While making the fancy potato casserole for New Year’s Eve dinner at your boyfriend’s house, find a potato that kind of has an extra potato lump attached to it, like a potato head.
Declare that it looks like a bird.
Declare it is a Good Luck Potato Bird.
Put the potato in your bag to take home.
When you get home, put Good Luck Potato Bird in your kitchen windowsill.
Find a feather on the floor that your cats have pulled out of a Christmas ornament and glue it to the potato.
Glue a googly eye on the potato.
Glue a tiny hat on the potato.
Make a beak out of toothpicks.
Text a picture of Good Luck Potato Bird to your boyfriend.
Continue to enjoy Good Luck Potato Bird on a daily basis.
Time passes.
Months go by.
Good Luck Potato Bird starts to get a little deflated.
His beak now opens in alarm.
More months pass.
It is now June.
Good Luck Potato Bird is not doing so hot.
He kind of smells and might be leaking a little.
He has left a mark on the windowsill.
You move him outside to the night blooming cereus plant.
This is a mistake.
It is humid here and nature has descended upon him and not in a good way if you catch my drift.
It is time to dispose of Good Luck Potato Bird.
You should just throw him away.
But the thing is, you are almost 48 years old, and you find that you cannot throw away a potato because you glued an eye on it and looked at it every day and now you are attached to it.
So you dig a little hole.
Yes.
You bury Good Luck Potato Bird.
Goodbye, Good Luck Potato Bird!

A long time ago I worked as a grocery store checker at a place where I had to wear a long sleeved white dress shirt, a bow tie, and an apron like an olde tyme dry goods proprietor. When leg quarters were on sale, the sleeve of my shirt would get all chickeny and bloody because I guess in the early 90s “properly sealed bags” were a thing of the future. I have probably talked about this job before, but like all jobs (I guess?) it had its own little ecosystem and dramas and romances. To amuse myself I would put things in the apron of the bagboy I was flirting with (loose grapes that rolled down the conveyor belt, coupons), or, in the middle of conversation, bust out with one of the ads that played over the intercom between Muzak songs (“Hey! Hey you! I’m a big fat roach!”), or make dumb conversation with customers.

I would ask them how to make lentils if they were buying lentils (I had never seen a lentil in my life), or if a new peanut butter snack situation was good, or I would make lame jokes about the combination of items they were buying. One guy was buying a pie crust and a can of dog food, so clearly, my only option was to ask if he was making dog food pie. Blank stare.

One time someone came through my line, wrote a check, and her last name was Peppard. “Like George Peppard, the actor?” I asked. George was her cousin! Allegedly! Also another time another lady wrote a check and I asked for her ID and she said, “Don’t you know who I am?” She was my stepfather’s ex-wife. No, lady, I have never seen you before. Also can I see your ID.

Anyway, occasionally I still get the urge to talk to strangers at stores to amuse myself, usually to remark on the fact that I was once a checker and those produce codes are hard to remember, except for bananas (4011), amirite? There’s this checker at my neighborhood store who I’m pretty sure is on the spectrum. We were doing our banter the other day about the bananas and then he told me the codes of other common fruits that I didn’t pay attention to. Then my Totino’s Party Pizza and avocado came down the belt, and the avocado was sitting on top of the pizza box, and he laughed and said, “Are you putting this avocado on your pizza later?” and for the rest of the day I wondered if I was also maybe a little on the spectrum.

We did it! We got Joe Biden inaugurated without an assassination! It was after it was over that I realized how much space I was holding for this to happen, how full of anxiety I’ve been, just sitting around waiting for an old fashioned mass murder. A few years ago, I didn’t realize how much energy I was using up worrying that my old car was going to break down until I bought a new one that didn’t make weird noises. (It also used to shuck little pieces of itself at random.) Anyway, we have a president who does not hate humanity! I am already annoyed with the New York Times for the article this morning about how Joe is an elitist who wears a Rolex. LEAVE THE MAN ALONE. LET HIM WEAR HIS ROLEX. LET HIM WEAR 12 ROLEXES UP AND DOWN HIS ARMS AND LEGS I DO NOT CARE.

I have read SIX books so far this year. It is only January 22! This won’t last, but I’m enjoying it. Here they are:

—Moonflower Murders by Anthony Horowitz. This guy’s cleverness almost annoys me, and yet I cannot resist a book where someone says, “Someone was murdered years ago, but I just figured out the murderer after reading this book,” and then we get to read that entire book in the middle of the book we are already reading!
—Nobody Will Tell You This But Me by Bess Kalb. Loved it, loved it. She is also my #1 favorite Twitter person, though my #1 favorite tweet of all time remains the one where Sarah Thyre said something like, “Welp, nothing else to do but whittle a dick out of a hunk of cheese, then eat the dick, then eat the shavings,” which I think about at least once daily, maybe more. It is perfection. But anyway, yes, this book is very good.
—Leave the World Behind by Rumaan Alam. I loved this, but had I known there was some apocalypse in it I wouldn’t have picked it up. Fortunately for me, I thought this book was about racial tensions. There’s a little racial tension in this but much more apocalypse.
—The Girls of Slender Means by Muriel Spark. Look, I bought this because of the Smiths song “Nowhere Fast” because there’s no way Morrissey wasn’t referring to this book. It was good. The ending surprised me.
—The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield. I read this when it first came out but couldn’t remember anything about it. My feeble brain is only capable of “good” and “bad” as a way to remember things. I bought the Kindle version for $.99 to read on my phone in case of emergencies, and last weekend I woke up too early and didn’t want to get out of bed or disturb the snoring gentleman beside me, so I started it and then had to finish it. Don’t worry: I have purchased two replacement emergency ebooks for future snoring gentleman mornings. Anyway, this is also kind of a whole book in a book kind of book, and it’s about books, and it’s also very dramatic but it works.
—Daisy Jones and the Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid. I did not want to like this book, but I heard someone say the audio version was amazing, and so I tried it out (on the way home from the snoring gentleman’s house!). It’s fake interviews with members of a fictional 70s band. I had to read the print version to finish because audio just takes so long. It was extremely enjoyable and I may have teared up at the end.

What if my reading ennui returns and these are the only six books I read this year? I guess there are worse things, like accurately predicting an inauguration/murderfest, and then worrying that I am secretly psychic and having every insane and anxious thought be given heft and relevance. I would turn myself in to the FBI so they could use my powerful brainwaves to predict other crimes. I would become a legend, the subject of a popular but problematic podcast, there would be a Netflix show based on me, I will be played by someone much younger and cuter who is also athletic and can jump off of buildings and stuff. If someone points a gun at me I will divert their attention by picking up on their aura and telling their secrets aloud. They will weep, apologize, make amends. So anyway, yes. I will enjoy my reading spree while it lasts.

I have been making my way very slowly through the original Dallas, which is wilder than you remember if you’re about my age and your parents watched it and all you remember is that JR got shot that one time. Dallas world is different than regular world. Time goes by differently. A whole day’s worth of stuff will happen and then someone will say, “Well, thanks for breakfast, time to go to the office!” For being the richest oil barons in Texas, the Ewings have a super shitty office. It’s like two little crummy rooms and a crowded reception area. Every couple of seasons, Southfork, which is also a dump, gets a new room we get to see. I’m currently in season 5 and they have now added a kitchen for us to look at. While I realize that Dallas is a soap opera that frequently makes no sense, this does not stop me from analyzing it like I’m writing a paper for a Shakespeare class. 99% of the problems of Dallas boil down to this: these grown men and their wives still live with their parents. I can’t tell you how many times my boyfriend or I will yell PLEASE JUST MOVE OUT, BOBBY at the tv. Oh also, you can’t watch Dallas silently. One must constantly comment upon what’s happening: the hairdos, the fashion, the poor life choices, the decor, how much brown liquor they drink, the insanity, the illogical plotlines, the music, Larry Hagman’s teeth. There’s a lot to discuss. If it’s not clear, this is an endorsement.

This has been a weird year, and not just in terms of the whole global pandemic. Several People From the Past have reappeared in various ways, and it has been interesting to confront the ideas of you that people have versus your own perception of you — especially if it was from 25, 20, 15 years ago. Even a couple of years ago you is (hopefully) different than today you. We’re supposed to grow and change and evolve and get better, right? As a person who has always thought I have a good memory, talking to a Long Ago Person about something I did or said and hearing a completely different version of it has been illuminating. Who is correct? Which version is true? Fortunately, no one who reappeared did so for malicious purposes, even if I wasn’t the nicest person to them. I have a theory that people who end up hating your guts never really loved you; those who can forgive your humanity are the ones you don’t mind hearing from even if you were mean to them 20 years ago.

So let’s see…Dallas, a pandemic, People from the Past, what else has happened this year? I read some books, but not as many as usual. I thoroughly enjoyed The Ghosts of Eden Park by Karen Abbott. If you like reading about the dumb stuff that rich people do, there are passages that will thrill you. I will never get over this: at George Remus’s 1921 New Year’s Eve party, there was a $1,000 bill under everyone’s dinner plate, the men all got diamond stickpins and gold watches, and the women all got…1922 Pontiacs. Then they went out to the pool and some synchronized swimmers did their thing, and then George was like “I am done with this dumb party” and went and ate some cold boiled ham and read a book in his study. There is plenty more where that came from, including all the ways you could buy yourself luxury while in federal prison.

I hope you have a lovely and small holiday season, whatever you’re doing. Don’t let anyone breathe on you, and please wash your hands.

Hello, coronavirus friends. I hope you have fared well during these uncertain times. I went to Nashville the last weekend in February and came back with a nasty cough and bronchitis that I am fervently hoping was the rona, unless getting it doesn’t actually make you immune, in which case, eh, it was just a really bad case of bronchitis and not worth talking about.

My workplace closed for a couple of months, and I did all the things we all did: monitored online school, watched Tiger King, bought a hammock, stared at the wall. I cleaned out every cabinet and closet, I baked (but did not make sourdough bread), I barely read anything, I went for long walks. I also got repeatedly bitten by buffalo gnats and my ears swelled up like cartoon ears and I had giant big welts on my head.

But back to Nashville for a moment: my boyfriend came along on my work trip and we went to the Country Music Hall of Fame, where our camera rolls revealed we are interested in different things. He took a LOT of pictures of guitars. I took a LOT of pictures of embroidered suits. However, we both had an interest in an exhibit on Boudleaux and Felice Bryant, the songwriting team behind pretty much every Everly Brothers song, “Rocky Top,” and a million other songs. Here’s the part that got us: when they met, Felice accidentally squirted water on him and then told him she met him in a dream when she was 8. He didn’t run away in horror, but said, hey that’s cool, let’s run away, will you change your name to Felice? (Because it was actually Matilda.) And that was history! Weird, creepy history! Another twist: I like to drink champagne, play the country song “You’re the Reason God Made Oklahoma,” and tell my boyfriend that he’s the reason God made Oklahoma, and did you know that Boudleaux and Felice sued the writers of that fine song because it was a “Rocky Top” ripoff? (They also won.) So to sum up, please do not tell strange men you just met that you dreamed about them when you were a child UNLESS you are prepared to change your name and run away with them. Hey, you might be! Good for you.

People, we need to talk. It’s not about Kevin. It’s about Outlander.

Over the last week I was stricken with Outlander Fever (similar to coronavirus but hotter and wearing a kilt) and watched ten episodes. I am not a binge watcher so this is significant. However, I think it is over for me and Outlander. There are a lot of episodes left, like maybe six in this season and then I think it’s currently in season 5. I will never make it that far. I just am not made of what is required.

Here is what I liked about Outlander:

–time travel
–accents one must put the closed captioning on to understand
–boning
–saying “Craigh Na Dun” to myself sometimes as I was cooking dinner

Here is what I didn’t like about Outlander:

–the 1945 husband is kind of gross
–Claire almost gets raped every other episode
–Claire cannot accept that things are different here
–everyone keeps getting captured and thrown in dungeons/forts/what have you
–I kept fast-forwarding through the escape sequences because see above, there are clearly at least 50 episodes left and everyone is still alive
–the boning is hot, but also embarrassing to watch
–the time travel doesn’t make a lot of sense
–wouldn’t the word get out about the magic stone at Craigh Na Dun and then everyone and their dog be placing hands on that sucker?
–or do you have to be Special to fall through time
–I don’t know
–look, only watched 10 episodes

I also read about what’s going to happen next, and I am 100% not prepared for it. I came for the boning, not the torture sequences.

Goodbye, show! I canna take any more.

I saw this poem by Carol Ann Duffy on Twitter a moment ago (Twitter is not always bad, just usually) and it made my heart stop. (Click to embiggen.)

I’ve been counting the number of dates my fellow and I have been on since the beginning, and last weekend we hit #100. Fine, we had already planned the trip to New Orleans anyway, and he is generally unaware of what number we’re on, but it was fun to say, “We are celebrating our 100th date! Of course I’m going to have dessert/another drink/this entire loaf of french bread.” I love a license to do things and a reason to celebrate. Speaking of french bread, remember how I couldn’t eat bread? I just…got over it. I gradually added it back and now it’s fine. I admire my body’s ability to communicate things to me that I don’t understand, whether it is “girl, this guy is not right for you, here’s an allergy to him” or “maybe if you can stop eating bread for a year, you can stop other behaviors that don’t really work for you, either.”

The Best Things I Ate in New Orleans Last Weekend, Where We Celebrated Our 100th Date, Which is a Thing People Do and Not at All Made Up:
the crab caesar at Marjie’s (so bright and sharp and salty and perfect!)
barbequed shrimp at Brigtsen’s (where I also ate a loaf and a half of french bread)
a fried green tomato + fried shrimp poboy at Mahony’s (I’m starting a petition to replace all tomatoes with the fried green variety)

We also rode the streetcar and heard a great band and eavesdropped on some dumb conversations and walked around and looked at junk and saw a guy tap dancing while holding a baby (that was upsetting) and overall it was a great time.

I don’t want to lose a single thread
from the intricate brocade of this happiness.
I want to remember everything.
–Mary Oliver

1. A few Friday nights ago, Larry called and asked if I had a broom he could borrow to poke a possum with. Of course I said yes, because what fool doesn’t have a possum-poking broom at the ready? He had trapped one and he and Spike were going to let it go in the woods near my neighborhood, only they got to the Possum Release Area and discovered that the possum was no longer in the cage.

“Hey,” I said to my boyfriend, who had just walked in. “You know how it’s been a few years since you’ve seen Larry? He’s coming over to borrow a broom to poke a possum with in about 30 seconds.”

If at all possible, this is how your new(ish) boyfriend and ex-husband who were friends in college should reacquaint themselves. They should have a shared goal of poking at a possum while you stand in your driveway and crack up.

By the way, they never did find the possum! It apparently made its escape/fell out of the truck/is on a grand adventure. But let it be known that I was there with a broom. (“It’s Shake and Bake, and I helped.”)

2. you see I have always wanted things to be
beautiful
and now, for a change, they are!
–Frank O’Hara, “Poem”

3. The Great Believers by Rebecca Makkai was the best book I read this year. I can’t tell you the worst because I stop reading when I get bored and move on to something else. There is no contract that says you have to keep reading books you don’t like. I promise.

4. I’ve been watching My Three Sons in the morning while I’m getting ready for work, only I have to leave before the end so I don’t see how things resolve. The internet is not just bursting with MTS synopses, though there is a listing on Wikipedia with super-brief TV Guide-style synopses, like so: “Ernie and Dodie are confined to their rooms.” If you’re like, who the eff is Dodie? then you’re not alone. She’s basically the Cousin Oliver of the MTS universe, the wisecracking daughter of Steve Douglas’s new wife, Barbara. Anyway, I got very into/obsessed with a plotline a few weeks ago and could speak of nothing else, and basically alienated everyone I care about. Chip has a girlfriend named Polly who suggests they elope even though Chip is kind of like a piece of cardboard. Oh, cardboard! Wouldn’t it be nice? It turns out she has a bad dad and wants to escape into the sweet arms of Chip. On and on, every episode, she was relentlessly hinting about their future. CHIP DO YOU THINK I’M SPECIAL? CHIP DO YOU LOVE ME and he’d shrug and say “sure” and kiss her on the cheek. OH CHIP MY CHIP LET US RUN AWAY. And then…they did! I couldn’t believe it. MTS set me up like some pins and I fell for it! It seemed so obvious and yet I couldn’t believe it happened! Chip was so disinterested! He was like “yeah yeah, woman” and then would go back to chucking Ernie on the shoulder or throwing a football at Uncle Charley or whatever. How could Polly manipulate him so easily? And look: was this so commonplace a practice in 1970 that it could be a not-insane plot point on a mediocre sitcom? Was this just how the writer saw women (always tryna get that man to lock it down) or was this a widespread belief?

On today’s episode, Ernie and all the Douglas men get played by a beautiful liar named Debbie who gets them to fix her car. Chip helps out and, in the process, dares to speak to directly to her, which Polly does not like, as she didn’t put in a season’s worth of hinting around to share Chip’s sweet ass with someone named Debbie for Christ’s sake. They discuss it over a game of checkers, and then Chip hops his piece across the board. “King me,” Chip says, and Polly says, “REALLY, CHIP?” and then throws the checkerboard on the floor. This is my favorite show.

I was browsing the used CDs at a bookstore the other day (what is this, 1996?) and found the 10,000 Maniacs album In My Tribe, which I have on vinyl. Did you see that? I just had to point out that I’m cool and old and have it on vinyl. Let me take the cool out of the equation by adding that I bought it at Wal-Mart, along with the Ziggy Marley album Conscious Party. Did Ziggy Marley bring up the cool again, or has it flatlined?

Anyway, I was delighted to rebuy In My Tribe. What I didn’t remember about In My Tribe is that the music is fine, but the lyrics are unbearable. They are so unbearable I can’t stop listening to them! Each song has a moral! It’s insufferable! I can’t stand it! I can’t stand not listening to it every day!

Enjoy.

Track One: in which we learn about child abuse
Track Two: in which we learn about beatniks
Track Three: in which we learn about chronic illness
Track Four: in which we learn about the illiterate
Track Five: finally, a regular song about love gone wrong!
Track Six: in which we learn about alcoholism
Track Seven: in which we learn that the military is bad
Track Eight: my sister is getting married!
Track Nine: in which we learn about greed
Track Ten: in which we learn about homelessness or something
Track Eleven: in which we learn about sad olds

Just a note to say that life remains wonderfully, hilariously weird: last week would’ve been my 15th wedding anniversary. Because I talk to Larry more often now than when we were married, we wished each other a happy one, and noted that we’re almost even: we were married eight years and have been divorced seven. Anyway, then a few days later I guess he was looking at old pictures in his phone and sent me a picture of my boyfriend at their college homecoming five years ago. The fact that I exist in a space where my ex-husband is like “here’s an old picture of your boyfriend, with whom I have been friends for almost 30 years” delights me to no end. Also, the picture was cute and I responded, “Aw, cute!” because look, this guy is cute.

I have this new old lady friend (she is seriously an 87-year-old lady) who invited me to her book club. I had a big time listening to the olds shriek with laughter over Andrew Scott Greer’s Less, and a slightly bigger time listening to the gossip about the other members on the way home. This one lost two husbands, and is about to marry a third; this one’s husband left her 20 years ago and she has had no interest in men since; this one is dating a widower but everyone is worried because the wife only died four months ago. The thing that is currently consuming you is going to go away. A new thing will consume you. That thing will go away and then a new thing will arrive. Life is going to continue to roll on whether you like it or not. Stuff you have no idea about is going to happen. Some of it will be awful and will break your heart. Some of it will be wonderful, and you will annoy everyone with your happiness.

I look; morning to night I am never done with looking.

Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing around
As though with your arms open.

–Mary Oliver, patron saint of everything
“Where Does the Temple Begin, Where Does it End?”

1. I read One Hundred Years of Solitude in 1994 or so, and two things stuck with me: Remedios the Beauty ascending into heaven, and the yellow butterflies that followed a couple who were secretly in love.

The other day a coworker and I were going to lunch (I forgot to tell her something important that she needed to do so I bought her a guilt lunch to make up for it) and a yellow butterfly passed in front of us.

–I’m such an English major! Did you see that yellow butterfly?
–Yes…uh, are you going to write a poem about it or something?

I enjoyed the slightly frightened way she said that.

A moment ago I pulled One Hundred Years of Solitude off the shelf to reread the chapter about Mauricio Babilonia and Meme, only to find I kind of had it wrong. The yellow butterflies don’t follow them because they are in love. They follow Mauricio because they follow him everywhere despite any love factor. Then Meme’s mother discovers their trysts and everything goes to shit. I like my version much better. Also, in my version no one is shot in the back, paralyzed, and dies alone choking on yellow butterflies. And no one else is rendered mute and never combs her hair again. This book, y’all.

2. I am a very light sleeper, which is handy if you want to know if an ant is crawling around in your kitchen, but bad if you like sleeping. As I like sleeping and also like not being resentful of people who make noise in their sleep, I have tried a variety of earplugs. These are my findings:
–The foam ones are garbage.
–Yes, even the ones that are shaped differently.
–Yes, even the ones that say THESE FOAM ONES ARE THE BEST.
–The sticky blue Play-Doh ones are the way to go. The only way to go. Did you google best earplugs for snoring? Welcome. Buy the blue ones from Amazon. However, let me warn you: they can be TOO good. I have awoken not knowing what planet I’m on. There is no sound except my own heartbeat. I think even Michael Jackson’s sensory deprivation chamber probably had a little bit of white noise. These earplugs are serious. I have had to adjust them so I can hear the fan and a little bit of snoring, which reminds me I am not, in fact, alone on Mars, but here on Earth, lying awake thinking about yellow butterflies.

A few weeks ago I started thinking about the country song “You’re the Reason God Made Oklahoma,” which might be one of the weirdest and most romantic of sentiments. I have now listened to it approximately one million times, and I still think it is a weird and romantic sentiment. But listening to that song made me want to revisit some of my other country favorites, and so I have made a playlist, and through the power of random songs being played one after the other, I have discovered a secret! Ok, it’s not a secret. It is a theory. A theory that I enjoy.

First, the Tracy Lawrence song “I See It Now.” In this song, the narrator sees his former love interest at a location appropriate for dancing. He notes that she looks great, and laments that the reason for this is the hot new dude on her arm, with whom she dances about. He is not bitter; he’s happy for her, despite the fact that during their relationship, she clearly didn’t like him as much as she likes this new guy. It’s sweet!

(The video involves time travel, two Tracy Lawrences, and the plot of Carrie, so clearly you must watch it now.)

Second, the Alabama song “Old Flame.” In this song, a man is at a location, perhaps one appropriate for dancing, with his love interest. She runs into her former love interest. The narrator says, “I could tell you once were lovers / you ain’t hiding nothin’ that I don’t know.” Hmm, shaming her for past relationships isn’t a good look. Why does she have to hide the fact that she had a boyfriend once? LET HER HAVE HER PAST. Ugh, this guy. He goes on and says while she may not like the old guy as much as she likes him, she’s liked the old guy longer and then he threatens to break off the relationship.

This is the same situation, told by the two different men! I have loved “Old Flame” since it came out in 1981 and now it is ruined by toxic masculinity. I will now devote my life to writing a third country song, told from the point of view of the woman, in which she goes to a location appropriate for dancing with her jealous new boyfriend, runs into her old boyfriend, sees how the new boyfriend cannot handle it, predicts that his jealousy will only escalate, and leaves them both to go back to school and get a PhD.

For years, each time I go to DC, I visit a piece of art that I call My Lady. She is a hyperrealistic sculpture of a sad looking woman eating a banana split. I have a picture of her framed in my home. I think she is amazing and beautiful. I know how to draw a picture (albeit poorly), but I don’t know how make a lady.

“Woman Eating”, Duane Hanson, 1971

She also reminds me of this girl I went to middle school with who once wrote this in a slam book in response to the question Who do you want to do it with?: “Anyone, anytime, anywhere.”

I visited her in June, but before I went back to DC a few weeks ago, something else on the Hirshhorn website caught my eye. His name might officially be “Untitled (Big Man)”, but I call him Man Baby. I sent a picture of him to my traveling companion and said THIS IS WHAT WE’RE DOING THURSDAY.

Untitled (Big Man), Ron Mueck, 2000

We wandered around the Hirshhorn for awhile looking at things we didn’t understand, hoping for a glimpse of Man Baby. “Where is Man Baby?” we asked each other. “Where have they put Man Baby?” And then we found him, and he is literally in a corner. Someone put Man Baby in a corner! Oh, Man Baby! You didn’t disappoint. Man Baby is a big old giant naked man. (My mother asked if he is anatomically correct, and the answer is yes. His official portrait keeps his secrets, but I know them ALL.) As I haven’t visited him every year for 15 years, I can’t say I know his story yet, but he is fascinating. Why is he naked? Why is his giant scrotum resting on the floor? What is that look on his face? Why are his eyes shifty? I hope to find out, and also to write some weird fan fiction where Man Baby and My Lady get together when the museums are closed for deep conversation, hand holding, and gazing into each other’s sad, shifty eyes.

I am not a good pancake or waffle maker, but the other day I thought I’d try using the wafflemaker that I used once and then shoved in the back of the cabinet. I’d bought some gluten free pancake mix and announced to Spike that I was going to make waffles.

–MAKE waffles? WHY?
–Because your uncle gave us a wafflemaker and I’ve only used it once.
–Why not just make an Eggo?
–BECAUSE I WANT TO DO THIS.

Problem the first: the wafflemaker was in the back of the cabinet. It’s a bottom corner cabinet, so I basically had to take everything out. Are you missing any water bottles or random jars? It’s because I have apparently stolen them from your house and thrown them willy-nilly into this bottom corner cabinet. Related: does anyone need any water bottles or random jars? I took everything out of the cabinet and sorted it into toss/keep, but I have a small kitchen and now the countertops were completely covered in stuff. I finally got to the wafflemaker, but I had to process all the extra stuff before I could move on to waffling.

Problem the second: I read the back of the bag and got all my ingredients out. I dumped the bag of pancake mix into the bowl and dumped the other stuff in. Then I noticed it said, “Add 1 1/2 cups of pancake mix.” Not the whole bag. Not the whole, much more than 1 1/2 cups of mix bag. Huh. Ok. FINE. I threw all that away.

Problem the third: I have gluten free flour and a pancake/waffle recipe. The universe was probably trying to tell me that I don’t need to buy a MIX for something as easy as PANCAKES. I was CONFIDENT. I HAD this. And then I mixed up the baking soda and baking powder. That’s ok, I thought. I am not going to worry about that. Maybe they’ll be flat or super fat or whatever happens when you use the opposite one of whichever one I was supposed to use! I cannot be stopped! Waffles, here I come! Then I tried to crack one of the two required eggs. And the eggs were frozen. We also experienced pickles frozen in pickle juice the other day, so I shouldn’t have been totally surprised, but the AUDACITY of the eggs to be frozen after all my trials really stopped me in my tracks.

I know a sign from the universe when I see one (maybe it takes me a minute, but I get there eventually). I tossed everything in the trash and asked Spike how many Eggos he wanted.