Friday Flotsam

Fridaaaayyyyyeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiyyyyyyyyeeeeyyyyyyyy.     (!)

Who else is completely terrified of the back of a hairdryer?

You’re already like, PSYCHO.

You know, that little round eggy area with the mini mesh prison bars? What goes ON in there? Are there tiny hairdryer elves living and breeding inside that wee vortex of death? I’ve always been nervous when I blow dry my hair. Which is why I only do it once a year. I mean week.

This one time, not at band camp, when I was about 14 years old, I was blow drying my hair and the back of the hairdryer started SMOKING. And I noticed it was only when I shook the hairdryer harder than usual. You know how you kind of shake your hand back and forth to get your hair good and dry? Right, it started making a weird ticking noise and smoking. I thought I was about to see the gates of heaven, dudes.

WHAT IS IN THERE? Why am I scared? Why is my hair still wet?

Speaking of shaking your hands, this next segment may very well have you adding my name to your prayer circle.

If you’re a Chemex coffee drinker, have you ever noticed that when you clean your carafe, you look like you’re strangling it? You dump the soap in, hands around its neck, WHY I OUGHTAAAA.

Now you’re seeing it.

I straight up Homer Simpson that thing.

One day, if I ever happen to break my beloved Chemex, I’ll stand for a moment in silence, and imagine a slew of handsome crime scene investigators standing around with hands on their hips, “Bruce, do we know how this happened?” (one of the detective’s names is Bruce.)

“It’s unfortunate, Franklin, death by strangulation.” (There’s a Franklin there, too.)

Poor carafe. Had such a life ahead of it.

I’ll go ahead and stop talking right now.

You GUYS.

I have an issue.

…okay, another issue.

Every year about this time, when the temperatures begin their muggy climb, I get a rash on my wedding ring finger. It looks like the mossy land from the underworlds.

I’ll even give my ring a deep clean, getting all the sweat pool crevices (<–why do I do it?), the moldy nooks and rotted crannies (<–I can’t stop) and I STILL get a blasted rash.

I always tell Aaron, “Guess I’m allergic to our marriage, hahahah! Hah ah ah a!  h a hah ah a.

ha?”

Then he goes outside and mows the lawn.

What can I do!? Is there a certain ring cleaner I should invest in? An ointment for my finger? Amputation? Marriage counseling? Ryan Gosling?

Why are they called cookies, and not bakies? You don’t cook cookies. You bake them. They’re clearly bakies.

I’m writing a letter to Congress.

Weekend plans? I’m on the hunt for a fabulous denim skirt. Nothing too pencil, and nothing too peasant. Something in between. Right at the knee. A classic wash. Maybe buttons down the front? You’re asleep.

Oh! ANNNNND I’m picking up a projector today from a friend downtown. Hooray! We’re officially hosting a backyard movie night next weekend with our best buds. And of course, the official quest is on: WHAT MOVIE SHOULD WE WATCH? Aaron vetoed Dirty Dancing as soon as DIR came out of my mouth. “Ohhhh, what about Dir!-” “NO.”

The Goonies? Something Hitchcock? THE NOTEBOOK.

That’s not super summery though. Give me classic summer movie ideas. Before my rashy slime wedding finger eats my entire body whole. (<—wish I was sorry.)