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You Mean I’ve Been Eating THAT?

Scary people are descending upon my house today to eat lunch. I’m not cooking for them. My ‘hood contains one of those dive corner grocery stores, a place where a person can duck in and come out ten minutes later with a paper-wrapped hunk of goodness.

No, not a 40-ounce bottle of beer or a 16-ounce can of Miller High Life wrapped in a brown paper bag. (Both can be had there in abundance.)

A falafel. Fried chick pea stuffed pitas with salad and sauce – a combination that leaves me happily burping the afternoon away in memory. It is heaven from the moment I try to cram the ginormous thing into my mouth to the late exquisite bite.

I used to feel that way about them. Now, I’m not so sure. Since some hideous spoiler of all things delightful told me that falafels contain cilantro, I have been frightened of going in there and ordering one.

My sickened obsession about it was bothersome enough that MTM threw up his hands and walked around there to ask if their concoction contained any devil weed bits. Their answer: sometimes.

Sometimes? You mean to tell me I MAY have consumed the devil weed in microcosmic fragments as part of enjoying a falafel from Charlie’s Grocery? And, I didn’t know it, didn’t spew it forth from my mouth and refuse to have any more of it, let alone eat the whole corrupted thing?

They say that – when they have cilantro, which is rare – they put it in the chick pea mixture before they fry it into little balls. No one would admit how often they have it, or whether the one I ate two bites of on Saturday contained any.

I guess if I’ve been consuming cilantro for years as part of my Charlie’s falafel addiction, the joke is on me. Maybe it really is proof that frying anything to smithereens makes it edible.

 

Too Much is Just Enough: Falafels from Charlie’s Grocery

 

 

The Super Bowl Is Lame

Yet, MTM is suddenly fascinated by professional football. He doesn’t care about sports for much of the year, other than the internet subscription to Major League Baseball so that he can listen to Bob Uecker call the Milwaukee Brewers games.

We don’t have a television in our household, and MTM is now frantic. His Green Bay Packers are in the Super Bowl, and he has no means by which to watch the hoopla and hullaballoo that leads up to the big game or the contest itself. Short of going to a sports bar or mooching someone else’s flat screen, he’s S-O-L.

Neither of those options appeal to MTM. The last time he went to a friend’s house to watch a sporting event on television, that friend made much fun of him because he brought a crossword puzzle to work while watching the game. Who watches sports without being glued to the screen? Besides MTM?

Ditto the sports bar. He feels ridiculous taking reading material or puzzles in there with him. If it gets especially rowdy, his concentration for 20-down might be disrupted. And, people will look at him funny.

I have a far better attitude; I just don’t care. I could care less who wins. I will be oblivious to wardrobe malfunctions and national anthem shows and whose commercial was the best.

Okay, that’s not really true. If the Packers do not win, I will have to live with MTM and his life-long love of his almost-home team. When life-long love is squelched, it quickly turns to something else.

And, I just don’t want to live with THAT.

Yes, I admit that I think the Super Bowl is lame. But, what MTM wants isn’t. So, Packer players, pull your cheese heads together over the next week and win for my man, who may not even be able to watch you.

Please.

They Used to Call Me the Streak

Well, not really. That was my brother who was always revealing his buck-naked self to all of my friends as a little boy.

But, calling our incoming Rotary 7770 District Governor nominee Lou MelloThe Illustrious Potentate” on my blog yesterday brought back a memory for me that was reinforced by regular reader Tom Smith’s rampant postings of Ray Stevens songs on Facebook.

Growing up, I wasn’t allowed to listen to secular music. This standard did not apply to my father, who blasted country honky-tonk with reckless abandon in his various company vehicles. The cringing memories of that music is the main reason I can’t listen to country music much to this day.

The boogie-woogie-free zone was problematic for my mother to enforce when we went to visit family. When one of my cousins discovered KISS, my deprived brother and I would walk around in shell-shocked wonder at the beats and the screeching and the posters my cousin had in his room. We’d always return home wanting to “Shout It Out Loud” and other hideous things.

My poor mother spent weeks trying to return us to her staid, straight-and-narrow children again after each visit to those relatives.

Because I found the noise of KISS deafening and the costumes unattractive, I decided to succumb to another deplorable sin.

Ray Stevens.

My cousin Ann had the record “The Streak,” and I played it on her Donny and Marie Osmond record player enough times in succession to memorize every nuance of it. I thought a song about people running around naked in public was far more incendiary than a song called “Love Gun.” (Yes, people, I was THAT naive.)

So, in honor of Mr. Lou Mello’s District Governor Nominee status for Rotary District 7770 and the memories that conjured for me, please enjoy Mr. Ray Stevens’ cheesy video for “The Streak.”

Too Much is Just Enough: Cheese

Straight from the Horse’s Mouth

On Thursday, I heard ANOTHER Verizon iPhone rumor, because, we all know me. I’ve been stalking the thing for months and months and months. I called the local Verizon store the second the announcement was made, and when they redirected me to sign up on the Verizon web site, my fingers couldn’t move fast enough to type in everything necessary to apply. For days, I returned to the Verizon site to check and check and check to make certain my information was all still in there.

I know. I have a problem.

Thursday, I went to the Verizon store to get this thing called a mi-fi, a credit card sized device that I can take with me anywhere to hop online. Because, I want to be one of THOSE people who sit around in public and preen with my MacBook Pro.

As I was leaving, I mentioned that I was in line for an iPhone. The person helping me invaded my space and dropped her voice to a scant whisper.

“You can get it on February (date deleted to protect my interests),” she muttered.

Really? Gee, I already KNEW that, because the Verizon e-mail notification area for customers keeps promising me – every single time I go back there to check – that it will be available on the (date deleted, again.) This scandalous, cloak-and-dagger information was not news to me.

Then, she said, “But, wait. They’re going to start selling them at (an ungodly, only known to me hour.) If you go on at (time deleted) on February (date deleted), you’ll have your iPhone by the (two days later.)”

!

!!!

(Exclamation points indicate eagerness and ecstasy……)

@#$%^&*@$%^#$%^#$%^!@#$()_

(followed by swear words.)

WHY do I have to get up at o’dark-thirty in the stupid morning to place my order for my iPhone? Are the Verizon and Apple gods going to be sitting online laughing at all of us salivating freaks, lumbering out of bed to drag ourselves to our computers in a race to be among the first to have one?

I bet they will be.

And, I don’t care.

I got all my information straight from the horse’s mouth. And, I’m not telling ANYBODY what she told me.

 

Too Much is Just Enough: My Obsession with the Verizon iPhone

 

I Need a Muzzle for Myself

Here’s an app idea for some enterprising programmer: an application that, when loaded into one’s smart phone, sends electrical shock waves into the owner to let her know that she needs to stop talking. Specifically, she needs to stop the oversharing verbal vomiting that she is doing when she should just say, “I love everything! Everything is GREAT!!!!!”

I NEED this application. In fact, I would load it onto every device I have. That I would be dead from electrocution within 24 hours is a given. Even when my brain is screaming that I need to change tack and stop talking, my mouth just seems to yak on and on and on and on and on and on.

Sigh.

In life, when there is a disconnect between where we are and where we want to be, how do we best build the bridge between the two? I mean, sometimes they have to exist in parallel, but it is never a good idea to sit with one’s heart where we want to be and shoot nuclear warheads at where we are, no matter how good it may feel at the time. Especially when where we are is reality, at least for now.

I talk too much.

At least when I write, I can look back over it and realize I’ve said too much. (And, you’re thinking, “Really? And you STILL put all this out here?”) But when I talk, there is no edit button, no means of slurping back what just popped out of my mouth unfiltered.

So, which one of you can build the app that will shock me when I talk too much? Come on. It’s really a good, sadomasochistic idea……….

 

Too Much is Just Enough: Knowing When to Shut Up

 

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