, and teaching a Writing Workshop in June. Along with a bunch of other stuff.
Jim took a trip across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, which looks like one Radical Monster, and I am HOT to see it for myself.
Kev at TJ's Place talks about Naked:
No one in an office gets excited when the guy in the next cubicle gets up to make a presentation. And that's what I meant, originally, when I said this is for everyone who thinks managing a blah-blah-blah would be the blah-blah-blah. I see the house dancers naked more often, I think, than most married people see their spouses naked, unless they really swing, or are nudists. The house dancers stand in the DJ booth naked, they bitch at me because I fucked up their schedule naked, they order food at my desk naked, they use my phone naked, they come in the office and tell me the toilet has backed up naked, they sit across my desk and cry because their boyfriend is an abusive asshole naked. Remember the Seinfeld episode where Jerry has the girlfriend who is always naked? I can't look anymore! I've seen too much! I know every mole, every scar, every birthmark, every nipple, I know if a dancer has put on 5 pounds.
Malcolm Gladwell has (alas!) no news on the book he was supposedly working on THREE YEARS AGO, but a re-read of his Naked Face article was once again revealing.
Diablo Cody has an eye-popping revamp of her site. Whatta babe.