Seriously annoyed that my nectarines aren't ripe yet. I did the thing where I bought a bunch of ripe ones and practically ate them all before I got home from the store, and then I bought some unripe ones (that can't be the right word. Unripe. What is it? Did I ever tell you I have a degree in English?) that I put in a paper bag to ripen. And yet? Tonight? Hard. Hard as Chinese algebra.
So we had the work party today and I am pleased to announce my pea salad was a hit! I was so worried no one would take mine, given that the other people on the committee actually, you know, cook, and each one of them made a salad, but at the end of the soiree the pea salad was gone.
You should have seen me trying to cook last night. "Where is the CUTTING BOARD? Is it in the attic? Crap. It is. (clomp clomp clomp). Oh, crap. Do we even own any salt and pepper? Crap!"
Lot of crap going on in the kitchen. BUT NOWHERE ELSE. I know. I said I'd drop the subject. But SERIOUSLY. Can you DIE from this?
At any rate, cooking is not relaxing when you do it twice a year.
I hate peas. I never even tried my own creation. Blech. I like pea soup, though. Can you explain that?
Did you ever notice that "ate" is just "eat" with the "e" moved to the beginning? Fascinating. I wonder if whoever invented that word did that on purpose. And no, I am not high on the maryjane. Shut up.
Have you ever smoked the ganja? Do you like it? I did it in college and I hate hate hate hate hate the feeling. It makes me want to crawl into a dark corner where no one can see me for the rest of my life and eat chocolate-covered Doritos. Everyone I hung out with was, like, Cheech Marin, so I was the oddball, with my lack of doobage liking.
Seriously, if it's not UNRIPE, what IS IT? Bugging me.
I like peaches and nectarines equally, but don't give me any of that white peach stuff. Oh, I'd rather mate with Buck Owens then eat a white peach. My grandmother once told me she wouldn't sleep with Buck Owens for a million dollars. My grandmother made like $6,000 a year or something. I don't know why she told me stuff like that. We spent a lot of time together. I think sometimes she forgot I was 8 or whatever.
Do you even know who Buck Owens is? He was on Hee Haw.
I mean, peach suit aside, he's not THAT bad that Gramma had such an aversion to him. But let me remind you what Gramma's husband looked like.
Okay, hi. She scored the hot husband. (Is it wrong to say your grandfather was hot?) So I guess I can see where she could get all snooty re Buck Owens.
Heavens, I hope he isn't still alive and Googling himself. Buck Owens, I mean. I'll feel terrible if he finds this.
And don't you feel bad about Ed McMahon? I emailed my special work friend about it. (Do you have a special work friend? The person you talk to the most at work? I always seem to develop a special work friend.) Here went our email exchange:
Me: Did you see Ed McMahon died?
Special Work Friend: Yes.
Me:…Okay. Good talk.
I guess SWF had nothing much to say on the topic. But I liked Ed McMahon. I mean, how could you not? With that hearty laugh and those Publisher's Clearinghouse checks.
I hate to tell you this, but I must sign off from this really meaningful, full-of-any-topic-whatsoever blog post. It is 8:10 and I spent an inordinate amount of time in the back yard with Tallulah after work, having a scintillating conversation that went like this:
Me: Give me that ball. YOU GIVE ME THAT BALL. Give me that ball, girl. Drop it. Drop it. Drop it.
Really, no one wants to talk to me today. Or give me that ball, for that matter.