Today when I went into the break room to get my lunch, I noticed a copy of a book called Rats, Lice, and History sitting on the shelf above the spoons. I want to say this is the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in a break room, but there was that time at my old job when someone posted a picture of a nun posing next to an open (and filled) casket, next to a sign offering free seeds. The death seeds, we called ’em.
I am 85% certain my life is not like other lives.
It’s now more or less official: I am death on cars. Last weekend, Steve came to visit and his car broke. We responded like the rational beings we are (we ate a whole box of Gushers). This weekend, Lacy’s and Angi’s cars both temporarily died in my driveway. They both eventually restarted – Lacy’s after a mere half-hour, and with no actual damage, but Angi’s took about six hours and a dad (Angi’s) in person, with a back-up dad (Lacy’s) available via phone. We didn’t bring Pete into this one. Aside from dad-calling, we responded to the stress by drinking hot chocolate (Rachel), coffee (Lacy) and tea (Angi), and eating everything not nailed down or in a box labeled “Milkbones.” I didn’t have any Gushers.
Aside from that, the weekend was good. We made Greek pizza, Lacy fell asleep repeatedly, and I became even more obsessed with Robin Hood-ing up Angi’s wedding. I am concerned that eight months might not be enough time to fully Kevin Costnerfy Ari (especially without his cooperation). That specific combination of mullet, archery and bad accent takes years to perfect; some say it can never fully be duplicated. But I have a plan: I will lure Ari to my house (“Ari, I have a fully stocked kitchen with marble countertops!”), hit his car with my Car Death Plague, and threaten him (“I’ll make sure you never get the ‘good potatoes’ ever again!”) until he can properly enunciate “I would di-e for you” (“No, your voice has to break in the middle of “die!” I know there’s only one syllable, but that’s how KC rolls – he syllablizes. Now get it right or I’ll start harming your kitchenware, which you brought with you to my house because that’s seriously how you roll, I’m not making that up.”) That’s how Henry Higgins does it, right? Threatens Eliza Doolittle? There might be some hypnotism in there as well (i.e., everytime he hears Bryan Adams he starts shooting arrows, whenever he sees Morgan Freeman he starts speaking in bizarre beggar accent a la “Pardon me blindness, I’m always falling…,” cannot go near waterfalls without skinny dipping), but I haven’t decided on that yet.
There’s a part in the book I’m reading right now where a man working at Chuck Klosterman’s magazine says, “A magazine only exists in the world for one month, and people don’t remember anything. They usually can’t remember what they read two days ago.” This quote exemplifies how I am not like most people; I remember everything I shouldn’t. The upshot is I’m very good at Trivial Pursuit, and am usually the person you want to call when you get that nagging “where do I know this actor from” feeling; the downside is sometimes I feel the urge to kidnap my friends’ future husbands in the name of historical (movie) accuracy. At least it all evens out.