Pancakes and French Fries

It Took Me A While, But Now I Get It.

Jules — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 18:08:11 +0000

Remember when I posted How I Met The Mister, Part 3? Well, in the comment section, Amy of Magpie and Muttonfly said something that I thought was funny but didn’t really get. My real life friends who were emailing me off site thought it was funny, too, although I suspect they got the joke.

Sigh. I love it. This is the third time I’ve made this deep comment, but it’s true. And you realize that you’ve started something now, don’t you? You’re gonna have to be like The Pioneer Woman … and just keep the story going. You’ll be writing “how I met the Mister” #5,052 and we’ll still be sighing and tearing up and asking for more …

I thought she was talking about the way Ree always mentions Marlboro Man in that sweet love-story kind of way. Well, it turns out Amy was referring to Black Heels to Tractor Wheels, a series of posts Ree has written since 2007 detailing how she and her husband met and married. I know, you all are probably laughing at me right now. The only reason I even know this much is because today Ree announced that the story had been optioned and may be made into a movie.

I wonder if I would have figured it out had I not seen a tweet congratulating her on the deal. I can picture it now, me sitting in the theatre thinking it was a neat story, kinda like The Pioneer Woman with the red hair, four kids, cattle ranch, cowboy husb…wait a minute…

Two weeks ago I was in my car waiting in a long line to pick up Mikey from school. I was in my own little world when all of a sudden a #2 pencil hit my windshield, scaring me half to death. It was Harvey, who was in the car diagonal to me. Apparently he had been trying to get my attention for several minutes and finally had to resort to tossing solid objects at my head.

This kind of felt like that.

p.s. Congratulations, Ree!

UPDATE: My friend just sent me this link about the movie. I assume Ree is writing about this on her blog, but, you know…blog fast. I’m totally out of touch.

Homemade Dishwasher Detergent

Jules — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 16:31:52 +0000

Yup!

A couple of weeks ago I had to pick something up at the health food store. I was also out of dishwasher detergent, but had no desire to add a trip to a second store on top of the other errands I needed to run. I could have bought a detergent at the health food store, but the eco-friendly dishwasher detergents they sell are cost prohibitive when compared to their cleaning capabilities.

So I googled how to make homemade, non-toxic, eco-friendly dishwasher detergent.

I love google.

I love making weird, random stuff.

This recipe was all over the place and took seconds to make. I picked up the citric acid at the health food store but if you can’t find it, or don’t want to go through the trouble, you can always use 2 packets of sugar-free Lemonade KoolAid instead (no joke on the sugar-free or Lemonade–you do not want to melt sugar in your dishwasher or dye it red with fruit punch).

I used the essential oils I had on hand. Lemon sounded like something dishwasher-y and tea tree oil has a long history as a natural antibacterial agent. The bottle of vinegar is just that–a bottle of vinegar you squeeze into your dishwasher’s rinse aid dispenser before every wash.

I’ve been using it ever since, and it works great. Now, I will say right now that I am one of those people who cleans off all the food from a dish or platter before dropping it in the dishwasher. I know your dishwasher is supposed to work better when the dishes are dirtier, but that has not been my experience. Someone will have to let me know if this detergent works as well with caked on food. (Gag.)

Finally, let’s take a moment to laugh at my inability to judge volume and space, shall we? I can never accurately judge the size vessel I will need to contain anything, and the dishwasher detergent was no different. I bought this ridiculous 17-cup container when I could have easily used one of my canning jars at home. Yesterday I made homemade pudding (holy cow! nothing like store bought!) and dirtied three different bowls trying to find one that wasn’t too big or too small. I’m a work in progress.

A Glimpse

Jules — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 20:46:06 +0000

I can see it in this picture. The loping gait of young man having just jumped a pony wall to reach his friends faster. Jeans heavy from the weight of teen necessities (keys, phone, wallet) hang just below the hollow of his hip bones, and he pulls them up out of habit with ropey hands that hint at the man he will one day be.

One day, but not today. Today we play on the swings.

Books Before Beats

Jules — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 08:00:32 +0000

I have an old friend from high school who dated a guy in a band shortly after we graduated college. He and his band-mates graduated a few years ahead of us in high school, and by the time we finished college they were still in the same band, still passionate about music, and still trying to make it. (They never made it.)

One night we were all getting to know each other after one of their “awesome sets” at the local brewery. As it is with people who live, breathe, and die music, the bass player, a guy who bore a remarkable resemblance to Ric Ocasek, asked me to name my favorite type of music. Now, I like music as much as the next person. In fact, I took piano lessons for well over ten years and can still play some pieces from memory. That said, in no way am I passionate about music. I don’t spend hours on itunes hunting for the next great band and my ipod isn’t bursting with obscure music or indie acoustic recordings made in the back of a refurbished school bus. That’s my youngest brother, Paul. Me? My taste runs downright ordinary. In other words, I like a little bit of everything. So, that’s what I said.

“I like a little bit of everything.”

This type of blithe answer really bothers music people.

“Really? You like everything?” Please try to imagine his fist-sized Adam’s apple furiously working its way up and down his throat.

“Yup. I like a little bit of everything.”

“Well, do you like Didgeridoo instrumental?”

A snicker from the guy my friend liked. The so called “lead singer.”

“Do you like to rock out to the Polka? How about a hardcore Gregarian chants? Do you like those, too?” He continued naming random music, affronted I would answer such an important, life defining question with such a poorly thought out answer. For shame!

I learned to never again be so vague when confronted by a music person. I know now that I need to define as accurately as possible my taste in music. So, when the following question popped up in my formspring account, I knew exactly how to answer.

What kind of music do you like? What song(s) will you never get tired of?

Let’s start with the first question. I like anything that is commercial or pedestrian, preferably both. In fact, I’ve written about my abysmal taste in music before. Click this link at your own risk.

The second question is a bit harder. Since I rarely update my ipod or buy music, I can almost say I don’t get tired of any of the songs on my ipod because they are the same ones I have been listening to for years. But, I’m going to try. Be prepared to be astounded by the whackadoo variety in genres.

Hip-Hop

I should probably start off by saying that I rarely like a song because of the beat. The lyrics are almost always what draw me in first. The exception to this rule is Ignition Remix by R. Kelly. Because, really, the only way to objectify women is with a good beat.

Rock

For almost the entire year that I was writing the posts for The Bright Side Project (did you hear the news?) I listened to one song on repeat. I do that. I try to find a song that is similar to the mood I have to be in to write in a particular style. For some reason, Good Arms v. Bad Arms by Frightened Rabbit is what I like to listen to when I am writing short, press-related content.

Alternative

Speaking of bright sides, Mikey, Nicholas, The Mister, and I all love Mr. Brightside by The Killers.

Country

That’s as Close as I’ll Get to Loving You by Aaron Tippin is one of those songs I may have liked but not loved had the lyrics not unfolded so well. (My favorite songs are always those that I can picture in my mind like a movie reel.) It’s a song about unrequited love, so nothing new there, but I love the lyric “I may never reach across your body and kill the light while you’re asleep.” It’s intimate without once mentioning genitalia. How about that, Hip-Hop?

I’m not the only one who likes the lyrics to this song. If you look at the career bios of the song writers, this song is always mentioned. (I’m a nerd, so I researched the writers to see what other songs they had to their credit.) My only quibble is with the video, which is early 90s-awful. It was bad when it came out, so you can imagine how it appears almost 15 years later. Mercy. If I could find a way to embed just the music I would because I think the video takes well written/performed lyrics and turns it into an episode of late night T.V. Also, nice glasses, dude.

Bonus Round

If there was ever a song that defined my personality and everything my long suffering husband has to put up with, The Cowboy in Me by Tim McGraw would be it. Minus the western hat, wife-beater tank top, and testicles, of course. I’ll never stop loving this song because it reminds me of The Mister and how lucky I am. (When he isn’t getting on my nerves.)

Whew! That took a while. Care to share what songs you will never tire of?

Inland Empire, Purple and Green

Jules — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 23:44:21 +0000

I have a new color story up over at Inland Empire Family. Who knew there was so much purple in the Inland Empire?

Epilogue

Jules — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 08:00:00 +0000

And so it was that the young couple married, bought a house, and had two sons who liked to stage their toys in compromising positions.

p.s. I have no idea who this Star Wars or Clone Wars figure is, but the dude has it rough in our house.

How I Met The Mister, Part 3

Jules — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 08:00:28 +0000

Someone asked me a couple of weeks ago on FormSpring how I met The Mister. Here is part 3. You can read part 1 here and part 2 here.

…………………………

My friend, Steve, didn’t approve.

“Jules, you don’t even know this guy. You’re going to get in a car with a guy you don’t know and drive to LA? This doesn’t sound like you. The drive alone will take you an hour and what happens if you don’t like him or you get a bad feeling? Why don’t you do something local, like a movie or grab some coffee?”

“I don’t like coffee.”

……………………….

The Mister didn’t fare much better with his roommate.

“Dude. You’re taking a girl from the bar to a museum? Why? You’re going to be stuck with her for an hour before you even get there. Do something safer, like coffee.”

“She doesn’t like coffee.”

………………………..

I picked The Mister up for our first date. His apartment was on the way to LACMA and even though I was acting completely out of character by going on a date with someone I didn’t really know, I’d seen enough episodes of Law & Order to know the handsome guys can have a touch of The Crazy.

…………………………

I knocked on the door; he called me in. I poked in my head and smiled like someone who goes out on first dates all the time. The Mister stood up from the sofa where he was sitting and smiled, his right hand loosely holding the strap of a backpack sitting next to him.

His roommate, Chad, was aloof. He still thought the museum idea was stupid.

I realized I was still wearing my sunglasses and pushed them up quickly, not wanting to appear rude. They got tangled in my hair and I yanked at them too hard from the nerves. They fell off my forehead and landed lopsided on my nose, giving me the appearance of a nerd freshly shaken by a bully.

The Mister smiled wider.

…………………………

On the car ride to LACMA he was direct and upfront, like a candidate for a government position who believes in full disclosure.

“You should know I have two tattoos.”

“Okay.”

“One on my calf and another on my back. Is that going to be a problem?”

“I don’t think so. I always wanted a tattoo, but I don’t know. They’re permanent, you know?”

“Yeah. Sometimes I like mine, sometimes I don’t.”

…………………………

I didn’t know what I was doing, so I went for coy and casual.

“I’m not looking for a serious boyfriend.”

“You’re not?”

“No, I don’t need to get married anytime soon.”

“Well, I would like to get married.”

“You would?”

“Eventually, sure. My brother just got married. He seems happy. Being happy with someone doesn’t seem so bad.”

…………………………

When we got to the museum we continued to talk. I told him everything I remembered from the biographies of Freida Kahlo and Vincent Van Gogh I had read that year. He told me everything he knew about ancient Egypt and the antiquities, a subject that up until that very moment used to bore me to tears.

We were there for hours and then it was dark. On the way home, we stopped at Acapulco for dinner. I ordered something grilled, probably fajitas. He ordered a combo plate with a little of everything. He offered me one of his enchiladas, cheese oozing everywhere.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m lactose intolerant.” Always with the TMI.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Did I just lose points?”

………………………….

We considered going to a movie after dinner, but decided 8 hours was long enough for a first date.

I figured he would call me two days later. He did, at 8:00am. He went with me to buy shoes but I couldn’t find anything because I was too nervous to concentrate on footwear. At the end of our second date he invited me to visit him at the bar the next day during his shift. I showed up as planned and he offered to make me a smoothie of my choice. Restaurant smoothies are usually full of milk, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I told him to make me whatever everyone usually gets, figuring I would leave shortly before the milk ate away at my bowels.

I watched him talk easily to his customers and toss a few bottles in the air, showing off just a little. He walked back to me, smoothie in hand.

“I made you a Gold Medalist, but I left out the cream. You’re lactose intolerant so no dairy, right?”

Right. I’m lactose intolerant.

And that is how I met The Mister.

How I Met The Mister, Part 2

Jules — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 08:00:21 +0000

Someone asked me a couple of weeks ago on FormSpring how I met The Mister. Here is part 2 of three or so posts. I could probably condense it all into one post and make it a couple of paragraphs, but I’m long winded.

………………………………….

About a week before I went to T.G.I. Fridays with Kara, my friend, Steve, and I were discussing our requirements in a boyfriend/girlfriend. Having ended a tortuous 4-year relationship two years prior, I was ready to return to the dating scene from my self-imposed sabbatical. I was smarter and more confident in what I wanted. In fact, I had it narrowed down to two requirements:

1. He had to like art and museums.
2. He had to remember I was lactose intolerant.

And no, the prior boyfriend could never seem to remember I was lactose intolerant during roughly 1,460 days of our relationship.

Steve was concerned my list of requirements couldn’t weed out the riffraff, but there was a method to my madness. I felt a museum lover would be reasonably intelligent; less likely to spend Monday nights smashing beer cans against his forehead, if you will. More to the point, we would have something in common and share similar interests and hobbies. Someone who remembered I was lactose intolerant would be caring, attentive, and not self-involved. I was looking for the opposite of everyone I had ever dated.

I thought it was genius; Steve remained unconvinced. One week later, I walked into T.G.I. Fridays with Kara and unwittingly put my requirements to the test.

Kara and I were sitting at the table in the bar area debating what to eat while The Mister served drinks to the regulars sitting at the bar. I knew I had to stick with diet coke or water since I had class in less than an hour.

“So, ladies,” the Mister asked from his post behind the bar, “what can I get for you?”

I looked at him looking at me, opened my mouth and said, “I’ll take a shot of tequila, please.”

Kara grinned into her menu. A regular spun around in his seat, took one look at me, and chuckled.

“Well, alright,” and the Mister also chuckled. “What kind can I get you?”

I didn’t really care, so I asked for Cuervo 1800, which was on special.

“You don’t want that.” The Mister said firmly.
“Really. Is that a fact.” He had caught my eye, but not my tongue. “And why are you so sure?”

“Because it’s not good Tequila, so you’re just paying for a heavily marketed label. If you want to come over here, I can explain to you the different types of Tequila and how it’s produced.”

And that is when I left my perch in the safety zone and walked over to the bar, trying to ignore the smiles and elbowing going on by the regulars. The Mister placed several different bottles of Tequila on the bar and explained at length the production process. He explained the difference between silver and gold; añejo and reposado; American brands, Mexican brands; and the best climate for the agave plant. All of a sudden, the cocky, backwards-cap-wearing bartender had turned into a nerdy scientist and I, who spent hours as a child reading the encyclopedia for fun, was immediately and hopelessly smitten. It was geek love.

I had one shot of tequila and maybe another drink. I never did make it to class. But, I did call Steve from the parking lot to tell him I met the man I was going to marry.

I spent the next couple of weeks going to T.G.I. Fridays with various friends, all of them curious to catch a glimpse at the first guy to ever make me gush. I made sure we sat in the dining room, far away the bar. We never saw him, until one night when I was there with my friend, Tiffany. I was walking back from the bathroom to my table, minding my own business when some rude punk all but screamed in my ear, “MOVE IT, OR LOSE IT!”

I turned around to watch The Mister rush past me with two arms full of hot plates.

I returned to the table and told Tiffany I saw him, but that it wasn’t going to work out. “I couldn’t possibly marry a guy with thighs thinner than mine.” Tiffany agreed it was a deal breaker and that I had made the right decision.

A month or two later, Kara wanted to go to Fridays. Again. I told her no way. She begged and pleaded and promised we would not go anywhere near the bar. I told her since I was wearing old jeans and a slouchy sweater plus didn’t have time to do my hair or put on makeup that I would only go if she went in first and made sure the Mister was not working in the bar, which sat in plain view of the front door. Not that I was interested, but still.

To her credit, she lived up to her part of the bargain. She scoured the bar for any signs of him and, finding the coast clear, waved me in. Almost immediately we were seated. I all but dove into my seat in the booth and tucked myself into the corner, slouching to prevent anyone from the bar seeing a hair on my head.

The hostess handed us our menus, smiled sweetly and said, “Your server, The Mister, will be with you in just a minute.” No. No, no, no. NO and NO and HELL NO. I told Kara she was on her own, grabbed my purse to leave and started sliding out of my seat. When I looked up, there was The Mister. I could tell he recognized us immediately. I wanted to die. DIE. Jeans, no makeup, slouchy-90s-sweater-DIE.

I smiled and said hi, like there was no one on Earth I wanted to see more than a cocky server with skinny thighs.

I couldn’t leave, so we ordered dinner and drinks. He was friendly and chatted with both us in between serving tables. Nerves kept me from eating anything more than the ice in my very stiff drinks. I hadn’t planned on ordering drinks, so I had to go use the ATM and get more cash. When I returned, the Mister was kneeling next to Kara talking, and it occurred to me he liked her and not me. He left immediately upon my arrival, leaving Kara looking guilty.

“I think that guy wants to…” Kara never got to finish her sentence because the Mister was back, and this time he sat next to me.

We had the world’s most stilted conversation. We might have said, “Hey,” twenty two million times. Then he looked at me and said, “Well, I like you. I was wondering if you would like to meet up someplace and have coffee.”

To which I responded, “I don’t drink coffee.”

Because that’s exactly what you say when someone you like and kind-of-sort-of stalked (before you saw his thighs) asks you out on a date.

The Mister looked a little surprised, but didn’t miss a beat.

“Okay,” He said, smiling. “Do you like art? Would you like to go to the LA County Museum of Art with me?”

Why, yes. Yes I would.

How I Met The Mister, Part 1

Jules — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 08:00:24 +0000

Someone asked me a couple of weeks ago on FormSpring how I met The Mister. That reminded me that I had started the story, but never finished it. Here is Part 1, written a very long time ago. I’ll finish up with Part 2 and 3 this week. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed reminiscing about that day over 13 years ago. Funny enough, yesterday was the 13th anniversary of our first date.

………………………………….

I grew up in a strict, conservative Catholic home, the Argentine-born daughter of two immigrants. I was not allowed to speak with boys, date, or wear makeup. No daring outfits, dangling earrings, or dark nail polish. I begged, at the age of 13, to read Seventeen Magazine. I think my mom might have allowed it, but my dad flatly refused to even entertain the thought, even after I explained to him that 17 year old girls didn’t actually read Seventeen. After college, it was assumed I would return home. And I did. I was twenty-one years old.

I didn’t even think of getting my own apartment until I was around 24 years old. By that point, I was almost done with my Masters and my dad was finding it increasingly difficult to end arguments with, “Because I said so.” I found a very nice apartment in a lovely woodland(ish) setting. I had money saved up (living at home doesn’t cost much) and I took great pleasure furnishing my new place. As I placed furniture and hung poster art, I couldn’t help but fantasize of all the parties I would be hosting, late nights laughing with friends, and grilled dinners on the balcony.

Here’s the rub. Sheltered Catholic girls don’t have many friends, and the friends they do have lead equally dull lives. My friends from college all lived out of state and the ones still in town were preparing for graduate school or already working. Things were not going as planned. I was now poor, bored, and lonely. I started going home to have dinner and staying until it was time to go back to my apartment to sleep. Suddenly my parents and brothers seemed infinitely more interesting.

I’m a night owl, so I would often pull into the apartment parking lot between 10:30 and 11:00pm. I am also exceedingly cautious. Morning, noon, or night–whether I was in or out of the apartment I kept everything dead-bolted. On my first night there I installed a security light. So, I was on my toes when I stepped out of my car just before 11:00pm. I did everything right. I scanned the area. I held my keys in my hand, and even had one extended and ready to stab any unsavory genetalia that dared cross my path.

I bounded up the stairs, looked around and, seeing no one, unlocked the door and quickly went inside. I immediately locked all the locks, including the deadbolt. I put on my pajamas, washed my face, and was scrutinizing my eyebrows in a magnifying mirror when I first heard the knock on my door. I had been inside my apartment for less than 10 minutes.

It was a happy knock, if knock can be happy. The kind of knock you rap on a friend’s door when they are expecting you.

Knock! Knock!

Who’s there? I said without saying. I gently put down my tweezers and cocked my head, waiting for a familiar voice to call my name.

Knock! Knock!

Bill? Steve? Not Tiffany, we’re fighting. Kara is already in bed. A little something inside me started to tingle. I quietly stood up and walked towards the door. I didn’t make a sound as I stood before it, not knowing I was projecting my fractured image through the peephole to whoever was standing outside.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

A little more insistent. I softly pressed my fingertips against the door and looked through the peephole.

White male, or light-skinned hispanic. Early 20s. Average height, 5′8-5′10. Overweight and doughy, about 220 pounds. Dark hair slicked back, round glasses. Some acne. He must have sensed my presence or noticed movement in the peephole because he suddenly broke out in a huge smile and chuckled, like I should be happy to see a miniature version of him staring back at me. I did not say a word. I did not know him.

I reached down to release the deadbolt, and then changed my mind. Instead, I walked into the kitchen and pulled my chef’s knife out of the block and walked towards the bedroom. I picked up the phone and debated calling the police.

And then he tried to kick down my door.

For a split second, I stared at the door in disbelief, wondering if perhaps I didn’t imagine the crash. But then it came again, and I knew by the way the window in front of me shook that he was rushing the door and trying to break the deadbolt. I called 911 and explained in bursts what was happening. I had to yell over my potential intruder (who was now screaming, cursing, and kicking the door) for the operator to hear me.

The operator was very nice. He took down all my information and told me someone would be there shortly. And then he said he had to go.

Please don’t hang up. I’m scared. I could barely speak the words. My mouth was taking in short gasps of air like a fish flopping on a shoreline.

I’m sorry. I have to answer more calls. It occurred to me the operator didn’t want to stay and hear what would happen when my intruder made his way past my locks.

We hung up, and I called every person I knew and then my dad. Only my dad was home, and by the time I reached him the pounding at the door stopped. In the deafening quiet he almost didn’t believe me when I told him someone tried to break into my apartment and the police were on their way. He showed up as I just as I finished giving the officer my statement. He thanked the officer and as I walked down the steps towards my dad, the officer called down from my stoop.

Your daughter is very lucky. There’s someone going around. She would have been the 3rd.

We didn’t ask ‘the 3rd what?’ because we didn’t want to know. My dad never said a word on the way home, and I never went back to the apartment. A family friend cleared it out and put everything in storage. I canceled my lease. I resumed my boring, sheltered life, only this time with great pleasure.

Two weeks later, Kara called me and invited me to eat dinner at our favorite restaurant, T.G.I. Fridays in celebration of my regained financial freedon. Now that I was back at home I had plenty of money for such luxuries, and 30 minutes later we were in the lobby of the restaurant waiting for a table. I had a night class for my masters, but if we ate fast, I could make it in time.

“I know you two ladies aren’t waiting for a table.” A voice, confident and teasing.

Kara and I looked over to find a bartender leaning over the bar and looking in our direction. We both turned around to make sure he was talking to us.

“Yes, I’m talking to you. You’re not really going to wait for a table when you can have dinner right now with me, are you?” Ugh. I thought he was going to speed the hostess along and instead he is asking us to eat in a bar? Gag.

Kara and I looked at each other. I don’t really drink. I don’t go clubbing or dancing or partying. I certainly don’t eat dinner in bars with people I don’t know. My eyes said it all: I don’t think so.

Kara looked back at the bartender. “Sure, why not? That sounds like a great idea!” (Kara always thinks this sort of thing is a great idea.)

We walked into the bar, Kara with a more lively step. I smiled a smile that wasn’t really a smile at the obvious regulars; they chuckled into their bourbon. I made a point to sit at a table in the bar, but not at the actual bar. I wasn’t going to be there long, which would serve that bossy bartender right.

The bartender smiled at my passive-aggressive defiance and walked around the bar to our table. He greeted Kara first and then turned to look at me.

“Hello there.”

I took in his hair, dark as pitch, hiding underneath a gray Kangol hat worn backwards. Eyes the color of sea glass stared right through me, and for the first time in my life I blinked first.

Hello there yourself, Mister.

In the Weeds

Jules — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 08:00:45 +0000

Pulling weeds is a lot like seeking absolution from vice. Or so it seemed to me after three hours of pulling, picking, tearing, shredding and dumping on Saturday.

You have the little fuzzy baby weeds you can nip in the bud without effort. They are the chips you never buy because you know you’ll eat the whole bag, the bad T.V. shows you fall in and out of love with after two seasons, and those situational friends you lose once you change the scenery.

Some weeds require more effort. You tug a bit harder and loosen the soil around them before they come up and out with a satisfying whoosh that sounds remarkably like the click of the phone when you told that one guy goodbye for the last time (and meant it).

Then there are the weeds with established roots. They have stalks as thick as spines and stand so tall and straight and proud that you wonder how you never noticed them before. You’re sneaky ones, Internet and Dairy Queen Chocolate and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup Blizzards. If you had teeth, I do believe you’d bite me.