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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
It’s bad enough when my eating habits conflict with my health — but I can deal with that. Sometimes, a steaming plate of really good Buffalo wings is worth a few months off your lifespan. What would I do in my eighties, anyway? Sit around gumming my dentures and wishing I’d just once enjoyed the simple pleasure of a tabasco-drenched chicken knee?
Right. Bleu cheese me, hotshot. And have a pack of WetNaps on standby. If anyone needs me, I’ll be over here elbow-deep in hot sauce and bird gams.
“If anyone needs me, I’ll be over here elbow-deep in hot sauce and bird gams.”
It’s also no picnic when culinary considerations interfere with my daily schedule. But again, I cope with it. If I get hungry when I’m supposed to be working, I’ll take a snack break. Hunger pangs in the middle of the night? Then it’s midnight fridge raiding time. I can always sleep at the office tomorrow. Uncomfy tummy rumbles signaling that new food should go in, or that old food may be on the way out? Well, you’ve got to hedge your bets. So I prepare for both eventualities.
Oh, don’t give me that look. Like you’ve never sat on the can with a three-bean salad or a microwave burrito before. That’s ‘circle of life’ stuff right there, folks. You’re very nearly cutting out the middle man. Which in this case turns out to be you.
These middling annoyances pale in comparison, however, to my recent (and repeated) food peeve: when my diet of choice actually conflicts with my outlook on life. It’s not an easy task to accomplish. But I’ve done it — and do it again, just about every Thursday afternoon. Here’s the thing:
Most Thursday evenings, I play volleyball in a league near my house. Some weeks, I even manage to avoid grave injury, but it’s always a little touch-and-go on that front. At my age — and what with the largely sedentary job and those hot wings and bathroom burritos and all — I’m not quite the indestructible physical specimen I used to be. And I’m getting fatter, slower and older every day. Clearly, I need to do all I can to preserve this washtub stomach and buns of styrofoam for as long as possible.
So I do what I can to reverse the feebling process. Enter the ‘health food’.
I’m not sure it’s actually health food, mind you, in the sense of being, you know, ‘healthy’. But it’s the sort of stuff that I’m led to believe that people eat while working out, and if you can’t believe mass marketing campaigns, then who can you trust, really?
No. Don’t answer that. Let’s just say I’m a little lazy when it comes to figuring out which essential mineral thingies and vitaminarial supplements best fit my lifestyle, so I buy the crap on the shelf closest to me and hope it keeps me from horking a knee or having a coronary out there. Gatorade for hydration. One-A-Day vitamins, and Vitamin Water, just in case. And, because there’s a little shelf of them in the front of the convenience store, Odwalla energy bars. It’s the last ones that are causing me all the trouble.
Not because they taste nasty, or have the consistency of nut-encrusted Silly Putty. They do, and they have, mostly, but that’s not really the issue. Healthy food — or even ‘healthy’ food, in this case — is supposed to taste like sawdust and dog breath. That’s just how it is.
Instead, my problem with these bars is with the wrapper. Specifically, a little note printed on the side, which I forget about every time I go out and buy one, and which reads:
“Today many ingredients do not yet exist in bioengineered varieties. Nevertheless, Odwalla is committed to only using ingredients that are no produced using biotechnology.”
Now, I have a degree in biochemistry. I’ve worked at a pharmaceutical company. Most every job I’ve ever had has, in some way or another, involved biotechnology.
So screw those people, frankly.
Sure, I know they’re trying to be ‘earth friendly’ and ‘health conscious’ and all of that, and that’s great. But when it comes to fiddling around with food genetics, I’m all for it. You want to engineer a juicier seedless orange? Sign me up. Cows that produce strawberry milk? Just show me which udder to squeeze. Turkeys with fourteen legs and gizzards that taste like Kobe beef? Put it on my plate and hand me a chickensteak knife. Assuming you can catch the little freak, of course.
It’s all about efficiency here. They can throw all-natural free range hydroponic organic granola in these bars, and that would be good. But tinker some extra antioxidants and nutrients into it, throw in a flu vaccine gene and shoot it full of fluoride and goat hormones, and that would be better. Who doesn’t want a tasty flu shot and healthy teeth and goat hormones? Hippies, that’s who. But not me.
So every week, I buy one of these bars to take to the gym. And every week, I eat it, and then read the wrapper. Then I give a little snort and say to no one in particular, ‘Well. I’m never buying this thing again.‘
And a week later, there I am at the store, thinking, ‘Ooh, this carob-covered drywall bar looks tasty. Let’s buy that!‘
Sometimes, I’m just too stupid for my own good.
I think I’ll switch over to Nature Valley from now on. I’ve looked at their wrappers, and they don’t say anything about being against biotech or genetic modification. I’ll bet they’ve got some super goat hormone bars I could take to the gym. I can even pick up some strawberry milk to drink with them. Straight from the heifer. The way Mother Nature intended. (Probably.)
Permalink | 3 CommentsIt might surprise you to know that underneath my rugged, tough, take-no-prisoners, devilishly handsome, hardbody stuntman rock star exterior, I’m really just a big softy.
(What? I said ‘might‘. Hey, anything’s possible.)
You may find it somewhat less surprising — especially if this isn’t your first post-go-round at the old Charlie Playground — to learn that I wind up with my foot in my mouth quite a lot. The combination of a defective brain-to-mouth filter, overeager yammering and a propensity to make up my own words when I’m tired of real ones tends to land me in hot water now and again. As dear old Dean Wormer might have advised me, ‘Ill-considered, blurty and nonsensical is no way to go through life, son.‘
“As dear old Dean Wormer might have advised me, ‘Ill-considered, blurty and nonsensical is no way to go through life, son.‘
(Though I’m pretty sure ‘blurty’ isn’t a word. It seems the dean shares my affliction. How flaccipointing.)
With these twin afflictions hacking at my psyche day and night, you might think it safest if I were to live alone, in some sort of hermitlike state of solitude. The better to stay out of trouble. Your logic is sound, young padawan.
In reality, though, I cohabitate with two others — a drooling furry idiot dog, and my wife. Who’s far less furry, and smart as a whip.
(Occasionally, she drools. Mostly while she’s sleeping, or when there’s tiramisu nearby. But I’m not supposed to notice. So ssshhhhhhh.)
Let’s start with the dog. Big softy that I am, I like to talk to the dog. She can’t understand, of course. Oh, she gets a few words, I suppose. She knows “sit” and “down”. She sort of understands “stay” — which seems to mean “come” in her ass-backwards language — and “stop that!”, which loosely translates to “continue exactly what you’re doing, but wag your tail like a crack-addled maniac while you’re at it”.
And “treat”. Lord, if there’s one word she knows, it’s “treat”. She probably just heard me type it. If the dog ever learns some semblance of real language and decides to communicate, that’ll be her first word — and probably only — word. She’d have us up at three every morning with her semaphore flags, waving, ‘TREAT! TREAT! TREAT!‘ all freaking night.
Meanwhile, I talk to her. She looks at me and drools and wags that methadone wag of hers, angling for a Snausage. But what I say usually has nothing to do with Snausages. In fact, I’ve noticed recently that it’s often stopped being coherent at all, thanks to my two soft spots — the little one in my heart, and the big one in my head.
I want to be clear here — I don’t baby talk the dog. I’m not a baby myself, don’t own a baby, have never even considered renting a baby. So I don’t speak the lingo, and I’m not about to practice on my mutt when it comes to cooing and gaga noises. My wife, maybe. The bartender at my local watering hole, late on a weekend night, possibly. The dog? Sorry. No speaky the infant.
But I do love the little furry lug, so I find I’ve developed pet names for her. That seems perfectly reasonable — she’s my pet, after all. They’re pet names. I’m not so good with the arithmetics, but that looks a lot like two plus two to me.
The problem is, those little pet names tend to morph themselves into monikers that are less sweet and adorable, and more icky and frightening. It’s just my way, I suppose. Take an innocent first attempt — when I’m not calling the dog by her name, I’ll usually refer to her as ‘the puppy’.
Now, the dog’s nine years old. She’s sprouting more gray on her muzzle than I am. And at this point, she’s about as likely to play fetch or scamper around the house as Stephen Hawking is to dance the lambada on Dancing with the Stargazers. But the name stuck while she was still a young whipperdrooler, so ‘the puppy’ it is.
At least, it was. A long time ago. But somewhere along the way, ‘puppy’ changed, and began to mutate. It was innocuous enough at first — the occasional ‘puppers’, or ‘pupster’, or even ‘pupperoni’. But that was just the beginning. I started referring to her as ‘Puppy Brewster’. I’d ask my wife, ‘Where did George Puppadopoulos get off to now?‘ But I knew I was in real trouble when I called the dog, in public, ‘Pupper Rain’. If there were mental health care providers who’d touch a ridiculous case like mine, I’d seek professional help.
But they won’t. So I’m stuck with “Pup Tent” and “Pup Up the Volume” and “Pup-poh! Spaghetti-Os!” I’m pretty sure if this gets out, the ASPCA is allowed to just come and take her back. No questions asked. They’ll just write “owner mildly retarded; probable Tourette’s case” on the paperwork, and that’ll be that. I’ll never see my dear ‘Two Girls, One Pup’ again.
But that’s not the bad part.
(Okay, the ‘Two Girls, One Pup’ is probably the bad part. Just try not to think about it too hard. I can tell you from experience that you definitely don’t want to think about it too hard.)
The bad part is that I can’t seem to stop myself from concocting these goofy pet names when there’s a real life, sentient and tremendously-but-apparently-not-infinitely-patient mammal involved. Namely, my wife.
Because if I have a soft spot for the dog, then I have an entire TempurPedic™ brand mattress for the missus. We’re wedlocked, after all, so of course my penchant for pet names extends in her general direction. Much as she often wishes it wouldn’t.
Oh, she didn’t mind years back, when I called her “honey pie”. That’s sweet. She liked that. But somewhere along the way, I got tired of plain old “honey pie”. So it became “hungry pie”, which she wasn’t so sure she liked as much. Then “honky pie”, which she was certain she wasn’t as fond of, and later “horny pie”, which I was really fond of, but which failed to have any predictive value whatsoever on days that I called her that.
It was somewhere around then that she asked, exasperatedly, “Well, what would you say if I ran around calling you ‘hunky pie’?”
I told her I failed to see how she’d possibly pull that off with a straight face. But if she could manage it, then more power to her. I’m game if she is.
(Turned out she wasn’t game. She was just trying to make a point. That’s my girl, always looking for ways to help educate me. She’s a real keeper, that hickey pie of mine.)
At this point, we’ve been together for more than eighteen years. So pretty much anything normal that I may have called her at one point is out the window; we’re well beyond that sort of mundanity now. Instead, she’s ‘treated’ to pet names like “tardy bear” and “cuticle pie” and “curdle bug”. I recently flagged her down in a crowded mall by shouting, “Over here, sweaty muffins!”
(That last one got me into a fair bit of trouble. I tried to reason with her. I said, “Honey, look, it’s just a figure of speech. I’m not actually making any kind of commentary — your muffins are perfect, just exactly as sweaty as they usually are.”
I was banished to sleep on the couch for a week — one night for the “sweaty muffins”, and six for the explanation. I should really request to have my counsel present before I open my mouth in these sorts of situations.)
What’ll it be tomorrow, or a week or a month from now? Who the hell knows? I’m sure some new ill-advised and borderline offensive nonsense will leap out of my mouth the next time I let my guard down. I just hope I’m talking to the mutt and not the missus, or I’ll wind up sharing a doghouse with the former.
And I may love that raggedy little Puppy LePew, but I’ve got zero interest in bunking with her. I don’t care how sweaty her muffins are.
Permalink | 6 CommentsYesterday it snowed. And I don’t mean some sort of fluffy little flurries drifting aimlessly toward the earth. No fairy dusting here. This was real snow. Angry snow. It started early, swept down for a few hours, stopped just long enough to give you some false sense that the worst was over, then pounded home for a while longer overnight.
And, so far as I can tell, the local meteorological cabal was mum on its existence, right up until the stormclouds loomed snowily on our horizon. Now, that’s no big deal. These forecasters are human, mostly, so they’re going to make the occasional mistake. Or glaring powdery omission.
“A few extra marshmallows in the old hot cocoa, and I was right as rain again in no time.”
And it was a holiday, so frankly, I was in bed for most of it. Other than shoveling out the car in the afternoon, it didn’t affect me too much. A few extra marshmallows in the old hot cocoa, and I was right as rain again in no time. Still, it was sort of fun to watch the weather weenies try to weasel their way out of their earlier predictions, as the skies opened and poured forth a rebuttal:
“So like I said yesterday, everything looks clear and sunny out there-”
*pour pour pour snow snow snow*
“Uh… that is to say, we might see just a bit of a dusting-”
*pound pound pound freeze freeze freeze*
“Er, um, accumulations up to an inch in some areas-”
*blizzard blizzard blizzard drift drift drift*
“Well, two or three inches is possible, I suppose-”
*swirl swirl swirl howl howl howl*
“Would you believe four to six?”
*cats cats cats dogs dogs dogs*
“Damn. Six to eight?”
*blow blow blow mock mock mock*
“Oh, to hell with this. I never wanted to be a meteorologist, anyway. No, I wanted to be a lumberjack!…”
And so on and so forth, with the flannel shirts and the singing and the wearing of women’s underclothes.
(If you don’t get that reference for some reason, don’t worry. It’s approximately as disturbing as it must seem with what little information I’ve given you.
Also, you really need to get out more.)
Now, maybe I missed a savvy forecaster or two who had this thing pegged. Perhaps the French Toast Alert Level got raised to a toasty orange while I wasn’t looking.
(And many thanks to Shelley at Cynical: A Life for turning me on to an indicator that’s more fun to watch than the Dow Jones, the prime interest rate and the Bert ‘n’ Ernie terror level, all rolled into one.
It’s the right weather to watch. And a tasty way to watch it!)
But as far as I can tell, the local weather bugs were largely unawares, left dumbfounded with flabbers gasted and standing in a foot of freshly fallen powder. Which, as I mentioned, was highly entertaining.
Until today. When I returned to work. Which meant parking my car.
It was then that I realized how fully most people must depend on those weather slingers to tell them what’s happening over their heads. We’ve had snowstorms in the past — honest to god Nor’easters, dumping two feet or more of the white stuff up to our fannies in just a few hours. This latest episode was mild by comparison — six inches, or maybe eight, over the course of a full day. But the difference was, no one seemed to see it coming.
So while the streets were clear by worktime this morning — I guess the city snow crews have their own private forecasting tools, like a Magic 8-Ball, maybe — all of the parking spots in my usual area were full. Of snow. Some of them appeared to be hiding cars under their drifts, but it was difficult to tell. Was there a Buick under that lumpy mass of white? A pickup truck? James Gandolfini? Who the hell knows?
What I could say is that this amusing little storm had finally become a real nuisance. With enough lead time and “for heavens sakes, stock up on bread and water — the big one’s a-comin’!” warnings, Bostonians will dig themselves (and their vehicles) out lickety-split. Blizzards are no match for a bunch of burly Southies and their snowblower and shovel brigade. Give ’em a pile of snow and a couple of hours, and you’ll have yourself a clean sidewalk, two parking spots and a lovely patch of garden to look at.
Sure, the spots will have six lawn chairs and a sign reading, ‘Don’t even think about pahking heah, wiseass‘. But they’ll be dug out. And you can always pretend you can’t read. And didn’t see the lawn chairs. And act mildly retahded when you leave the car, so they’d feel bad beating you up. That’s Boston parking for you.
Not this time, though. This morning, I faced not the parade of patio furniture and the business end of a snow shovel for breaking parking protocol. Instead, it was just snow. Piled high and untouched. Pure as the driven… uh, itself, I guess. And there’s no arguing with snow. No bribing it to let you park there. No looking the other way while you chuck lawn chairs in the neighbor’s yard. It’s there, and it’s not going anywhere.
So I did what any savvy old pro would do in that situation. I turned the car around, drove back to my own barely-shoveled-out driveway, parked the car, called in sick and went back to bed. If you can’t park, you can’t work. It’s simple logic, my friends.
Tomorrow, I’ll see if it’s thawed, or whether people have finally dug out enough to allow for visitor parking. Or maybe I’ll wait until Thursday. Better yet, maybe I should give it the rest of the week. Those people have been through a lot with this surprise snow; I wouldn’t want to tax them unnecessarily. How about you just wake me when it’s Monday?
Unless it snows again. Then you can set the alarm for April. Thanks a bunch. G’night.
Permalink | 2 CommentsLast night, I had a bit of an awkward moment. In a restaurant bathroom.
(Oh, don’t look at me like I wouldn’t stoop to a story like this. I’m above potty humor the way Cookie Monster is above sugar-frosted macaroons. Let’s just do this thing.)
Before we delve into the particulars, though, I need to divulge one of our little secrets, men. I know, and I’m sorry, but it’s central to the story so I need to let the ladies in on it. I promise I won’t ever reveal anything else from the secret stash. The real reason we won’t stop for directions when we’re driving, why we’re inordinately fascinated by lesbians, whether your girlfriends’ asses actually do look fat in those pants — my lips are sealed. Our secrets are safe with me.
“I’m above potty humor the way Cookie Monster is above sugar-frosted macaroons.”
Except just this one. But it’s a little one.
So, ladies — here’s the thing. As often as we give you girls grief about ‘going to the bathroom’ to fix your makeup, brush your hair, giggle about us, read magazines, get massages, dance the watusi or whatever the hell else it is you do in there besides ‘going to the bathroom’, there’s a teeny little confession I feel I should make:
We don’t always ‘go to the bathroom’ to ‘go to the bathroom’, either.
(It’s true. But don’t ask me about the driving direction bit or the lesbian thing. My man card’s on thin ice right now, as it is.)
Now, lest you ladies injure yourselves with a j’accusatory ‘A-hah!‘, I should clarify what I said above. Because while we don’t always ‘go to the bathroom’ when we ‘go to the bathroom’, we also don’t engage in the sorts of primping, gossiping, relaxing or dancemoving that you female sorts seem to enjoy.
(Well, in fairness, maybe the pretty boys at the nice clubs do those things.
But I can’t get into those places, much less hang out in the bathroom being horrified, so I’m sticking with what I know. We don’t do those things. Not us guys.)
We do, however, experience certain… emergencies of our own, and the bathroom is a handy place to take care of such business. Maybe we’ve spilled something on ourselves and no one has noticed yet, so we want to make a quick getaway to clean up. Or we only read half the box scores in the newspaper hanging over the urinal last time, and really, really need to know whether the Knicks covered the spread last night. Or maybe we’ve just figured out that our underpants are on backwards, and determined that a bathroom stall would be a good place to get our Loomy Fruits situated.
(Perhaps, if we’re men of the world, we’ve already determined from experience that the back seat of our car is not such a good place for these sorts of undergarmental undertakings.
Not if we’re just about to valet park, at least. I have never tipped a man so much money to not use the rearview mirror while parking my car.
But this isn’t about me. At least, it isn’t about ‘ass-backward boxers in the back of my Maxima’ me. It’s about ‘uncomfortably shifting from foot to foot in a public bathroom’ me. Back to the action.)
So, last night I had to do one of those things that isn’t ‘going to the bathroom’, exactly, but is probably best handled by excusing myself to ‘go to the bathroom’. In this case, the thing was, to be blunt, passing wind.
I know. I’m sorry. Nobody needed to think about that, including me. But trust me — for a solid and squirmy fifteen minutes near the end of dinner last night, I was thinking about it. And thinking desperately about how to avoid it. Or at least avoid knocking all the glasses off the table with it. Trouble a-brewed, and I needed an out. Fast.
So I excused myself from my wife and friends and headed to the john. Hoping, as fervently as a man trying to walk a straight line with his cheeks clamped together like two Jell-O molds in a vise can hope, that the closest gentlemen’s bathroom was unocupado.
I burst through the door, with my rumbling tummy nearly bursting through mine. And found the bathroom was, in fact, not unocupado. But luck was on my side, it seemed — it was a large, three-urinal, three-stall facility, and there was only one other person inside. I steered a wide berth past him and set up shop in front of a urinal near the back of the room.
And waited.
You see, I may have been a desperate guy at that point, what with Mount Vesuvius threatening to spew cinders through my pants and all, but above all, I’m a nice guy. I just can’t help myself, and lord knows I’ve tried. So I assumed a peeing position, unzipped, and prepared to ‘feign a drain’ until the guy left, to spare him the horror of what might soon occur. I scar enough people with my words; I really don’t need to start doing it with my ass.
Luckily, the guy had been zipping up when I walked in, so by the time I reached my urinal, he was at the sink, preparing to wash up. No problem. We weren’t quite in ‘Code Gorganzola’ yet, so I figured I’d just wait him out, and then do what had to be done in relative privacy. I kept one ear up, listening behind me for progress. Almost immediately, I heard:
‘*skrish skrish skrish*‘
Ah, good. The liquid soap. He’s not flossing his teeth or popping pimples or something back there. See, I knew this wasn’t a pretty boy kind of bar. I’m halfway home. And soon after, I was relieved to hear a:
‘*pkkk-swwwwwhhhhhssssshhhh*‘
The hand-activated sink turning on. Oh, let loose the gates, Martha — the stampede is a-comin’! I strained to hear the sound of the door opening, putting me in the clear. I even turned a hair to the side, to be certain I didn’t miss it. Instead, what I heard was:
‘*skrish skrish skrish*‘
Wait. What? More hand soap? What, is he washing each one individually? Multitask, you bastard — I’m in intestinal distress over here! Clean those paws together, you water-wasting washout! Then:
‘*pkkk-swwwwwhhhhhssssshhhh*‘
Fine. You had it your way; two washes for the price of one. Now for the love of Buffalo wings, get the hell out of here before I blow a spleen or something. Shoo!
The next sound I heard — and I’ll never forget it, as long as I live — was a loud and unmistakable:
‘*skrish skrish skrish*‘
I didn’t know what the hell the man was washing now. I didn’t want to know, frankly, but even if curiosity had overcome me, I couldn’t very well twist around to look in the state I was in at the time. If the seal blew off the gasket with me contorted around like that, the force would’ve spun me like a top around the room. I might have given myself an involuntary swirly. And there’s no coming back from that.
Next came the now-familiar ‘*pkkk-swwwwwhhhhhssssshhhh*‘.
As I stood there, red-faced and bloaty, a thought struck me. Just what in god’s name had this guy done in the room to warrant three cleansings? Were there other non-‘going to the bathroom’ activities going on in here that I didn’t know about? Was I now an accomplice to some unspeakable — and evidently, very dirty — act? Was it some sort of Catholic thing? My fog-addled brain mulled the possibilities, getting more or less nowhere.
Finally, mercifully, a different sound. Not the door. Not the guy asking, ‘Hey, buddy, why are your eyes bugging out like that?‘ Instead, the high-pitched droning ‘*zzzzzzzsssssssshhhhhhhhhheeeeeewwww*‘ of the hand dryer. The very, very, very loud hand dryer.
I could wait no longer. The guy was three feet from the door, ten feet away from me, and engulfed in a protective cocoon of hot air and blasting noise. I let loose the hounds as discreetly as possible, which at that point only meant not lifting a leg or clutching the urinal for balance. And I hoped for the best.
Which, in the end (heh), is what happened. I felt immediately better, felt no particular social sting or stigma from my indelicate trumpeting, and Mr. Threewashy left the room without so much as a glance (or a sniff) in my direction.
Of course, I can’t say what happened with the next person in the bathroom after I washed up (once) and vacated. But hopefully, if any evidence remained — a slight odor, a reverberating echo, or claw marks around the urinal, perhaps — the next guy understood. Because, after all, it’s possible he wasn’t in there to ‘go to the bathroom’ himself.
And he sure as hell wasn’t dancing the watusi. Not in this bar, ladies. Not in this bar.
Permalink | 3 CommentsSo, it seems my latest feature idea probably won’t become a regular feature idea, seeing as how someone else had a similar idea first, he’s had quite a few entries independently published under the shady umbrella of that idea, and I’m coming to the party a few years late and perhaps a few pesos short.
That’s okay. We’ll always have our one post together. Cherish it always.
Of course, it’s not always the case that my latest bright idea is actually a gestated, mutated and adulterated version of something I’ve seen before out there on the interwebs.
Either that, or it’s simply not always the case that I recognize that my bright idea may be standing on the broad, beefy shoulders of others. Take, for instance, my ‘How I Feel About…‘ series, which — to the best of my knowledge — is reasonably unique in its scope, subject matter and silliness.
Maybe it jumped the shark when I puled in the orthodontists. I don’t know.
(Also, its sassyness, though that’s more for the alliterative satisfaction than from any actual sassitude. So far as you know.)
At any rate, I thought you might like to have a peek back at the last semi-successful (read: ‘no lawsuits filed’) semi-regular feature to grace these pages — the aforementioned ‘How I Feel About…‘ series. Observe, if you will, from oldly to newish:
December 13, 2005: How I Feel About… Pirates
January 25, 2006: How I Feel About… Pinatas
April 1, 2006: How I Feel About… Hippos
April 20, 2006: How I Feel About… Orthodontists
September 1, 2006: How I Feel About… Libraries
December 7, 2006: How I Feel About… Marshmallows
So that’s how I feel about a half dozen things, at least. And an example of a feature that didn’t crash and burn by the end of its first installment.
Second, maybe. Or third. Maybe it jumped the shark when I puled in the orthodontists. I don’t know.
What I do know is that I’m overdue for another ‘How I Feel About…‘ post very soon. And probably not on point for another ‘Musical Memos’ posts in the near future.
And, most important of all, this latest ‘Weekend Werind‘ post is all wrapped up now, too. Don’t need another idea for it for nearly another week.
Now that’s my kind of feature, right there. Happy weekend, all!
Permalink | 2 Comments
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