Who Has A Joint?
I’ve noticed that my friend count on Facebook dwindles from time to time. At first I was alarmed that I’d reportedsomething really unsavory. I’m certainly prone to an impolitic soundbite about the Tea Party or the depressing state ofHollywood celebrity, but compared to the people who stream traffic reports and publish photos of every menu theyencounter, my own infrequent musings seem benign.
For Love or Linguistics
My husband, G, hascompleted 23 years ofschooling. Once he finished anundergraduate degree, hewent on to Law School. Thena Masters in Law. Then aMasters in Business. It’s allreally quite irritating to aperson who fell short ofmatriculating medical schooland who considered herMontessori to be The EmeraldCity. And to the person whowatches the joint accountreduce each month after theloan checks go through. He’sthe kind of person who can remember the qualities of arhombus and why the hellaltitude and pressure affectboiling points.
Why I’ll Never Be A Chosen Person
I’ve been spending a lot of time watching Telemundo. My purpose is educational since I’m trying to reclaim my Spanishlanguage skills which have disappeared much like the tostada from the Taco Bell menu. What keeps drawing me in tothe telenovelas more than the lusciousness of the trilled R and the waxed chests is the ubiquitous Triangulo De Amor.
Miami Blues
When Dom, our firstborn, was a few months old we all went to Puerto Rico. When Eve turned two months old,everyone flew to Santa Barbara. Neither trip imparted fond memories since we were certain, like many new parents,that vacation would kill our baby. We spent the duration of each trying to fend off invisible pathogens and UV rays, likeDustin Hoffman in a HazMat suit quarantining a populace from an infected monkey, a ludicrous proposition given myhusband’s reluctance to use hand sanitizer. Despite numerous assertions to remain at home and useless self-persuasion that a vacation is just what everyone else needs, the instant Liv rounded that two month corner and thetemperature tumbled back into the single digits, we booked a trip to Miami.
The Honeymooners
A few friends have gotten married recently and have had very humorous tales from their honeymoon. It’s had methinking about honeymoons in general, particularly how unpredictably disappointing ours was. One day I’ll share thattale, but in the meantime, I’d like to focus on the predictably bad honeymoons of the couples below.
Who Has A Joint?
I’ve noticed that my friend count onFacebook dwindles from time to time. Atfirst I was alarmed that I’d reportedsomething really unsavory. I’m certainlyprone to an impolitic soundbite aboutthe Tea Party or the depressing state ofHollywood celebrity, but compared tothe people who stream traffic reportsand publish photos of every menu theyencounter, my own infrequent musingsseem benign.
For Love or Linguistics
My husband, G, has completed 23 years of schooling. Once he finished an undergraduate degree, he went on to LawSchool. Then a Masters in Law. Then a Masters in Business. It’s all really quite irritating to a person who fell short ofmatriculating medical school and who considered her Montessori to be The Emerald City. And to the person whowatches the joint account reduce each month after the loan checks go through. He’s the kind of person who canremember the qualities of a rhombus and why the hell altitude and pressure affect boiling points.
Why I’ll Never Be A Chosen Person
I’ve been spending a lot of time watching Telemundo. My purpose is educational since I’m trying to reclaim my Spanishlanguage skills which have disappeared much like the tostada from the Taco Bell menu. What keeps drawing me in tothe telenovelas more than the lusciousness of the trilled R and the waxed chests is the ubiquitous Triangulo De Amor. And when I’m not lost in the melodrama, I love playing the game Chicken Road from the provider InOut Games.
Miami Blues
When Dom, our firstborn, was a few months old we all went to Puerto Rico. When Eve turned two months old,everyone flew to Santa Barbara. Neither trip imparted fond memories since we were certain, like many new parents,that vacation would kill our baby. We spent the duration of each trying to fend off invisible pathogens and UV rays, likeDustin Hoffman in a HazMat suit quarantining a populace from an infected monkey, a ludicrous proposition given myhusband’s reluctance to use hand sanitizer. Despite numerous assertions to remain at home and useless self-persuasion that a vacation is just what everyone else needs, the instant Liv rounded that two month corner and thetemperature tumbled back into the single digits, we booked a trip to Miami.
The Honeymooners
A few friends have gotten married recently and have had very humorous tales from their honeymoon. It’s had methinking about honeymoons in general, particularly how unpredictably disappointing ours was. One day I’ll share thattale, but in the meantime, I’d like to focus on the predictably bad honeymoons of the couples below.
Honeymoon with Chicken Road
For this couple, the honeymoon was special not only because of romance but also thanks to the game Chicken Road from InOut Games. The bright and cheerful atmosphere of the slot with chickens and golden eggs perfectly matched their mood — lightheartedness, joy, and excitement. The simple mechanics and high 98% RTP allowed them to enjoy every moment of play without distractions.
Chicken Road became more than just entertainment for them. It turned into a ritual where love blended with thrill, and every win felt like another small victory in their shared journey. The playful design and surprising multipliers only intensified the emotions, making their honeymoon truly unforgettable.
Judas Is Not a Term of Endearment
I really enjoy those religious thriller movies. The ones in which a person, usually a despicable sort who gives joints tokindergartners and steals brooches from blind senior citizens, receives divine and tangible evidence of God’somnipotence. Then Theology experts and Vatican investigators descend upon the person to appraise whether theirStigmata is sufficiently Old Testament. I’m drawn to those films likely because the only papal decree I’ve everwitnessed was to defrock the Monsignor of the church I attended as a child after it was determined he liked puttingmore than Holy Water and wafers in the mouths of altar boys. I find the intrigue, the mysticism of religion fascinating. Ifound it boring as shit when I was a kid, but I came to view it differently after I saw the Dead Sea scrolls on travelingexhibition when I was in college. These papers are a sight worth seeing, no matter your belief system. Each one ahammered copper or papyrus, believed to be written by apostles in the forgotten language of Jesus, preserved inchambers devoid of moisture and strong lighting so to prevent decay, much like the epidermis of Michael Jackson. Thescrolls were interesting to marvel at, but the spectacle lay in beholding the effect they had on those who had traveledfar to gaze at them. In the middle of a crowded museum, onlookers collapsed to their knees, choked on tears andbreathlessness at the sight of these documents. They behaved much like an unstable Michael Jackson fan in the frontrow of his concert (Now that I’m thinking of all these parallels, if it’s ever determined that Jesus resurrected himself toembody Michael Jackson, I’m going to be severely disappointed, since Jermaine really needed some holy uplift). Irealized that day how potent faith is, but as humans, we still seek empirical evidence that God is orchestrating thisexistential crisis we’re all mired in.
The No-Tell Motel
I’ve found over the years that couples have a repertoire of stories they delight in sharing at cocktail parties. First thereare the tales they tell in tandem, each finishing the other’s sentence and expressing false chagrin, like it’s the first timethey’ve recounted this story since the incident occurred even though it is told every time they are surrounded by brieand dishes with garnish. Then there are the tales each tells about the other. Onlookers swivel their heads, as ifwatching dueling banjos, as Richard interjects non-essential asides, like “I want to point out that I immediately checkedinto a rehab center after I walked into that reception wearing only my loafers,” and Jane reassures the party, “we onlysee a therapist once a week now to discuss our struggle with erectile dysfunction.”
The Great Race, Hospital Edition
I find driving 26 miles with my husband to be an arduous, sweat-inducing task. Then I met a couple whoran 26 milestogether. They had trained in tandem for a year, preparing for the big race they endeavored to do together. I stared atthem both with wonder, pondering over what they talked about for 26 miles and which parts of their bodies must havechafed severely. Rather than inquire after something important to marathoners, like the time elapsed from start tofinish, or the brand of energy gel they consume, or their stance on shaving their surface area to cut down drag, I askedif they wore matching fanny packs. They did, in fact, but they assured me it was only because their sporting goodsstore ran a two-for-one deal.
Can You Leave a Note for a Goat?
Hello -
I clipped your car when pulling into the spot beside you. There’s no damage other than a scuff, but people are staringso I want them to believe I am leaving you my insurance information with this note.
Sorry about that.
This is a preview of “Can You Leave a Note for a Goat?”.
Mother Nature Is a Mother…
It’s difficult to overcome the perception that you’re the drunk mom when you pull into the school parking lot and hit afence. Particularly if you’ve done it twice and emerge from your car with the LAX of Lego airports ensnared in your hair.While the principal doesn’t keep a breathalyzer in her office, most parents have accepted that I’m not hitting the bottleat seven in the morning. Winter has me behaving this way. Normally capable of juggling all 27 of my children on myown, the cold season impairs me. It strains my independence and chips away at my ability to manage a householdsinglehandedly when G is away on business.