I am using “thither” as an adverb–as in “that’s where Thursday went.” You don’t hear a lot of people using “thither” anymore, as an adverb or otherwise. It’s pretty much a dead word. I don’t know that it needs to be revived, either. But it’s alliterative, and I’m feeling that today.
Why am I feeling alliterative? Because I can’t think up a title for this post. It’s pretty much going to be about nothing.
This morning I spent three hours cleaning out the refrigerator. Just so you understand, I did a really good job. I won’t tell you about all the moldy stuff I found. Except I will tell you about the moldy Foitella that I bought for Sugar Daddy as a Christmas gift. It cost $22 for a wee jar, and I think I dumped at least $18 worth of it down the garbage disposal. I think my husband is congenitally incapable of eating perishable food in a timely fashion. I will probably not buy him another jar of Foitella…until Christmas rolls around again and I can’t think of anything else to buy him.
Three hours still seems like an awful lot of time to spend cleaning a refrigerator. Well, it was really filthy. Disgustingly filthy. I deserve an award.
As it happens, I did get an award. My sweet husband–he of Foitella fame–called me on the phone this afternoon and asked if I’d meet him at the Banana Republic so I could try on this dress he thought would look good on me. So being the obedient wife that I am, I did as he requested, and now I have a new dress. How does it look on me? Awesome. Thanks for asking. Trust me, that one word is more accurate than any photo could be. (I don’t photograph well.)
And the best part is that he didn’t even know that I’d cleaned out the fridge. He just sensed that I deserved an award. Actually, he’s not that sensitive. He’s just a nice husband who occasionally gives me things that I don’t deserve, and it’s just a coincidence that today I did deserve it.
You know what’s better than first-world problems? First-world benefits!
He’s not coming home tonight, which means I can get away with feeding the kids crap for dinner. Which reminds me, I have seen these news ads for Carl’s Jr.’s hand-breaded chicken tenders and whatnot on public benches. Yeah, public benches. You know what I mean, right? Those benches that are just out there in public, like at bus stops? Why does “public bench” not sound like a real thing? I don’t know. But I assure you, it is. And there are ads on such things, which is where I’m seeing the Carl’s Jr. ads that I’m talking about. One of the ads says, “Because machines make terrible chefs,” and another of the ads says, “Because machines make crappy co-workers.” Two things:
1) I don’t know that machines make crappy co-workers. I mean, certainly some machines do, but the majority of machines I work with do a very good job, and there is little in the way of “office politics” with machines. At least that is my experience. I’m sure there are many of you out there who would gladly trade at least one of your co-workers for a nice robot.
2) Since when is “crappy” appropriate copy for an advertisement that appears in the public space? I guess Carl’s Jr. is supposed to be the “edgy” fast-food place, and I suppose they don’t have a history of genteel advertising–and who am I to talk, when I use the word crap all the time? But like I tell my kids, just because I say it doesn’t make it okay. I don’t know. It just seems like another symptom of our society’s decaying moral fiber. No class, I tell you. No. Class.
I guess there might be a third thing: 3) Machines don’t necessarily make terrible chefs. My waffler makes a much better waffle than I ever could by hand. Machines get a bad rap, all in all. Except for those evil Cylons on Battlestar Galactica. But even some of them might have been good chefs. It’s hard to say, as the show didn’t really focus that much on its characters’ culinary lives. But I digress.
Getting back to my original point, I still don’t know what I’m going to make for dinner tonight. I will probably have to go to the store and buy some food. I will have to take Elvis with me, and that promises to be more trouble than it’s worth. Elvis has a new obsession with the automatic doors. He wants them to open just for him. So he will stand there, several feet away from the door, and wait as long as it takes for them to close again so that he can run up and make them open just for him. Of course, the more people going in and out of the store, the longer it takes for the automatic doors to shut. They may start to shut, but as soon as someone trips the sensor, they’re going to open right back up again. Elvis finds this very frustrating. Do you know how many people go in and out of a grocery store on your average afternoon? A lot. The doors stay open most of the time because people are always going in and out. It’s a problem, if you’re autistic and crazy.
Talking of which, I have one of Princess Zurg’s friends over at the house this afternoon. She’s staying for dinner. I hope she likes crap. In any case, it will be crap prepared by a real human, so I guess I’d better get on the stick if we’re going to eat before midnight. Gentle readers, adieu.