Tikkabik

I was driving the Aerostar to pick up Robert from kung-fu practice with James and Emmeline in the back seat. It's only about five minutes away, but at 20 minutes past 5 PM at this time of year, it's night time anyway, so it was dark outside.

"De moon is following me," said James.

I took a quick glance in the rear view mirror. James was strapped tightly in his car seat, head covered with a warm knit Blue's Clues hat. Eyes wide as plates, he was looking outside the window to his left, where Robert normally sits. His gaze was fixed heavenward, staring at the pale moon hanging in the sky.

"The moon isn't following us, James," I explained. "It just looks that way because it's so big and high up in the sky, far away."

I heard him grunt a little a few moments later as I turned the minivan down a side road. His eyes were still fixed on the grinning round face of the moon, casting its light across the landscape.

"No, daddy. De moon IS following me."

With evidence in hand clearly disproving daddy's theory, James seemed content with his hypothesis. A few minutes later he was fast asleep. Nap time.

Posted by flargh at 10:36 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Grilled cheese sandwiches are a sublime treat, provided you're not prone to bouts of nausea or explosive diarrhea brought on by lactose intolerance. I had one for lunch today, and it set off a sense-memory of my childhood, sitting in Grandma's kitchen.

She had this knack for making grilled cheese sandwiches paper-thin, without immolating them in the frying pan. She'd drop some margarine on the pan, then push down on the sandwich really hard with her metal spatula to squish the bread and presumably get the cheese closer to the flame.

The best way to have them is with thin slices of tomato wedged between the (American) cheese and the butter-soaked bread. Mmm. Heart disease for lunch, but oooh, it's so good.

Care for a side order of angioplasty?

Posted by flargh at 03:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

The generic greeting. It's used millions of times a day by english-speaking people all over the world, an informal introduction. A way of breaking the ice. Not something that merits a lot of overt thought or effort.

Now, I don't encourage people to answer the question disingenuously, but the bottom line is that within our normal social context, the question is a trifle ... a social construct intended to pave the way to more meaningful conversation and exchange of ideas. Unfortunately, I have this friend that doesn't play by the rules.

"I'm surviving."

That's her answer.

And it's not just "surviving." It's "surrrviiiiving."

It's a plea for sympathy. A provocation. An attempt to garner attention. And boy, does it piss me off.

From the outset, her tone is like caterwauling. "Feel sorry for me," the tone pleads, "because my life is so much worse than yours."

And indeed, if you exhibit any weakness in your conversation with her, you'll find her problems compound and outclass yours at every step of the way. The funny thing is, it's just a character trait that irritates me -- otherwise she's a good person and a loyal friend. It's just one of those things that I react to like nails on a chalkboard.

Posted by flargh at 09:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)