(Nice pieces from My Cocoon Vintage.)
Today's story is courtesy of mon fiancé (see how fast my French is coming along?!):
Stefan was at Top Pot the other morning, waiting in line for donuts, when an alarm started going off in the parking lot. The line was long, and nobody seemed to think it was their car – so they all just stood there and continued to wait for donuts. (Not that I blame them; Top Pot donuts are not a thing to give your spot in line away for.)
While waiting, there were three EMTs standing in front of Stefan. (Buying, of course, a large quantity of the aforementioned delicious donuts.) A few minutes later, back out in the parking lot, he passed by them again. They were standing by their ambulance, laughing.
"I didn't even know this thing had an alarm," one of them was saying.
p.s. Did you enter the giveaway? I'll be picking & announcing the winner tomorrow!
Without fail, Bodhi ends up sleeping on the foot of our bed every morning. Did I say the foot of our bed? I meant the entire lower half – because that's how much room is required for a ninety-pound German Shepherd who flops over on his side like a pancake instead of curling up in a tidy circle like, say, a cat would.
You know those phony short beds in department stores? The ones truncated where your hips would lay, the ones that show off some new and improved 60,000 thread count Norwegian bed sheets? When Bodhi sleeps on our bed, it's like trying to get comfortable in one of those fake display beds.
If he wasn't so darn cute, I might actually do something about it.
Kristin Sanchez has a really lovely collection of paper goods and I'm stoked to be hosting a little giveaway of her goodies! Her cards are the perfect extra touch for a gift, not to mention her gift tags and birthday bird stickers.
To enter: please visit Kristin's shop and then leave a comment here.
To get more entries: blog and/or tweet about the giveaway, and then leave another comment with a link to your blog post and/or tweet. (In other words, you can blog and tweet for two extra entries.)
A winner will be picked at random on February 28th, and this giveaway is open to residents of all countries. Good luck, and thanks so much, Kristin!
I got my hair cut last weekend. I hadn't been to this particular hair stylist before, and she was making all the typical small talk while snip-a-snipping.
Then she asked how long it'd been since my last haircut.
"A year," I said. "Oh, but a few months ago I trimmed it myself."
She abruptly stopped cutting, and gave me THE LOOK. This is similar to THE LOOK your parents might give you if you got a D on your algebra test or drove their minivan into a telephone poll. It's that what's-a-nice-girl-like-you-doing-a-thing-like-that-for look.
"I just cut it straight across," I protested.
She started snipping away again. "There aren't very many things that my clients say that shock me," she said. "But that's one of them."
(Sid Lee, photographed by Paul Barbera. There's something intriguing about all-black walls.)
I'm at the post office counter today, in the middle of asking about such-and-such shipping, when another postal worker scrambles up to the counter beside me.
"Look," she whispers to postal worker No. 1 – the one who was, a second before, helping me. Postal worker No. 1 looks confused.
"Look....behind...me," postal worker No. 2 quietly demands.
"I don't see anything," insists No. 1.
"Look straight behind me. Look who's here."
No. 1 finally sees who she's talking about. And then the two of them get all giggly and flustered. It's like they're both thirteen again, dizzy over the popular boy who just walked into their homeroom.
I didn't want to ruin their fun, so I didn't turn around to look. But if I had to guess what the popular-boy equivalent would be for a couple of over-the-hill postal workers, I'd guess this: he looks dashing in blue, he's terribly good at sorting, and he always uses the right amount of postage.
(Pretty flower pins from MGM art.)
Today Bodhi tried to eat the the fortune-telling slip of paper from a fortune cookie. He could have the right idea, though – maybe you have to consume the prophecy to make it come true.
(If so, he's going to "enjoy good health and financial independence.")
We had a tasty & sweet Valentine's day dinner out on Sunday, but the best part was when the bill came and it revealed that our server's name was Cheeto.
And as if to reinforce that yes, that was indeed his name, one of the waitstaff called out just then from the kitchen: "Cheeto! Hey, Cheeto, come here!"
(Love these Alee & Press invitations.)
A sampling of some of my fellow bus-riders the other day:
- someone who I think is a boy, but I can't quite be sure. He's dressed in all black, has pierced ears, is carrying a file folder. His laces are decorated with those little black and white alphabet blocks, which spell out WOLFEYE.
- a thirty-something male in a blue windbreaker, green slacks, and brown shoes. He's carrying nothing but an empty coffee mug, which is stained yellow inside.
- a trio of preteen girls. One alternates between studying a map of South America and chatter of, "Are you wearing purple today? No? I'm wearing purple!" and "I'm wearing, like, a hippie outfit today."
Last night was bath night for Bodhi. Out came the doggy shampoo, the multiple fluffy towels, the treats to bribe him with. Everything was ready, except for him.
Coaxing Bodhi into the tub didn't work. So Stefan lifted him up, only to have him squiggle and wiggle his way out of his grasp. He tried again, but then Bodhi ran. A dash to the left! A scurry to the right!
In other words, we chased him around the bathroom far longer than anyone should have to chase a dog around a bathroom.
At last we cornered him. Stefan took Bodhi's front, and I took his back. Slowly Bodhi was lifted up, over, and down into the pool of warm water, which turned him into the Very Wet and Unhappy Dog... that is, until it was all over, when he transformed into a Squeaky Clean and Satisfied Dog.
The thing I love about French is how even the most unglamorous words sound romantic. Take, for instance, "I am a plumber." It is nearly impossible to make this sound sexy in English.
(Go ahead, try it.)
But in French? Je suis plombière.
It's like honey on your tongue.
(Vanessa Bruno bags.)
Rufus must have gotten really excited about me writing about him yesterday, because last night he scratched my message board so hard that it fell completely off the wall. Who knew he had such burly muscles under that deceivingly soft fur.
Every morning, right about half an hour before the alarm goes off, Rufus gets up. He does it without fail, and he even takes into account the time change during daylight savings.
Sometimes he just starts meowing. "Meow, get up, meow, I'm hungry, meow," he insists. So Stefan groggily gets up and dumps a handful of food in the cat dish. After that, the voracious smacking commences.
Other times, he systematically knocks papers, lotion bottles, spools of jewelry chain, and the postage scale off my desk. It's amusing, I guess, if you are amused by gravity.
Recently he discovered a new method of annoyance: he stretches on my beloved message board. And I think his claws must get stuck in it, because this stretching is followed by a BANG-BANG-BANG as he slams it against the wall.
I think it is his life goal to drive me to the brink of sanity.
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