Today at work I answered the phone, and ended up taking an order for a dog's dinner. Or maybe it was a dog's dinners.Whatever. I catered dinner for a dog. Excuse me while I wipe my ass with my college degree.
Anyway. The order was for twenty-four fried bone-in chicken thighs. For a dog or dogs.
I put the customer on hold for a moment to ask my co-workers if I was being pranked. Apparently not. This is a fairly new, yet already well-beloved customer who has been calling in 3-4 times a week with the same order for her dog.
I asked her name and number. I confirmed that she wanted twenty-four thighs, bone-in, to be picked up at noon tomorrow.
"And make sure they are cooked good!"
I was silent for a moment, wondering if her dog had complained about the presentation, or maybe the lack of garnish. She continued, "Make sure they are done! The last ones were pink!" Click! went the phone.
I am not a dog person, but I have never ever heard of feeding dogs bone-in chicken on purpose, much less breaded, sodium-laden, deep-fried chicken. However, I guess there is a tiny chance she is deboning the thighs, since she thought the last ones were underdone.
Sidenote: co-workers told me when Doggy Mama came in to complain, the manager had to do a show-and-tell to demonstrate that thigh meat is actually a slightly different color than breast meat.
The other thing that boggles my mind is that two-dozen chicken thighs three-to-four times per week cost her between $75 to $100 dollars, and I am guessing (praying) that the fried chicken is not the primary source of food for her dog.
Was this enough for my day? No, it was not. Later a woman requested I shave two pounds of turkey breast for her cats.
Fuck it. I don't care anymore, as long as her cats and the first whack-a-doo's dog do not ever speak to my cat.
Sunday, December 7, 2014
Monday, October 13, 2014
Crash on wheels
So, Crash had a skating party this weekend. He was excited. I lost my damn mind My anxiety has been rearing its ugly, out-of-control head again, and the prospect of Crash being thrust into an unfamiliar social situation, doing something he has only done once before (and hated,) tripped off all sorts of crazy wires in my head. I imagined him hobbling around the rink, falling, being mocked, and then sitting on the sidelines as his classmates zoomed past him. Basically I imagined some sort of re-enactment of Carrie on wheels, with my kid as prom queen.
I ended up taking him to the rink the day before the party for practice and reconnaissance. I figured if the practice didn't take, he'd know where to go to play air hockey or Tekken. Hey, you know that lady with all her crap about free-range kids? I'm not her.
I remain amused at our local rink's ad campaign. They are trying to promote roller-skating as a wholesome family activity. "Remember when families played together? Remember a simpler time? Remember the seventies?"
Being quite unwholesome, my brain supplied more ad copy!
"Remember when neighbors were friendly? Remember key parties?"
"Remember when we all enjoyed nature? Remember Acapulco Gold? "
"Remember when we all left our doors unlocked? Remember Helter Skelter?"
Our practice day went pretty well, and I sent C. off to the party the next day without completely losing my shit. When I went to pick him up, I ventured into the cave of darkness and deafening sound and stumbled around until I found his friend's mom.
Just as I was greeting her, Mr. Cool glided by us and flipped up his hand in a casual wave. He kept skating. He's still slow, still clumsy, but still keeping at it.
His friend's mom said Crash had been having a great time . . . especially when two of his classmates -- girls -- took him by both hands to go around the rink with them.
"So he's milking this?" I asked.
"I'd say he's playing this," she said.
Just then I saw Crash take a huge tumble. A willowy girl came barreling up on her skates, and then executed a razor-sharp pivot right in front of Crash in order to give him a hand up. He kept skating until the ugly lights came on and the DJ said they didn't have to go home but they couldn't stay there.
Things I need to remember: my kid is stronger than I give him credit for, and his classmates are kinder than I give them credit for.
I ended up taking him to the rink the day before the party for practice and reconnaissance. I figured if the practice didn't take, he'd know where to go to play air hockey or Tekken. Hey, you know that lady with all her crap about free-range kids? I'm not her.
I remain amused at our local rink's ad campaign. They are trying to promote roller-skating as a wholesome family activity. "Remember when families played together? Remember a simpler time? Remember the seventies?"
Being quite unwholesome, my brain supplied more ad copy!
"Remember when neighbors were friendly? Remember key parties?"
"Remember when we all enjoyed nature? Remember Acapulco Gold? "
"Remember when we all left our doors unlocked? Remember Helter Skelter?"
Our practice day went pretty well, and I sent C. off to the party the next day without completely losing my shit. When I went to pick him up, I ventured into the cave of darkness and deafening sound and stumbled around until I found his friend's mom.
Just as I was greeting her, Mr. Cool glided by us and flipped up his hand in a casual wave. He kept skating. He's still slow, still clumsy, but still keeping at it.
His friend's mom said Crash had been having a great time . . . especially when two of his classmates -- girls -- took him by both hands to go around the rink with them.
"So he's milking this?" I asked.
"I'd say he's playing this," she said.
Just then I saw Crash take a huge tumble. A willowy girl came barreling up on her skates, and then executed a razor-sharp pivot right in front of Crash in order to give him a hand up. He kept skating until the ugly lights came on and the DJ said they didn't have to go home but they couldn't stay there.
Things I need to remember: my kid is stronger than I give him credit for, and his classmates are kinder than I give them credit for.
Saturday, October 11, 2014
the memory of the living
Three weeks ago tomorrow, Crash spent the day with his dad, B. I worked most of the day, so they got some quality time together as B. set up a computer he'd assembled for Crash. When I got home, they had their heads together as they watched Beavis and Butthead episodes online. The three of us went out to WalMart to get a cable for the computer set-up. I threw together a slapdash meal. We hung out until his girlfriend came to pick him up. I gave him a hug as he left, which I didn't always do.
The following Friday, Crash asked for my phone and called his dad.
The following Sunday, I was at work at my second job and got a call from B.'s number. When I listened to the message, it was his girlfriend, L. She told me there had been an emergency and she was with Brian, and to call her back. I called her back and left a message. The next fifteen or twenty minutes were a blur. I felt that clutch of adrenaline response that turns your knees liquid. I tried to wait on a customer and had to ask her to repeat herself several times. I tried to wipe down a slicer (second job is at a grocery store deli) and realized, after my first attempt, that I was trying to wipe a running slicer.
I knew that B. had lung cancer. I knew bad things could happen. But the previous Sunday, he looked better than he had in months: he had more energy, and he'd put on some weight. I wondered if I would need to take off work and take Crash to see his dad in the hospital.
L. called me back, and I went outside the back exit. L. and I have never had a particularly polite relationship; in fact, the last thing I'd actually said to her was, "Fuck off, thundercunt." Despite my part in our contentious relationship, she tried to break the news very kindly and gently.
I interrupted her before she got many words out, though, and asked, "Is B. dead?"
He was dead. He had died the night before, from a complication with the cancer. I try to take comfort in some things. He died after spending the evening watching TV and eating Chinese takeout. If there had only been a few strippers involved, it would have been his perfect night. It was still one of his top ways to spend an evening. He died after spending a really good day with his son, and having a good conversation with him. And I hugged him the last time I saw him.
My relationship with B. was extremely rocky over the last ten years. But we were together for thirteen years, married for ten, and we had an amazing, wonderful child together. It's shocking to realize what a void his death leaves in my life. It's not as much of a void as it leaves for his mom, or his girlfriend, and especially not for Crash, but it's still a big hole in the fabric of my existence.
After L. told me, I spent some time at work crying and placing a few incoherent calls. My sweet, sweet co-workers at the deli tried to comfort me as they dashed back and forth during one of the busiest times of the week. I would get a hug, get a fresh dish towel to sob into, and then hear, "Fuck! I'll be right back."
After a while, I left. It took me a long time to get home because Crash was at home, and my next job was to tell him his dad was dead. On the way, I called some more friends. I pulled over into parking lots and cried some more. During this long journey home, Crash happened to call the deli to see when I was coming home for lunch. The co-worker who answered the phone didn't know if Crash knew, and didn't want him to be alone, so she stayed on the phone with him until I pulled up in the driveway. It is little acts of kindness like this that make life bearable. I will always be grateful for her thoughtfulness.
Crash knew something was very wrong when I arrived home early, my face swollen from tears. I told him something bad had happened, and he cringed. I told him it was about his dad, and he crumpled. The saddest thing I have ever seen was my son's face when I told him his dad was dead. Telling him was the most horrible thing I've ever had to do.
Two weeks later, we are doing okay. Okay-ish. Crash has shown a lot of strength and resilience. He takes comfort in his school routine. I think we are both a little more likely to hug each other and say, "I love you." I think from now on, I may take very special care to hug everyone I love, and tell them that, every time I see them. Be warned -- I am now even more of a hugger than I was before.
Death burns away the petty, and it turns out that a lot of it is petty.
The following Friday, Crash asked for my phone and called his dad.
The following Sunday, I was at work at my second job and got a call from B.'s number. When I listened to the message, it was his girlfriend, L. She told me there had been an emergency and she was with Brian, and to call her back. I called her back and left a message. The next fifteen or twenty minutes were a blur. I felt that clutch of adrenaline response that turns your knees liquid. I tried to wait on a customer and had to ask her to repeat herself several times. I tried to wipe down a slicer (second job is at a grocery store deli) and realized, after my first attempt, that I was trying to wipe a running slicer.
I knew that B. had lung cancer. I knew bad things could happen. But the previous Sunday, he looked better than he had in months: he had more energy, and he'd put on some weight. I wondered if I would need to take off work and take Crash to see his dad in the hospital.
L. called me back, and I went outside the back exit. L. and I have never had a particularly polite relationship; in fact, the last thing I'd actually said to her was, "Fuck off, thundercunt." Despite my part in our contentious relationship, she tried to break the news very kindly and gently.
I interrupted her before she got many words out, though, and asked, "Is B. dead?"
He was dead. He had died the night before, from a complication with the cancer. I try to take comfort in some things. He died after spending the evening watching TV and eating Chinese takeout. If there had only been a few strippers involved, it would have been his perfect night. It was still one of his top ways to spend an evening. He died after spending a really good day with his son, and having a good conversation with him. And I hugged him the last time I saw him.
My relationship with B. was extremely rocky over the last ten years. But we were together for thirteen years, married for ten, and we had an amazing, wonderful child together. It's shocking to realize what a void his death leaves in my life. It's not as much of a void as it leaves for his mom, or his girlfriend, and especially not for Crash, but it's still a big hole in the fabric of my existence.
After L. told me, I spent some time at work crying and placing a few incoherent calls. My sweet, sweet co-workers at the deli tried to comfort me as they dashed back and forth during one of the busiest times of the week. I would get a hug, get a fresh dish towel to sob into, and then hear, "Fuck! I'll be right back."
After a while, I left. It took me a long time to get home because Crash was at home, and my next job was to tell him his dad was dead. On the way, I called some more friends. I pulled over into parking lots and cried some more. During this long journey home, Crash happened to call the deli to see when I was coming home for lunch. The co-worker who answered the phone didn't know if Crash knew, and didn't want him to be alone, so she stayed on the phone with him until I pulled up in the driveway. It is little acts of kindness like this that make life bearable. I will always be grateful for her thoughtfulness.
Crash knew something was very wrong when I arrived home early, my face swollen from tears. I told him something bad had happened, and he cringed. I told him it was about his dad, and he crumpled. The saddest thing I have ever seen was my son's face when I told him his dad was dead. Telling him was the most horrible thing I've ever had to do.
Two weeks later, we are doing okay. Okay-ish. Crash has shown a lot of strength and resilience. He takes comfort in his school routine. I think we are both a little more likely to hug each other and say, "I love you." I think from now on, I may take very special care to hug everyone I love, and tell them that, every time I see them. Be warned -- I am now even more of a hugger than I was before.
Death burns away the petty, and it turns out that a lot of it is petty.
Friday, September 19, 2014
Soup of the evening, beautiful soup!
For one brief shining moment, I am reaping the benefits of forethought. It's an unfamiliar feeling to me. However, during my charlie-foxtrot of a morning, even though I had about 8,000 unwashed dishes and a clogged sink going on in my tiny galley kitchen, I threw the stuff for pasta fagioli in my crock pot.
Later, after conspicuous bragging on Facebook, someone asked me for the recipe, and since I live to brag and please, here you go.
Like most of America, I was introduced to pasta fagioli by that place that does unlimited soup/salad/breadsticks. It makes sense that this friendly presentation was one of the first things I attempted when I first tried working with dried beans. I've cooked it a lot, and I think I've got a pretty good, in no way claiming to be authentic, version.
I start with soaking a cup of dried Great White Northern beans overnight. I know Cooks Illustrated and Alton Brown now say you don't have to soak them, but considering the area I live in and the likely rate of non-turnover in the way of dried beans, I find it prudent.
I started with the soaked, undrained beans in the bottom of my crockpot. Today I added a rind of Parmesan, one chopped onion, one enormous peeled and diced carrot, one diced red bell pepper, and one handful of chopped mushrooms. I realize my veggies may be more minestrone-like, but there is worse to come. Deal with it. I added a jar of Newman's Sockarooni sauce, and then poured a little veggie broth into the jar to shake and then poured that in. I added more veggie broth (I think ending up at 3 cups) and a few tablespoons of prepared pesto.
I put the whole shebang on low and left for six hours. Upon my return, I added a package of frozen chopped spinach, some salt and half a veggie bouillon cube. I like my fazool to be fairly thick and stew-like. Then I left again for about two hours.
I came back with a pizza for my ungrateful, anti-legume spawn, and put on a pot of SALTED water for pasta (in my case, two partial boxes of white and whole-wheat macaroni.) Did I mention the pasta was cooked in SALTED water? I used to never add salt to the water for pasta. When I finally did, I was like, HOLY SHIT, this stuff has a taste! Hi, Department of the Obvious checking in.
Another side note: the first few times I made pasta fagioli, I cooked the pasta in the soup. Bleah. Unless you have a ravening horde to feed and no chance of leftovers, cook the pasta separately. Otherwise you end up with a really thick soup full of pasta that is disintegrating apace with your lack of interest in eating it.
Anyway, buen provecho! Bon appétit! Slainte! Opa! YOLO!
1 cup dry white beans, such as great northern beans, rinsed and looked over (yes, sometimes there are rocks in there)
water to cover
1 finely chopped onion
1 peeled and diced huge carrot, or two normal carrots
1 de-seeded red, yellow, or orange bell pepper. Don't bother with the green ones.
about 8 oz mushrooms, chopped
1 jar of marinara sauce (I like Newman's Sockarooni)
1 32 oz box of vegetable or chicken broth (I was experimenting with making a vegetarian version for my niece's visit)
3 tablespoons prepared pesto
1 (or more, I'm not your parole officer) Parmesan rind
1 10 oz package frozen chopped spinach
1/2 cube of vegetarian bouillon
salt to taste
water salted to the level of broth
the equivalent of a pound of small, dried pasta. (I am always using up leftovers, and I think the varied shapes are the culinary equivalent of Shabby Chic. Don't try to disabuse me of this notion.)
Fresh-grated Parmesan
Put the first group of ingredients in the crock pot, willy-nilly. Cook on low for 6-8 hours (this is a forgiving treatment.) Taste the broth, make sure your beans are tender, and add the next 3 ingredients. Once everything is cooked and flavored to your liking, start the SALTED water for the pasta. Cook pasta per the box & drain. Serve yourself a lovely bowl of pasta covered with soup, with Parmesan flakes melting into the top. Bask in the knowledge that you are a domestic rock star.
Later, after conspicuous bragging on Facebook, someone asked me for the recipe, and since I live to brag and please, here you go.
Like most of America, I was introduced to pasta fagioli by that place that does unlimited soup/salad/breadsticks. It makes sense that this friendly presentation was one of the first things I attempted when I first tried working with dried beans. I've cooked it a lot, and I think I've got a pretty good, in no way claiming to be authentic, version.
I start with soaking a cup of dried Great White Northern beans overnight. I know Cooks Illustrated and Alton Brown now say you don't have to soak them, but considering the area I live in and the likely rate of non-turnover in the way of dried beans, I find it prudent.
I started with the soaked, undrained beans in the bottom of my crockpot. Today I added a rind of Parmesan, one chopped onion, one enormous peeled and diced carrot, one diced red bell pepper, and one handful of chopped mushrooms. I realize my veggies may be more minestrone-like, but there is worse to come. Deal with it. I added a jar of Newman's Sockarooni sauce, and then poured a little veggie broth into the jar to shake and then poured that in. I added more veggie broth (I think ending up at 3 cups) and a few tablespoons of prepared pesto.
I put the whole shebang on low and left for six hours. Upon my return, I added a package of frozen chopped spinach, some salt and half a veggie bouillon cube. I like my fazool to be fairly thick and stew-like. Then I left again for about two hours.
I came back with a pizza for my ungrateful, anti-legume spawn, and put on a pot of SALTED water for pasta (in my case, two partial boxes of white and whole-wheat macaroni.) Did I mention the pasta was cooked in SALTED water? I used to never add salt to the water for pasta. When I finally did, I was like, HOLY SHIT, this stuff has a taste! Hi, Department of the Obvious checking in.
Another side note: the first few times I made pasta fagioli, I cooked the pasta in the soup. Bleah. Unless you have a ravening horde to feed and no chance of leftovers, cook the pasta separately. Otherwise you end up with a really thick soup full of pasta that is disintegrating apace with your lack of interest in eating it.
Anyway, buen provecho! Bon appétit! Slainte! Opa! YOLO!
1 cup dry white beans, such as great northern beans, rinsed and looked over (yes, sometimes there are rocks in there)
water to cover
1 finely chopped onion
1 peeled and diced huge carrot, or two normal carrots
1 de-seeded red, yellow, or orange bell pepper. Don't bother with the green ones.
about 8 oz mushrooms, chopped
1 jar of marinara sauce (I like Newman's Sockarooni)
1 32 oz box of vegetable or chicken broth (I was experimenting with making a vegetarian version for my niece's visit)
3 tablespoons prepared pesto
1 (or more, I'm not your parole officer) Parmesan rind
1 10 oz package frozen chopped spinach
1/2 cube of vegetarian bouillon
salt to taste
water salted to the level of broth
the equivalent of a pound of small, dried pasta. (I am always using up leftovers, and I think the varied shapes are the culinary equivalent of Shabby Chic. Don't try to disabuse me of this notion.)
Fresh-grated Parmesan
Put the first group of ingredients in the crock pot, willy-nilly. Cook on low for 6-8 hours (this is a forgiving treatment.) Taste the broth, make sure your beans are tender, and add the next 3 ingredients. Once everything is cooked and flavored to your liking, start the SALTED water for the pasta. Cook pasta per the box & drain. Serve yourself a lovely bowl of pasta covered with soup, with Parmesan flakes melting into the top. Bask in the knowledge that you are a domestic rock star.
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Remains of the day
I realized, somewhat late in the day, that today would have been my seventeenth wedding anniversary. We've been separated/divorced for seven years, but this date hit me hard for some reason.
Sometimes I think about our marriage in terms of what remains from it. Obviously and most significantly, there's Crash. I get caught up on stupid stuff, though. I still have a battered metal bowl that we used to always use for popcorn while we watched movies in our little house in Orlando. Almost every time I use this stupid bowl, I think about the fact that this survived most of our courtship, and all of our marriage. Which on one hand is not surprising, because it's a fucking metallic object, made of metal. But memories and nostalgia and shit.
Today was also a little harder because I got off work, with the realization in my brain that today was our former anniversary, and realized it was seven o'clock. So, exactly seventeen years previously, I was hand-in-hand with my dad, veil billowing in a Florida breeze, about to walk down the aisle.
At least that's how my thoughts were running. Possibly, and more likely, my bridesmaids were still churning around in their standard late-1990s-issue empire-waist, aubergine dresses, waiting to precede me. I was still probably hyperventilating.
Memories from my wedding day: I remember that I woke up at six o'clock or so. We were staying at a hotel adjacent to our venue, and I went down to the pool and read about 3/4 of The Deep End of the Ocean, which I had pilfered from a bridesmaid's bag. Because I read fast, it was still early when I got bored. I went up and knocked on the door where my nieces were staying, and my niece Melissa came to hang out with me. We went to a local restaurant and she had breakfast while I began a slow spiral to insanity.
Later Melissa and I went and paid for some trees/plants to decorate my venue.
We checked on my venue. I hyperventilated.
We checked on my centerpieces. I hyperventilated.
We met up with the other maids, and got our hair done. The first version of my hair was a shellacked bouffant that Tricia Nixon might have sported. I hyperventilated. When my recovery from this round was prolonged, Melissa offered the information I had not eaten anything all day. I then ate a bagel with cream cheese, improbably procured from the bar in the same strip mall. Then I made the hairdresser take my hair down a few notches.
My brother drove me and the 'maids from the hairdresser to the venue, in his minivan. On the way, he cheerily remarked, "Wow! All this big hair! I feel like I'm chauffeuring a bunch of Alabama cheerleaders!" I did not hyperventilate, but did hit him with a shoe.
Very shortly before walking down the aisle, my nieces were practicing some ridiculous slow, swoopy walk to go up the aisle, and I (as the classy bride I apparently was) yelled at them to walk like normal people. Then we walked down the aisle, to Enya. I regret nothing.
Speaking of no regrets, I don't regret or mourn my divorce, but I do sometimes miss the guy I married. However, he doesn't exist anymore -- and to be fair, the girl he married doesn't exist anymore. Few artifacts have survived from the time when that guy and that girl were completely in love and happy. One of them is a cheap metal bowl.
Sometimes I think about our marriage in terms of what remains from it. Obviously and most significantly, there's Crash. I get caught up on stupid stuff, though. I still have a battered metal bowl that we used to always use for popcorn while we watched movies in our little house in Orlando. Almost every time I use this stupid bowl, I think about the fact that this survived most of our courtship, and all of our marriage. Which on one hand is not surprising, because it's a fucking metallic object, made of metal. But memories and nostalgia and shit.
Today was also a little harder because I got off work, with the realization in my brain that today was our former anniversary, and realized it was seven o'clock. So, exactly seventeen years previously, I was hand-in-hand with my dad, veil billowing in a Florida breeze, about to walk down the aisle.
At least that's how my thoughts were running. Possibly, and more likely, my bridesmaids were still churning around in their standard late-1990s-issue empire-waist, aubergine dresses, waiting to precede me. I was still probably hyperventilating.
Memories from my wedding day: I remember that I woke up at six o'clock or so. We were staying at a hotel adjacent to our venue, and I went down to the pool and read about 3/4 of The Deep End of the Ocean, which I had pilfered from a bridesmaid's bag. Because I read fast, it was still early when I got bored. I went up and knocked on the door where my nieces were staying, and my niece Melissa came to hang out with me. We went to a local restaurant and she had breakfast while I began a slow spiral to insanity.
Later Melissa and I went and paid for some trees/plants to decorate my venue.
We checked on my venue. I hyperventilated.
We checked on my centerpieces. I hyperventilated.
We met up with the other maids, and got our hair done. The first version of my hair was a shellacked bouffant that Tricia Nixon might have sported. I hyperventilated. When my recovery from this round was prolonged, Melissa offered the information I had not eaten anything all day. I then ate a bagel with cream cheese, improbably procured from the bar in the same strip mall. Then I made the hairdresser take my hair down a few notches.
My brother drove me and the 'maids from the hairdresser to the venue, in his minivan. On the way, he cheerily remarked, "Wow! All this big hair! I feel like I'm chauffeuring a bunch of Alabama cheerleaders!" I did not hyperventilate, but did hit him with a shoe.
Very shortly before walking down the aisle, my nieces were practicing some ridiculous slow, swoopy walk to go up the aisle, and I (as the classy bride I apparently was) yelled at them to walk like normal people. Then we walked down the aisle, to Enya. I regret nothing.
Speaking of no regrets, I don't regret or mourn my divorce, but I do sometimes miss the guy I married. However, he doesn't exist anymore -- and to be fair, the girl he married doesn't exist anymore. Few artifacts have survived from the time when that guy and that girl were completely in love and happy. One of them is a cheap metal bowl.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
so much depends
The people who live in the trailer down the road from me have, apparently, experienced some sort of incident. A lot of clothes are scattered over the front yard, and they've been there for days.
Possibly the explanation is very dull, like the clothesline fell down, or someone dropped a laundry basket while bringing stuff home from the laundromat. But why would they leave the clothes outside? And why would a pair of jeans be inside out? My money is on an evening that started with the phrase that has led many a lad and/or lass to ruin: "Let's do some shots!"
However this went down, the clothes are still there. I check on them as I go back and forth. I ponder the meaning of the clothes on the grass. Where did they come from? When will they leave us? They fascinate me, they befuddle me, they inspire me.
They inspire me to rip off William Carlos Williams.
Possibly the explanation is very dull, like the clothesline fell down, or someone dropped a laundry basket while bringing stuff home from the laundromat. But why would they leave the clothes outside? And why would a pair of jeans be inside out? My money is on an evening that started with the phrase that has led many a lad and/or lass to ruin: "Let's do some shots!"
However this went down, the clothes are still there. I check on them as I go back and forth. I ponder the meaning of the clothes on the grass. Where did they come from? When will they leave us? They fascinate me, they befuddle me, they inspire me.
They inspire me to rip off William Carlos Williams.
so much depends upon a pair of Wranglers with one leg inside-out beside the tighty-whities.
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