In conversation, my friend Abby is all about transition. If someone is talking about, say, the most recent episode of Young and the Restless and how Chris blacked out the other night and may have killed Isabella, Abby might say, "Speaking of forgetting things, the other morning I woke up and realized that I forgot to shut the window of my car all the way so it filled up with water and now it smells like rotten upholstery." Not that Abby ever forgets anything like that; the point is, she can make a transition statement out of anything. (And I may be projecting a little there, since I'm bitter that my car smells like rotten upholstery at the moment.) It's a pretty endearing trait, even if sometimes the transitions are pretty convoluted. So, in honor of Abby, who wasn't at church today because she has left us for greener pastures, as it were, I will attempt to connect the random thoughts in my head in Abby-style.
Speaking of church, the title is from the backlit announcement board outside the Orange Chapel United Methodist Church up the road. Heh.
Speaking of orange and fruit-flavored things, I watched the guy named Steve sitting next to me on the plane last week consume eight pieces of Juicy Fruit in a half an hour, as he told me stories of his brief backup singing career with Stevie Wonder (cut short when Stevie caught him kissing his assistant, also Stevie's girlfriend, it turned out) and his only trip to Utah, during which the most memorable event was an extremely bloody hockey game. He folded them all into little packets before chewing, and he didn't seem to feel at all embarrassed that he was literally eating all that gum. Here's a tip, Steve: try JuJuBe's next time.
Speaking of eating bizarre things, tonight some people from church made dinner and served it to the residents at the Ronald McDonald House in Durham. The girl who orchestrated the event decided that meatloaf was a good idea, and so we all made these rather perverse-looking meatloaves (which, by the way, is a terrible word) and laid them out on this counter to be consumed by people with already too much sadness in their lives. However, one strangish girl, bless her heart, decided to contribute a tuna loaf to the party, so out of a teflon loaf pan plopped this dark brownish gray, burned-yet-soggy pile of what looked like cat food on its worst day. It was horrible. One brave guy ate a piece and came back in the kitchen and said, "Wait, wasn't that salmon? It tasted like salmon." Heaven help his intestines tonight.
Speaking of horrible things, I love the South and all, but with summer come cicadas, and their mating call back and forth is the rhythmic deafening sound of a power line being dragged across the epiglotus of a snoring man. Aside from being hideously ugly and having a revolting life cycle, the noise makes me want to gouge my eyeballs out.
Speaking of needing your eyeballs intact, I watched The Restaurant tonight. It's pretty compelling stuff. It's been a long time since my last celebrity crush (hi, Mulder), and boy howdy, they're milking this beautiful mug for all it's worth. And it's worth a lot.
Speaking of beautiful people, I am so tired. Good night.
No comments:
Post a Comment