Update because I know you’re all waiting with bated breath for the outcome of yesterday’s missionary-feeding fiasco: I did get pizza. I ordered Papa Johns because I could do it online and they’d deliver. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten Papa Johns pizza, but I’m beginning to think that they are the new Dominos. I dunno. It’s been a really, really super-long time since I’ve eaten Dominos pizza, and I remember it as practically inedible, which is why it’s been so long since I’ve eaten it. Why eat practically-inedible pizza when there’s reasonably edible pizza readily available? But the more I eat Papa Johns pizza–which I admit is a rarer and rarer occurrence as time goes by–the more I think that either Papa Johns pizza has changed considerably over the years, or else my palate has gotten far too refined for its own good. But that’s neither here nor there.
So as I said, these missionaries were lady missionaries, and they’re very nice girls, but good gravy, are they ever quiet. It has been my observation that in every missionary pair, there is at least one who is outgoing and gregarious or, failing that, very good at faking it. Neither of these missionaries was outgoing, gregarious or faking it. It was awkward because they got here about thirty-five minutes before my husband did, and no offense to these good sisters, but when the person with the best social skills in the room is me, you know you have a serious problem. I rely on my husband to serve as an outgoing and gregarious buffer against the rest of the world. He is like my late mother, God rest her soul, who could hold a conversation with a tree stump. Only in my husband’s case, the tree stump comes up to me later and tells me how much it enjoyed his company and thanks me for sharing him with the rest of the world. You probably think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. He’s a gifted individual. I, on the other hand, am very much like my father, taciturn and not particularly paying attention, if you must know. Only in my case, I’m actually uncomfortable with long stretches of silence. I’d prefer them, if I didn’t always feel like someone was counting on me to say something. You should listen in on a conversation between me and my father sometime. That’s hysterical. But I digress.
Where was I? Oh, yes. The sister missionaries, they were very quiet. So quiet, in fact, that even my husband, once he arrived, had some difficulty making conversation with them. Now you understand how serious it was. Good thing there was food present, or I don’t know what we would have done.
And now to change the subject entirely. You might be wondering how I’m feeling today. Or not, but whatever. If you don’t care, don’t read because I’m about to talk about my feelings. They (the feelings) are thus: Eh. The housekeepers just left and I am under much less stress. The floors are clean and the toilets are clean and life is good for the moment. I’m trying to remember if I took my pills this morning. The problemo is that I get very apathetic and start to think that the pills aren’t helping, and then I neglect to take them because I forget or “forget” or I run out of them or whatever, and I go for a while without taking them and the world doesn’t come to an end, BUT THEN IT DOES. It’s not any way to run a business. If I were in charge, I’d fire me. But I honestly can’t remember if I took my pills this morning. I wonder if I should take them again just to be on the safe side. Oh, wait, how can I take them again if I haven’t already? That makes no sense. Well, whatever. Thus concludes the gratuitous paragraph about my feelings.
Who wants to talk politics? I was just thinking this week that with the left clearly in denial about the significance of Scott Brown’s election and the right clearly overestimating the significance of Scott Brown’s election, it’s gotten to where I can’t stand to hear any sort of commentary on the event. Would you like to engage in some Schadenfreude? Both of the tax increases on Oregon’s ballot passed yesterday. So there’s at least one true-blue state left in the union. Soon we will be #1 in unemployment again. Up yours, Michigan!
Is there anything else to say? Not really, but I’ll go on anyway, because I can. The playlist I’ve been listening to on my iPod lately includes Oleta Adams’ “Get Here”–a song I obviously like or it wouldn’t be on my iPod, but it was Genius that made the playlist, not me, which is why I’ve found myself in the position of listening to this particular song repeatedly over the last couple days, not because I’ve been in some moony romantic mood or anything. (Really. Ask my husband.) Not that I would be ashamed of it if I were, but I’m just explaining why I’ve been listening to this song a lot lately. ANYWAY. Every time it gets to the line “You can take a sled and slide down a slope,” I always hear “You can take a Slip-n-Slide down a slope,” which cracks me up because seriously, how much awesomer is it that way? I bet the lyricists are kicking themselves that they didn’t think of it first. Or they would be, if they read my blog. If they don’t, I guess it’s their loss.
Well, now I am out of stuff to say, so I’m going to sign off on the Wednesday blog. Leave your misheard lyrics in the comments section. Thank you.