Ed - my new favorite fangirl.
Ed - my new favorite fangirl.
A good parlour game would be to take the search history on your phone and turn it into an improv scene:
(Conversely, a good writing exercise would be to craft a series of google searches that describe a series of unfortunate, but humorous, events.)
Let it be known the game shall be called “A Series of Unfortunate Events”, and I have created it, on this day, March the first, of the year two thousand and thirteen.
hpv in men…red dragon
I think the way you eat Lucky Charms says a lot about you.
Me, I eat all the boring, wheaty cereal bits first so that I’m left with a bowl full of marshmallows.
I will admit, however, that this takes patience. Dedication. Sifting and separating with your spoon.
The road is a long one, but the reward is great.
I’ve decided that I shall buy an apartment complex and carefully screen prospective tenants to assemble the Dashley’s Fantastic Dream Team of Neighbors.
Your application may be approved if you:
-are Monk, Sheldon Cooper, Felix Unger or Monica Geller
-bake and subsequently cool pies on or near the windowsill of your unit
-play the cello, banjo, or upright bass
-bear even a remote resemblance to Harrison Ford c. 1980-2001
-secure your completed application with a wax seal
-sing opera and practice occasionally with your windows open
-are not opposed to a mandatory complex-wide dance party one night each month TBD
-own more than twenty books; celebrity authors and self-help excluded
-know how to operate a turntable
That is all.
Since I currently spend a lot of time with miniature people, I feel as though I should try and articulate some of my observations thus far.
1. Their brains are little mimic machines. Within the first couple weeks of caring for them, the four-year-old was already saying “as well” instead of “too” and “correct” instead of “right” or “yes”.
The two-year-old uses “delectable” correctly in a sentence in casual conversation.
This phenomenon is not as desirable when I slip into one of my “like” phases. “It’s like, well, more of this—” Ugh.
2. When given the choice, they will always pick the fruit snacks. Always.
3. If you’re going to spend time with a miniature person, get ready to be Gandalf/Dumbledore/Yoda about absolutely everything.
“What was that noise? Why did Led Zeppelin name the song that? How did the first person get chicken pox? What does doodle mean? What was that noise again? Why does my finger hurt? Why does my chicken look weird? Why does that man look like a monster?”
4. Which brings me to this: twice now, the two-year-old and I have passed a homeless person on the street, and the two-year-old has pointed and said, “Look, there’s a monster! A monster!”
Besides being embarrassing for me (and necessitating a chat about not calling people hurtful names), this is actually fascinating. I know that no one taught the little one to say this. His classmates barely talk in complete sentences.
So, he’s clearly taking the information he has about what a monster is and combining it with the visual he has in front of him. Somehow, they match up in his mind. Of all the monster images this little one has seen, I can’t quite figure out how a middle-aged guy in layered clothing with a couple of bags fits that. I mean, he’s coming off of Disney and Thomas the Tank Engine.
Is this some sort of…instinct? That’s the wrong word. I don’t know.
5. Miniature people are pretty cute sometimes. I recently wore lipstick and had to explain to the little one what it was. He now asks, “Can I touch your chopstick?”
Something that popped into my head the other day is names for kids. The miniature people I care for attend a preschool, and honestly, I see mostly biblical names peppered with a couple hipster/new-fangled creations. But nothing terribly noteworthy.
How funny would it be to have a three-year-old named Bruce running around? So funny.
See, Bruce is out of vogue. Not desirable or undesirable-enough-to-be-desirable. But it’s also not old enough to be ironically cool, like Walter or Harry. It’s in this awkward middle phase.
“Bruce, don’t eat your poop.”
“Stop hitting his face, Todd!”
Keith. Craig. Larry. Can you even imagine baby-talking to a Larry? Ugh. So great.
You could even do fake business speak with Bruce, because he really should be a thirty-five-year-old cubicle rat who wears suspenders.
“Hey hey, Bruce man! Did you get those quarterly reports in?” Then your kid would stare at you weirdly and you’d feel bad and question your life choices and oh well you have a kid named Bruce so whatever dude.