It’s true that I’m easily confused; I’m not saying that I feel like I’m butting up against the great mysteries of our time, or anything. But even accounting for the ways in which I, personally, might be somewhat cognitively impaired, I’m left with many, many questions. It occurs to me sometimes that Monkey’s rigid “But this is what makes SENSE and you, sir, are NOT MAKING SENSE!” moments may be a case of, shall we say, an apple that has fallen rather close to the tree, if you get my drift.
[Not that I’m saying that I think I’m autistic. I’m not. NOT THAT THERE WOULD BE ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT. Oh, God. I’m going to stop talking, now. About this, anyway.]
Look, all I’m saying is that—all other things being equal (or at least as equal as I can manage)—I’m left with some questions, is all. Not enough to keep me up at night, you understand, but enough to kind of nag at me. That’s all. Because it’s confusing. I think. Hey, you be the judge.
Lazy or passive-aggressive or…? Otto and I made a run to Trader Joe’s this weekend, which always completely delights me. Organic banana chips! Simmer sauces! Cheap salmon! Truly, TJ’s is the hallowed intersection of I Want My Family To Eat Real Food Way, But I’m Also Kind Of Lazy Boulevard, and Cheapskate Street. Love! Also, Trader Joe’s is chock full of hipsters and suburban moms in designer clothing and tree-hugging hippies. It’s not like going to the regular grocery store, where you may well run into two or three different people who seem to have hit the grocery store today to buy pizza rolls and beat their children in the beer aisle.
Which is why I was so surprised when we left, carefully loaded our haul into the car, and upon walking our cart back to the “cart corral” I found a cart sitting NEXT to the corral, blocking a parking space. Like, seriously, right next to it. Not even sort of halfway in or in a position where it’s plausible that it might’ve rolled out or whatever. Just next to it.
It’s Trader Joe’s! Land of happiness and sprouted grains and mango juice! You really couldn’t take the extra step and a half to put the cart where it belonged? MOTHER NATURE WEEPS AT YOUR INSOLENCE. P.S. I sincerely hope that when you arrived home, you discovered that your goat milk yogurt had curdled.
Why, exactly, do you have a menu? On that same trip to TJ’s, because we are SUPER SMART, Otto and I realized we’d headed out to buy food without actually eating lunch first. So we took a quick detour to our handy chain Mexican joint that happened to be in the neighboring strip mall. We figured we’d eat and then go get our groceries.
I happen to love Mexican food, anyway, but I particularly love doing Mexican as fast food because it’s extremely amenable to gluten-free dining. (Yes, I’ve gone into Five Guys and ordered a burger without a bun, but I always feel like a pretentious asshole when I do, completely convinced that they think I’m on a diet and can’t be bothered to just remove the bun myself.) So on this particular day I walk in and look at the menu and decide to order the “Healthy Salad” (really, that’s how they list it on the menu), which it says is a chicken and bean salad with veggies and guacamole, no shell.
So I say, “I’ll have the Healthy Salad” and the guy says to me, “Do you want a shell?” There are four other salads on the menu, all of which have shells. If I wanted a shell, wouldn’t I have ordered one of those? Puzzled, I declined. Next he asked me if I wanted lettuce or spinach. Now, it’s actually listed as lettuce, but I prefer spinach, so that was a plus, I guess, and I opted for spinach.
Next, he asked me if I wanted rice on it. WHO EATS RICE ON SALAD? No one should eat rice on salad. And if it’s the HEALTHY salad, I propose they actually hit you in the eye with a quick blast of vinaigrette if you even ask. Sheesh. (And yes, they proceeded to ask me about every single component, which left me wondering why they don’t just put “Salad” on the menu and call it a day.)
The tyranny of the top sheet. I’ve long since given up on trying to get Monkey to sleep in his bed in some approximation of normalcy. After months (okay, years) of finding his top sheet scrambled and twisted at the foot of the bed, I went to Ikea, bought him a cheap duvet cover, put away the top sheets, and called it a day. No big deal. But now, lately, Chickadee’s top sheet has also been ending up in a wad on the floor or up by her pillows or whatever.
“What, exactly, is happening here?” I tried asking her.
“It was the dog,” she said, casting a disapproving look in Licorice’s direction. Because surely our 12-pound dog is pulling a queen-size sheet out from under where it’s tucked at the end of the mattress and wadding it up. I suspect she’s leaving Chickie’s dirty socks on the floor, too. That bitch.
I suddenly feel all talented for being able to have two people and sometimes a dog in my bed and sleep all night and wake up with the top sheet still where it belongs.
Well, which is it? I was happily cruising along this morning, posting deals to Want Not, when I came across a clearance sale that piqued my interest. In fact, there were some VERY PRETTY shoes that caught my eye, but as it wasn’t a free-shipping-free-returns kind of site, I went to do some research on them to try to figure out if they were likely to fit.
Turns out that the deeply-discounted beautiful shoes are currently available on Zappos, where there were plenty of reviews. Half of the reviewers advised consumers to order up half a size for best fit. The other half suggested these shoes run large and you should order down half a size. I have… never seen such a thing before. I mean, sure, not everyone is going to agree on fit. But an almost perfect split of everyone being completely convinced it was either too large or too small? Freaky. Needless to say, I didn’t order them. I couldn’t decide on a size and was also vaguely concerned about unwittingly opening up a wormhole in the space-time continuum if I did.
In conclusion: It’s hard being me. Obviously.