I have been over-dosing on music lately. I purchased a bunch of CDs that I haven’t really listened to more than once apiece. I feel a little guilty for not listening to them more and I’m worried that I bought them because I like to have new music available to me, instead of actually wanting each album on their own merit.

I’ve enjoyed all the albums that I have bothered listening to. It’s not like they have disappointed me. It’s just that I feel like I’m neglecting my new purchases by not listening to them more. I only have so much time in my day and with writing and exercise, I have little else at the end of the day except sitting. I can’t listen to music while I’m writing, so I end up only listening when I exercise, and even then the music has to compete with the movies that have arrived from Netflix.

I almost feel as if I’ve personified the CDs and given them human traits and feelings. Kelly Clarkson is pouting on my desk because I only listened to her once. I didn’t even listen to her actual CD. I just ripped it and listened to it on my Treo while I ran on the treadmill. Ultra Dance is strutting around like a pimp because I’ve listened to it more than the others. Those Grammy Nominee albums are sulking because I haven’t actually listened to either of them all the way through.

I guess it doesn’t matter if I listen to them or not, except I feel like I’ve wasted my money. I guess I should have borrowed them from the library.

“Damage,” that’s all the window said to me. I vaguely remember there being a store there that sold freight damaged goods, but all that was left was, “Damage.” I grabbed my camera and clicked the picture through the window of the Beetle, willing to live with any impurities on my windshield in my photo.

It sounds like the name of a character who comes to rough up the protagonist.

“Hello, I’m Damage. I will be giving you a beating today. Do you have any questions?”

I’m imagining him with a Bristish accent. I must be remembering something from some bit of fiction in my past. Does anyone have any ideas?

I became self-employed at the end of October, right before the Halloween party. It took me over two months to get into a writing rhythm that works for me. It all started with the way I was eating:

• Starling Fitness » The Zig Zag Diet

I wrote about a way of eating that has helped me get off my plateau that I had been on for about two years. It involves eating more calories on the days that I exercise and eating less on the days that I don’t. I’ve been zig-zagging for a couple months now and it has really helped me stay away from bingeing and keep my eating healthy.

Last month, I thought, what if I zig-zagged with my writing?

To keep afloat, I need to write 35 entries a week. To start building up my two-week backlog, I have to write at least 50 units a week. I wondered if I could write every other day and be able to write more than I did when I was trying to write every day.

Writing every day would consist of writing 10 entries a day, which is a lot. Writing every other day, would consist of writing 15 units on Monday, Wednesday and Friday and fitting in 5 more units somewhere. Could I do it?

The answer was amazing to me. Not only could I easily write 15 units a day when I knew that if I did I would get the next day off, sometimes I’m able to do it by noon. They key to it all is the reward of having a day off. I was unable to do 10 units a day before, but suddenly, I am easily able to do 15 or more a day.

The essential thing for me is having a complete day off inbetween. After writing, I really need a rest and zig-zagging helps me with that. Of course, something inside of me thinks that if I can write 15 entries in a day, I should be able to write 15 units every day. I think I could do it for about three days in a row, but afterward, I would need to rest for two weeks.

I don’t know what my limits as a writer are yet, but I’m willing to see much I can do. For now, I’m zig-zagging.

Lunchtime beers and a smiley face on the help wanted sign. Yeah, I’d work there…

Update: 03-01-06 6:41 pm – No, there’s no car wash across the street. This was taken at Big Apple Pizzeria. I did a review of them for Starling Travel, but this picture was just for me. When the Starling Travel entry posts, I’ll include a link here.

Update: 03-18-06 6:58 pm – Here’s the link to my review: Starling Travel » Salt Lake City, UT: Big Apple Pizzeria

No makeup and a brush hasn’t touched my hair. It’s time for a shower, but first I need to post an entry for Self Portrait Tuesday.

We got a lot of snow a couple of weeks ago. I was so proud of my shoveling job that I took a picture. Actually, I took several pictures. It’s funny how little things can make me so happy. A walk shoveled clean of snow can give me more satisfaction than all the work I ever did for someone else.

“You can just drop me off at the door. I’ll just run in and check to see if they have it.”

“Okay.”

I have been cleaning out the basement in my free time and I found some of my old books that I used to read when I was a kid. It’s strange to look at them. They were printed the year I was born in 1969, but the copyright goes back further than that. They are NOT politically correct and every white family has an “Auntie” that is African American and wears a ‘kerchief on her head.

It is only by the grace of Sesame Street that I am not a bigot.

Even then, I wonder at myself when I look at these books that I loved and cherished as a child. To my mother’s credit, we usually read the stories that had no “Aunties” in them, like the Velveteen Rabbit. It was such a sad story and I loved to have my mom read it to me.

This is the part of the story where the real rabbits make fun of the Velveteen Rabbit because he is not a “real” rabbit. Even today, the look on that stuffed bunny’s face makes me sad.

Human relations and sad stories aside, these books are a treasure trove of Sixties illustration. The simple lines of the first picture that make the girls look as if they are made of cardboard cutouts draw my eye. The fuzzy coloring of the bunnies makes me want to touch them. When I was a kid, I didn’t notice the illustration of my stories. I just took them for granted.

When I look at a current illustration for the same story, the artwork is much more realistic, but MUCH less emotional.

The real rabbit looks so authentic that I can’t see any of the mocking or teasing. The Velveteen Rabbit’s head is down, but it’s hard to see the shame that he is feeling.

I forget how much of storytelling is done with illustration. Would I have loved the Velveteen Rabbit so much if I had been introduced to the story with the “beautiful” illustrated version? I don’t know. All I know is that I can feel the shame from that crudely drawn stuffed animal so strongly that I actually HATE those real rabbits.

Update 05-02-12: I had a question about copyright on the first picture and I thought I’d go into WAY more detail than the answer really needed. These pictures are from Parade of Stories published by Child Horizons.

You can see Auntie Melaynay from Tag-Along No Longer right on the front cover.

The copyright for the book is 1967.

The book is a reprint from a large variety of other publications, so the copyright for Tag-Along No Longer is actually from 1941.

The thing that surprised me so much is how NORMAL this seemed to me when I was a kid and how RACIST it seems now. When I read this story as a child, I didn’t notice the bias. Here is an excerpt from the book.

They couldn’t go alone. Susan’s mother had gone shopping, and Emily’s mother was getting a permanent wave. Virginia’s mother was president of the Parent-Teacher Association, and had gone to a meeting. And Ann and Tooloo’s mother wasn’t even on Oleander Island; she had gone to visit Aunt Martha at Mule Shoe.

“Let’s ask Aunt Melaynay,” said Ann.

They went to the kitchen to find Aunt Melaynay. “Aunt Melaynay,” said Ann, “will you take us to the circus?”

“Sho’ I will,” said Aunt Melaynay. “But you chilluns will have to git yo’ own fo’ bits apiece, and wear yo’ hats, caze de sun’s hot.”

Not only is every available mother participating in a feminist’s nightmare, Aunt Melaynay, who is probably overworked and hasn’t had a chance to take her own children to the circus, is expected to fill in. Although I enjoy reading a good dialect, Aunt Melaynay’s accent is another stereotype.

As a child, I took all of this at face value. I wished that our family had an Aunt like Melaynay. I didn’t question the very whiteness of the children. I assumed that she was really their aunt. I never had an aunt who lived nearby. All our family was so far away that visits with aunts happened only once every other year. If I had an aunt who lived in Utah, then maybe my aunt would take me to the circus, just like Melaynay.

As an adult, I look at this cherished book and I cringe with the stereotypes and veiled references to slavery. It makes me question everything I learned as a child and embarrasses me to no end.

Mike and I were seriously considering moving to San Diego last fall. As I was taking a walk through the neighborhood, I came across this tree, dropping leaves. It was Fall In Action and I thought that someday, when I lived in the Land of Eternal Spring, I might miss Autumn, so I took a video of it with my digital camera.

You can hear the wind blowing in the background and the leaves fall like huge, yellow snowflakes. When I took this video, I thought that I might watch it when I missed the season of Autumn. Now, it’s just a reminder of how long winter is in Salt Lake City.

When Mike and I went to Pottery World back in January, I had a couple of videos that I took of the fountains, but I didn’t know how to include them on my website. I thought I’d give You Tube a try and see how it worked for uploading my videos.

I’m so glad Linda hasn’t learned this trick yet.

This is called a Word Cloud and it was created based on what I’ve written on Pick Me! Somehow it seems like a good collection of words for my weblog. You can make one for your website:

• Create Your Own Word Cloud

They want to sell you a t-shirt, but you don’t need to buy one if you just want to see your weblog in words.

Thanks to Rev. Sean for this:

Via: ministrare: “Word Cloud”

The dog smelled like Cheetos the other morning. I thought I was imagining it until I saw Linda, the cat, walk up to his sleeping form and smell him. He opened his eyes, but stayed still while she sniffed him. If I find out that Mike is feeding the dog Cheetos, I’m gonna…

Ok, I don’t care if Mike feeds the dog Cheetos, but I know for a fact that we don’t have any in the house.

Maybe Stinky Ghost is back with a new habit: eating junk food in the bedroom.

I chose Mount Olivet cemetery because my grandma is buried there. Her gravestone looks good and the grass is neatly trimmed away from it. Some of the stones there are so old that the grass has nearly covered them. My grandma is buried in the newer section of the cemetery.

The grief there is still fresh.

I am already planning on Halloween, so I took a trip to the cemetery to take some pictures while the sun is still low on the horizon. It makes such good shadows this time of year. All of these photos are unmolested in Photoshop, just resized to fit here. I am planning on molesting these photographs for a spooky Halloween gallery in October. Watch for it.

Until then, enjoy the silence.

The idea is simple enough. We can add joy into our lives and the lives of others by doing one nice thing a day. Here are some ideas of nice things you can do.

• Do One Nice Thing – Ideas

Something about this idea just makes me a little happy inside. Just thinking about doing something nice is making me happy right now. I think this is a great idea!

Via: Happy News – The ‘Do One Nice Thing’ feature

This website is very difficult for an English speaker to navigate, but if you do, you will find many interesting art projects that will blow your mind.

• Felice Varini

When viewed from the wrong angle, the art of Felice Varini just looks like random lines or, worse still, huge splotches of blue on the sides of buildings. When you are standing at the correct focal point, however, everything comes together and it appears that a series of circles are hovering over the room (or city landscape in one of his works).

I find his work amazing. Based on the pictures on his website, it looks like he uses a projector to guide where he puts the lines, but I have no idea how he did this on the city. The huge old buildings have large swatches of blue in strange angles, but when you view them from the right spot, there is a large bullseye on the building down the way.

See this website for an easier to navigate vignette of his work:

• Museum of Hoaxes – Painted Room Illusions

It feels so good to peek out the blinds and see the start of another beautiful day. I am so grateful for the sun.

Before Mike and I went to Hawaii, I was under the impression that when you get off the plane, you automatically get a Hawaiian lei. I thought there were people at the airport that give you a lei when you get off the plane, just like on Fantasy Island. I guess I had seen that image so often on television that I believed it was true.

Mike tried to convince me that it wasn’t. I’m sure he was worried that I would be disappointed when I got off the plane and there wasn’t a Hawaiian ambassador to give me a necklace of flowers. I wasn’t worried about being disappointed and after analyzing where my view of Hawaii had come from (Fantasy Island?!) I realized that Mike was probably right and that there wouldn’t be a group of women and men in flowered sarongs placing leis on the necks of everyone who walked off the airplane.

We left for Hawaii on the opening day of the 2002 Olympics. There was a huge snow storm and extra security because of the fear of terrorists at the time. We ran to our plane, carrying our shoes and ended up sitting on the tarmack for two hours waiting for de-icing. As our plane landed in San Francisco, our connecting flight to Hawaii lifted off without us on it.

I wasn’t worried. I knew that they would get us on another flight, even though we might be a little late. Mike, however, was near tears. At one point it looked like we might have to wait twelve hours in San Francisco and Mike nearly lost it. I tried to console him, “It’s okay, we’ll call Cory and ask to crash at his place. We’ll take him out to dinner or something.” Nothing would calm him down. When they said, “We can get you on a plane, but they’re leaving NOW. RUN!” We grabbed our bags and ran as fast as we could. We didn’t even know which island we were heading to. All we knew is that they told us to run.

For the seven hour flight, we sat apart. They were the only two seats left on the plane and no one was willing to trade. We passed notes to each other for about five minutes, but that became too cumbersome. We found out that our plane was landing in Maui instead of Kona. This seemed to devastate Mike, but I was just glad we didn’t have to spend twelve hours in San Francisco.

When we got to Maui, we changed flights to Kauai, finally able to sit together on the quick jaunt between the islands. That’s when Mike told me. He had arranged for a company to give me a Hawaiian lei when we landed in Kona. They would have been waiting for me to get off the plane when we had a layover there, but we missed that flight. He was so disappointed that I didn’t get my lei. I looked out the window and saw the emerald green island below us and felt a wave of love hit me. Mike had tried to make my fantasy of Hawaii come true and the rotten snow of Utah ruined it for him.

That was the most romantic thing Mike ever did for me and I will love him forever for it.

This was the first Valentines Day that I was able to celebrate. I had a great idea for a Valentine’s box. It was going to be a mailbox. I had already started making it and showed it to my friend. The next day at school, my friend showed up at school with a mailbox Valentine box. It was, by the way, much better than the one I had been working on. It was made out of a real mailbox with a slot cut in the top. It was shiny metal with hearts on it and far better than the one I had been making out of posterboard.

Everyone was oohing and aahing over her box, and I very quickly realized that if I showed up with my box, it would look like I was copying HER instead of the other way around. I was heartbroken. I held it as long as I could, but as soon as Mom and Carol came home from work, I burst into tears trying to tell them the story of the Purloined Valentine Idea.

Carol helped me make this box. We called it “Laura’s Love Bouquet.” I ended up winning first place for originality. My friend didn’t win a prize at all. I’m still smiling about that. I can’t believe that was twenty-five years ago. I remember the betrayal so vividly that you would think that it was yesterday.

I got an email from Jim Hardcastle, Calvin’s little brother the other day and I thought I’d share it with you all.

Hi again,

I have been reading this for awhile now and I am positive that it is my big brother that affected you so much. First, you probably didn’t know Cal had a little brother, but he does. I was adopted by our dad about 15 years ago. I enjoy reading these stories about him. It makes me feel good to know that after all these years he is still in your memories. I would love to hear more if you could spare the time.

P.S. The purple and gold was for the Minnesota Vikings. He was a huge fan.

P.P.S. Calvin was moved shortly after his funeral to the cemetery on 7800 South and 1300 West

Jim,

It’s so nice to hear from you. I didn’t know Calvin had a younger brother. I only knew about his sister because he lived with her. He was pretty tight lipped about his family. In fact, it was rare that he ever talked. I think I was only blessed with what I heard because I was the only one awake at all those parties.

I wish I had more than what I put on my weblog, but every one of my memories went down there. Since I’ve written about him, I feel so much better. It’s like he was able to leave me at peace when I finally told my piece of his life to the world. I wish he had lived longer. He was a funny guy.

Good Luck, Laura Moncur

P.S. Is it okay if I post your email on my weblog so that the rest of the world can hear the rest of the story? Is there anything you’d like to add?

Yes that would be just fine if you posted what I had to say and thank you for reminding me about just how great my big brother was and still is.

Receiving this email made me feel even better about posting my experiences with Calvin here. I am so glad I was able to make a human connection with my memories. Thanks for emailing me, Jim. Sorry you lost your brother when you were so young. We all lost a great friend when Calvin left us.

If you didn’t read the entries I wrote about my old friend, Calvin Hardcastle, you can see them here:

• Pick Me! » Calvin Hardcastle

Mike and I went to the Utah Museum of Art a couple of weeks ago. We saw an exhibit about Frida Kahlo.

• Starling Travel » Frida Kahlo through the Lens of Nickolas Muray Exhibit

• Quotations Weblog » Archive » Frida Kahlo through the Lens of Nickolas Muray Exhibit

I’m bothered because I don’t understand Frida Kahlo. I don’t understand her life. I don’t understand how she was able to live her life. I don’t understand her art. She tried so hard to communicate herself to the world and I still don’t understand her. Mike and I were talking about it.

He said, “It’s absurd to think that you can understand a person’s entire life like you would understand a movie.”

He’s right. Biographies try to tie up the loose ends. Bio-pics go one step further ignoring the loose ends and only covering the points of a person’s life that agree with an interpretation. I have seen an art exhibit, watched a PBS biography, and watched a movie about Frida Kahlo. I have spent a sum total of maybe six or seven hours trying to understand a life of over 400,000 hours.

He’s right, it IS absurd.

Bill and Nada’s Cafe sat right next to Trolley Square. They were a 24 hour restaurant, so they earned a strange cult following. When I was a teenager in the Eighties, Bill and Nada’s was the popular place to go after a drunken night at the local clubs. Everyone told me that I should go there, but when I asked why, all they could say was that it was open late and they served brains and eggs.

Brains and eggs… It wasn’t really a glowing review of the food. It was more like a dare. I could never get them to clarify any further, so I never went there.

I never ate at Bill and Nada’s Cafe. When I hear people lament the loss of Bill and Nada’s Cafe, I consciously control my face so that I don’t roll my eyes at their grief. I hold my tongue instead of saying, “It was just a restaurant, people, and from what I heard, the food wasn’t that good.”

No, when they start reminiscing about Bill and Nada’s I calmly go to my happy place and let them ramble on and on about it. They are ALWAYS shocked that I never ate there. I was so into the punk scene as a teen that they assume that I had enjoyed Bill and Nada’s as well. I smile at them and nod knowingly. I tell them, “It’s a shame they closed down,” even though I don’t really care.

Somehow that place got into the collective unconscious of the Salt Lake City resident. It became more than 2000 square feet of cinder block and neon. I don’t understand it because I never ate there, but I feel the same way about other establishments of my youth. I’m sure it had less to do with the food and more to do with the memories of what happened in that small diner. I just never experienced it, so I can’t wax philisophical about it.

They put a parking lot on the piece of land
Where the supermarket used to stand.
Before that they put up a bowling alley
On the site that used to be the local palais.
That’s where the big band used to come and play.
My sister went there on a Saturday.

The day they knocked down the palais
My sister stood and cried.
The day they knocked down the palais
Part of my childhood died, just died.

– The Kinks, Come Dancing, 1983

Rebecca left this comment on my entry, Recycled Buildings:

I thought it would be interesting to note that what ended up replacing the Piccadilly Fish & Chips was a tiny strip mall including a chain restaurant called the Original House of Pancakes (hence the “Say No To Pancakes” sign). Piccadilly has opened up a new location at 1450 South State Street, which I have yet to visit, but the building just can’t compare to the old tudor.

And I don’t know if you have been in Salt Lake long enough to have lamented the passing of Bill and Nada’s Cafe, but that was a truly tragic demise. Bill and Nada’s operated for several decades right by Trolley Square, with the slogan “We Never Close,” and served the popular dish (to their patrons at least) of brains and eggs, right up until they did close in 1999. The cafe was a Salt Lake institution and loved by people from all walks of life. I don’t think the old diner changed in any significant way, right down to the waitress’ uniforms, from the time they opened. The building was torn down not long after the cafe was closed, and the lot where it stood still lies vacant. It’s a sad reminder of what we lost.

I found a kind of nice tribute page to Bill and Nada’s at Bill and Nada’s Cafe.

I never did a followup to Recycled Buildings. I live right next to the “strip mall” so I really should have. I was just talking about Recycled Buildings, so I didn’t really feel like I needed to followup that story, but I guess I should have.

Yes, they did build a pancake house and a Maui Taco in the spot where Piccadilly used to be. We lost one restaurant and gained two. It’s actually a much better use of the space and in retrospect, I’m glad they tore down the old building and replaced it with a couple of good restaurants.

The best part is that we didn’t lose Piccadilly. They opened up on State Street. Mike and I have gone there a couple of times, since they’ve opened, which is all my stomach can handle in the year or so they’ve been there now. I like greasy fish and chips, but they can only fit into my diet rarely.

The same goes for pancakes, actually. The Original Pancake House is the new trendy breakfast place to go for breakfast and it’s packed every morning. You pretty much have to go there in the afternoon to get a table because it is so busy. Quite frankly, if I’m going to splurge on pancakes, I want to go to IHOP because they have four flavors of pancake syrup. I have no idea why The Original Pancake House is so popular right now. Probably because they’re new.

Maui Taco, on the other hand, is a blessing. We eat there about three times a month. It’s the closest place to our house to get an enchilada. We have walked over there in the snow, rain and heat. We love that place and I can always make room in my diet for a fish taco.

Bill and Nada’s Cafe, however, will have to wait until tomorrow.

“I really like these little earrings with the ball, but I can’t get the stupid ball in. I’m going to go to Blue Boutique and ask them to put the earrings in for me.”

Stacey looked at me. I knew I had said something wrong. It made perfect sense to me, so I tried to justify myself.

“If they can pierce my belly button, they can put in my earrings. I’m already pierced. I just can’t get that stupid ball into the hoop.”

She shook her head, “You’re braver than I am.”

This from a girl with a tattoo around her upper arm.

The sun just came up and reminded me what it looked like. Last week was so rainy, snowy, cloudy that I had forgotten what sunshine on my face felt like. It’s blinding me right now and the sunbeams are interfering with the computer screen. I’m happy to feel its warmth on my face. I should take a walk in the cold.

It’s 5:45 am on a Saturday. I’m working in my pajamas. Being self-employed means that you never get to go home from work. It’s always there, waiting for you to come to it. You better enjoy what you are doing because you’ll find yourself doing it at 5:45 am on a Saturday in your pajamas when the rest of the city is blissfully asleep on their “day off.”

I spent 45 minutes last night buffing my fingernails to a shine before I realized that I was tired and I should probably go to bed. Without a task master to answer to in the morning, there is no reason to get to bed early. I could sleep in every day, but here I am at 5:45 am, writing. There is no one cracking a whip, except the dominatrix in my head who knows how many entries I wrote yesterday and has deemed them woefully inadequate.

The Beetle is at the dealership right now, undergoing surgery. It’s probably the eighth surgery for its airbags and the third surgery for its airline system. The airbag and check engine lights keep turning on. I am sick of it.

I love the Beetle. Even after six years of driving it, I still get stopped every once and a while because people want to talk about their Beetle experiences. I bought the 2000 model because I wanted to own a Y2K Bug. Unfortunately, this one has lived up to its name.

I can’t think of any car I would rather drive around town. There isn’t one out there that attracts me as much as the New Beetles do. Because they have been completely unable to fix my problems with my Beetle, all my faith in the dealerships in Salt Lake City is lost.

I hope they fix my car and get it back to me. I miss it…

We were waiting for our food and my view out the window was beautiful. The blinds and the colors of the burger joint across the street all merged into one beautiful scene. Somehow, the camera wasn’t able to capture it in the same way as I experienced it. Maybe I was having a Zen moment.

I’ve never seen it before. Yesterday, I walked outside to go to my early morning appointment. When I looked out my window, it looked like it had snowed or rained, but it was all finished now. When I walked out into the weather, though, I realized that it was raining or snowing or something.

It reminded me of the misty rain that Mike and I had encountered on our first trip to San Fransisco. That February, we had left Salt Lake in three feet of snow and arrived in California to sixty degree weather. Cory and Kathleen kept apologizing for the rain, but we had left with snow chains in our trunk. We were happy for rain.

It was a kind of misty rain that seemed to float in the air instead of fall from the sky. It didn’t even feel like rain, but after a couple of minutes walking from their one bedroom apartment to the Ethiopian restaurant down the street, we were soaked. Cory and Kathleen apologized again, but we were happy to be out of the snow.

Yesterday, however, it was definitely NOT rain. When it hit the windshield, the snow was tiny frozen crystals that took a good three seconds to melt before the intermittent wipers brushed them away. It was snow, but it seemed to hang in the air like a mist. I’ve never seen it before in my life: misty snow.

The words flow out of my fingers. Conscious thought is rarely involved. Writing is strictly a physical exercise like running or playing tennis.

I just spent an enjoyable half hour looking at all of these films. They remind me of the early days of MTV when I never really quite understood what those EuroPop stars were trying to tell me.

• Pleix films

My favorites are:

Netlag: This one is genius. If you only watch one video, this is the one. Set to music, you see the world through the eyes of the net cameras. What a strange world we live in where we constantly monitor the roads. Why are they so important?

Simone: This one should have been called Simon Vs. Simone. As always, Simon wins.

Beauty Kit: We girls can do anything. How long until the Beauty Kit is on the market? It already is? Oh yeah…

When you go to the Ethel M Chocolate Factory, they let you design your own box of chocolates. If you want to make a box of nothing but lemon cremes, they will make it for you. You can choose whatever you want to go in the box. It’s like someone listened to all those kids who used to pick at the bottom of the chocolates with a fork and say to themselves, “Lemon Creme?! Why do they put those things in there?”

If you choose the flat and round mint chocolates, the lady who fills your box pauses with the mints in her plastic-gloved hand. “Are you going to eat these right away?” You will look at your partner trying to fathom whether it’s okay to tell the stranger behind the counter that the two of you are planning to break into the box in the parking lot, despite the free handouts. The woman will clarify, “If you are going to keep this box for a week or so, these mints will make the entire box taste minty.” The two of you sigh with relief. The chocolates will be long gone before a week rolls around.

What the woman behind the counter didn’t warn us about was the Wild Cherry Dessert Mousse. I don’t care for cherry, so almost all of them are left in the box. After three weeks in our house, they have made the entire box taste like cherry. The scent of wild cherry blasts me when I open the box. We were quick to eat the mints because we were warned, but who knew that the wild cherry was the second most toxic?

On another note, can you believe that the box has lasted us three weeks?

I was running on the treadmill last week and glanced over the room. “I really should pick up that clutter and either throw it away or put it in the basement,” I thought to myself. That’s where the cats like to sleep and when they are being adorable, I would really like to take a picture of them without clutter in the background.

A couple of days ago, it got so bad that Linda slept ON the clutter. All the cats want their light therapy and if the sunbeam is on the clutter, they will just sleep on the clutter. That’ll teach me to clean up after myself…

Margaret Cho decided to get a tatoo. She didn’t decide to get a tiny little flower on her ankle or even an elaborate Celtic Knot on the small of her back. She went for full-on body art.

• Margaret Cho Blog – Tattoo Photos Part Four

Just looking at her tatoos makes me cringe. Not me. I couldn’t do it. I can’t make a commitment that big. What if I hate that flower tomorrow? I can’t wash it off. I have to go with scarring and lasers to get that thing off me. I think I’ll stay un-inked because I could never commit to anything like a single visual image for the rest of my life.

• Malfunction Junction – I Thought I Knew What Regret Was

“Do you have your camera?”

“My little one, yeah…”

“Let’s stop and take pictures of the sunset. It’s crazy orange.”

“Here?”

“Yes, here. Get into the right lane.”

She wants to sit on my lap and be pet. I roll the chair into the sunlight and take her picture instead.

My neighbors’ driveway is right next to my bedroom window. This morning they left their house at 6:30 am instead of 8:30 am. I don’t know what’s different over at their house, but hearing them drive away at the earlier hour made me think I had slept in. I’m starting to tell time like the animals: by the regular noises of the neighborhood.