Friday Horoscope

Go out and take on the world!  There is nothing holding you back!  Except for the restraining straps, which are still attached from the last time you went out, mistakenly trying to take OVER the world.

Open to Suggestions

 

Any ideas about what's going on in this picture? Anyone? All interpretations welcome.

I've stared at it now for about ten minutes, and I still don't know what's in that dude's hand. Or why his neck is yellow. Or exactly what kind of exchange is taking place. 

Whatever it is, they both seem happy about it.

Seriously. Your thoughts?

Dear Diary: A Way With Word

 

Pretty much says it all. Well put, 7-year-old me, well put.

Friday Horoscope

You will have a very good night or a very bad night. 
Either way, it will involve handcuffs.

Small Humiliations: Part XIV

Several years ago, when I worked at Marshall Field's HQ (before it began its sad, deranged, Hulk-like morph into Macy's), my coworkers and I often traveled the 12 floors down to the lower-level food court to partake in the frosted delight that is Fruigurt. What's Fruigurt, you ask? Why, only frozen yogurt that comes with multiple fruit and nut toppings of your choosing and is the perfect afternoon snack, especially with an employee discount.

One day, we all piled into line and placed our various orders. I got what I always do, a chocolate and vanilla twist cone, while another coworker finally emerged holding a tall smoothie cup with a straw.

"What did you get?" I asked him.

"A Triple Berry Threat," he said.

I scanned the menu board.  "A what?"

"Triple Berry Threat."

I checked the menu again. Finally I found the item description and began giggling so hard I could barely get the next sentence out.

"Treat . . . not threat. . . it's Triple Berry Treat."

By that time he was laughing, too. But I liked the new name so much that I decided to pay tribute to his hasty (or slightly myopic) reading of the Fruigurt choices by using my extremely limited photo-shopping skills to create the following poster, which I sent to him via email later that day:

It still makes me laugh.

Dear Diary: Modest AND Good at Math

I'd only like to point out that Ortonville is a whole 12 miles from my hometown. Oh, and I just happened across my old sticker books the other day. I noted that, in addition to the standard sticker fare, I had also slapped in some thin sheets featuring the days of the week in a line: Sat Sun Mon Tue Wed Thu Fri. In my current adult state, these were instantly recognizable as belonging to birth control pills. So that's how much of a sticker freak I was. I lifted the daily reminder strip off my mom's oral contraceptives. No wonder I have a sister.

Nice Ride II

Last weekend, I went to Perkins for lunch with my parents. It's one of my very favorite places, largely because it produces the "chicken crisp melt," formerly the "chicken tender melt," otherwise known as the CTM. If you haven't tried it, you must. But I digress.

My dad parked his car (in the shade of course) right next to a bright yellow Mazda Miata convertible. He immediately leaned over to check it out and starting waxing poetic about how nice it would be to have such a sporty vehicle to zip around in during the summer months. Just as we were heading into the restaurant, a couple in their mid-80s emerged and happened to overhear his comments.

"It's not for sale," the man said, adjusting his Navy veteran cap and smiling broadly.

"That's yours?" asked my dad.

"Yep. Bought it last year. Only 19,000 miles on it."

"Well, good for you for getting a snappy little car like that!" said my mom.

I looked back at the Miata, a vehicular manifestation of well-earned discretionary income. These oldsters had the moxie to pump as many RPMs as would fit into their remaining years, and I had to admire that. I hope when I'm 80 I'm moving under my own power, much less driving, much less driving something awesome.

Maybe I better back off those CTMs.

Nice Ride

When I was in Atlanta recently, I was sitting in traffic in the backseat of a friend's car. I happened to look over and see an older guy patiently idling a super sweet, well-maintained, tricked-out motorcycle. I recognized the make on the shiny beast simply because another friend's husband drooled over that particular kind for years before he finally bought one.

So I said, "Hey! That's a Harley Davidson Heritage Softtail!"

I said this aloud for the benefit of my carmates, but I didn't turn my head away from the window, not realizing that I was blatantly staring directly at the guy on the bike, and he was staring back.

Evidently he could read lips, because he flashed me a huge smile and a thumbs up.

And evidently I could read lips, too, because I saw him mouth, "That's right!"

Drumsticks Be Damned

This morning I saw two wild turkeys standing on the front step of a local beauty salon, as if waiting patiently for it to open.

It wasn't quite as worrisome as when I saw them standing in the parking lot of "Ready Meats."

Perhaps they realized their narrow escape from death and are now seeking self-improvement. They want to live, dammit! LIVE!!

And that starts with some highlights.

Courtney and the Bandit

I don't really have an explanation for this one. I guess in second grade I already had a thing for swarthy men? Although, since the story is about Jack, I suppose it's a bit homoerotic. I'd also like to note that, in the intervening years, I have learned how to spell "surprised" and how to use a semicolon properly. Thank you.

Dear Diary: Tales from the First Grade

I recently discovered the diary that I kept when I was seven years old. It sounds like I'm making that up, because what first grader keeps a daily journal? This one, that's who. It's been an interesting peek into the psyche (and varying stages of penmanship) of my young self. For example:


January 14, 1985 was a pretty jam-packed day, and not a great one for Mindy. I'm glad I felt the need to specify that the wall involved in the tooth-cracking incident was "hard." I'm also glad I confessed to my greatest fear in elementary school (other than E.T.), which was somersaults. And apparently I still don't know how to spell that correctly, because I had to defer to spell check about three seconds ago. Live and learn. Well, sometimes.

Move Over, California Raisins

Text from my sister the other day:  If you had a band of Mr. Potato Heads, what would you call it?

My text back:  It would either be a religious revival group called the Idaholy Rollers whose hit single is "Out of the Dirt," or a reggae band called Baked and Fried.

I then asked my mom the same question. Evidently her secret love of hip-hop also applies to imaginary food-based music, because she went with Spuds N' Thugs.

Either way, I think we'd sell out the garden.