And if I blog the text that became the tweet, is it like looking in the mirror and saying, “Internet! Internet! Internet!” Will Michael Keaton appear dressed up like an AOL CD-ROM?
Related: The new “Let’s stay friends?”
“I’ll probably still read your blog.”
I’ve graduated from a few things and made enough…life decisions to warrant inclusion in the newspaper “milestone” announcements, but you know it? I reckon graduating from Basic is the first thing that I’ve done that’s actually scored ink. And in the STATESMAN JOURNAL. That’s high and fancies people—they publish every day. (God bless and big ups, Itemizer-Observer.)
We had a room and Class A (yeah, I call it my “dress-up outfit”) inspection this morning at 0515. If you’ve been around here for a while, you probably know A) My organization verges on certifiable; and B) My house has always been incredibly important to me. It was one of the things I was most nervous about when I signed up. I won’t have…a place.
But you know what? A wall locker is almost the same as a studio apartment. Please, if you do nothing else, note the LED light on the left. Dollar Store. SO AWESOME.
And yes. My clothes are at “parade rest.” And my hangers match. See? I’m still the same girl, now I just have my obsessions validated by the company SOP.
I mean I am totally paying for it like a good citizen.
For trues. It’s called “14 Point Stag Ring.”
The second G is just silent obviously. (Invisible? Okay, visually silent.)
I used to think my first name was pretty cool, until I got me a job where I never hear it. (The story of where the Zoë came from is here…) I kind of took the last name for granted until I started wearing a name tape with it stitched on it everyday. But even so, I’ve been known to occasionally collect a stag-related item or two.
There are real stags everywhere around here. Mostly on the running trail, they’re so used to humans that they don’t spook easily. The other day I was at my turn around and stopped to stretch. I looked up, and locked eyes with one and neither of us moved for a good minute. It had at that moment a completely human expression behind its eyes. Like somehow it knew me.
A spirit animal.
Maybe it’s complete narcissistry, but I’m always most drawn to art with words on it, that actually says something — and your name is one of the first symbols of language you learn so…
Whatever. Some people collect Mickey Mouse stuff. That’s clearly more offensive.
And this ring? Is awesome.
Chuck Klosterman, so beloved by me that I created an entire Index based upon him, has an essay in which he disputes the notion of “guilty pleasures.” His thesis is basically, “if I like it, why should I feel guilty about it?” and draws heavily on the movie Roadhouse.
(He also has an essay about Goth Day at Disneyland in which he said it smelled like “chlorine and Hot Topic,” and made me wish that I could be him, such does he rock so hurricane-like.)
I have a proclivity that needs must be disclosed. I have utterly tragic taste in restaurants. Top 5s are not new around here, as apparently I’m unwittingly stealing from Nick Hornby too, and logically after dudes and books and Facebook tips, comes eats.
Okay, here goes: The Top 5 Restaurants that will get me to take the next exit:
5. Ruby Tuesdays. Any restaurant that boasts both a salad bar and Endless Fries and serves wine? I mean. And it’s the lesser-known classier cousin as far as Days of the Week restaurants go.
4. Bob Evans. Oh man. You can eat supper here at 3:30 and no one will think anything of it. And it has a pie case and picture menus. Sold. Marry me, Bob.
3. Golden Corral. God you guys. There’s a whole bar of dessert toppings. And the “spread” is dairy-free, and they bring you a stack of plates at the beginning and the price of admission includes the best family dinner theatre you’ll find.
2. Waffle House. Won over by: sheer availability; charming naming convention for the hashbrowns (diced and peppered OBVS); the readily accessible apple butter; and you can come as you are, whatever the current state of verb is.
1. Cracker Barrel. GIFT SHOP. ROCKING CHAIRS. GOLF TEE GAME. I LOVE YOU.
I had a post all planned; when you get one 30-minute date with wifi a day, your content requires forethought. Today, I was ready to go, links and pics and mild narrative, oh my.
And then the water main broke on post.
That means no bathrooms, anywhere. That also means that I spent my blogging time waiting in line for DFAC paper plates and betting over-under how long it’s going to be before we’re out digging pit latrines.
Oh yeah. And today? I hydrated.
Last year, my mom decided that since us younguns was growed, and living places where we couldn’t really accumulate stuff (a fire station and a San Francisco studio apartment, respectively) that Santa was going to give my brother and me a trip somewhere. We knew ahead of time so we could start thinking of ideas of where we might like to go for our Sibling Adventure. We immediately started Googling beachy, cruisey, fun stuff and sending links to each other.
Shortly after, I got an email saying that I’d been selected to be a Guardian on an Honor Flight trip over Veteran’s Day. The Bro is a Paramedic. I am a professional schemer. I offered his services too, and then called him to begin the persuasion. Since Honor Flight is free for veterans and guardians take care of their own tab, if we went, this was going to be Santa’s trip.
No persuasion was needed.
If there are other (then) 25 year-old guys out there who would trade some sort of Spring Break-style vacation, for a weekend accompanying forty 80 year olds, helping them on and off buses, opening and setting up wheel chairs, making sure they were sticking to their medication schedule — for him, a real working vacation — I don’t know them.
What I do know, is that my brother, who’s marshaled troops to help me move countless times, put up with my lifestyle of whims and big plans, and said to me after a particular relationship ended, “I’m on my way to the truck with keys. I’m coming down there,” walked a man named Harlan around Washington D.C. with the same infinite patience (okay USUALLY infinite — he’s not a saint) he shows me, finally, gently, getting him to zip up his coat after a day of freezing rain and cajoling, and showing him the time of his life.
At the end of the three days that could have been beer on a beach somewhere for him, he turned and said, “That’s the best trip I’ve ever been on.”
Yeah. He’s that kind of dude.