Loose Ends

Darling Daughter is trying to find a balance between fitting in with her peers and not being bored/annoyed by them. The latest school-yard fad is collecting and trading paper. Not any old paper, but stationery decorated with these mouse characters. At first, D.D. was not interested at all, but then she admitted that maybe she would like to try it. I got her a couple of notepads, and she had a heavy day of trading last Friday. But Monday morning when we discussed whether she wanted to take her collection to school, she admitted that she wasn’t really all that into it after all, since it was basically an excuse for a hen party. Picky, picky.

I have started tutoring someone in English on Tuesdays, so I found myself outside my normal route this morning. That means new opportunities for people-watching, and I spotted a doozy: Drunky Hair Guy’s MOTHER. She had to be. She was old enough that she had a permanent stoop and slight palsy (and I heard her making that weird sucking sound that elderly people missing teeth unconsciously make), but her long, straightened hair and lipstick were magenta, and her clothes (except for the D.A.R.E. t-shirt) were all leather, with the jacket sleeves rolled up. When she got off the bus, she slung her bag over her shoulder, put her hand in her pants pocket, and strutted away.

Lovely Husband insisted that we go ahead and crank the heater up, even though we haven’t awoken to any less-than-68F-indoors mornings yet. But please don’t think he did this for his cold-natured wife or clothing-averse child. It was completely for the sake of the batch of mead that is fermenting up against a radiator in our living room. You can see where his loyalties lie.

It turns out my xmas cactus is really a Thanksgiving cactus, at least, that is what this site has led me to believe. Also, I have been taking care of it completely wrong, but it doesn’t seem to care. It put on four blooms recently, and after I brought it in out of the cold last week, almost every single “branch” put on a new leaf at the end. So take that, Schlumbergera Bridgesii fanciers!

In my then muddle-headed state, I left out a contender for favorite commercial. A model is sashaying down the catwalk in her orange C&A cardigan and black slacks, all very tasteful. On one side are your typical fashion-show attendees with their notebooks and their cameras. On the other side are the male version of the bystanders when the Beatles landed on American soil—men shrieking and crying and fainting. Hee!

I thought I was the only person disturbed by the side-effects (no pun intended) of low-rise pants, but thanks to I, Asshole, I now know that the icky side-pooch mashed potato-bag of love handles caused by low-rise pants are called “muffin top.” My life is complete.