Because five years is so obvious.



My husband just walked by and said, "It would be weird to be a pelican!" The comment came seemingly out of nowhere.

A few moments later, he followed that up with, "That would be nothing like being a human."

Nope. It sure wouldn't, Babe.

There was also some story about a pelican rescue in Florida that I honestly only got snippets of. Sorry, Dude, I was too busy typing this.


Letting Go

In the last decade or so that I've been "on my own" in the world, I have lugged around the guilt that I feel each time I have to toss leftovers (or in some cases never used) food items that have gone bad.

I'm so sorry:

Half used cans of tomato paste. It's not my fault that every recipe only requires a tablespoon or two of you.

A few months ago an Epicurious recipe told me that some Indian potato and rice dish would yield four servings. Um, yeah, maybe they meant servings for FOUR SEPARATE FAMILIES because those leftovers took up more than half the fridge space. I tried valiantly to get through it all - even making a fritatta - but, alas I wasn't really wild about the meal on its first appearance.

More containers of milk than I can remember, from back in the day when I drank the mucus-inducing junk.

Various and sundry other items which I cannot recall yet still feel guilty about discarding.

I would like to say that the confessional helped me let go of some of this guilt, but there's just another batch in refrigerator creating moldly guilt as we speak.


Kids These Days

If ever you want to feel equal parts old and creeped out, I recommend spending some time looking at your 17 year old sister's MySpace page. If you don't have a 17 year old sister, I'm sure you can find another MySpace page loaded with things like players with the song "Do It With the Lights On," pictures of underaged kids with beers in hand , teenage girls making out, and captions like "They Say I'm Like the Desert but Hotter" and "You Know You Want It."



I got a check in the mail today.

Marta: Staving Off Homelessness Another Day

Contradiction in Terms

I've been exercising lately. Like consistently, for a week or something. Which is close to my all-time record for continued regular exercise. I am easily distracted.

So I was trying to do some sweet ab moves today and the instructions in Shape Magazine call for the use of a so-called stability ball. Surprisingly I do have one so that wasn't a problem. No, the problem was the fact that they expected me to be able to use it while simultaneously controlling my body, staying balanced and generally not flailing around.

Yeah, not so much.

Stability ball is the most archetypal oxymoron I've encountered of late.


Dogs: Different Than Me

Because when someone is nice enough to feed me, spend time with me, brush my hair, vacuum my bed et al, I DON'T SPEND THE DAY DOING THE EXACT THING THEY ASKED ME NOT TO DO LIKE BARKING MY HEAD OFF AT THE NEIGHBORS.



Ew, who licks a couch anyway? What could possibly be gained from that? Unless it was a flavored couch... like hot and sour soup flavor. But I digress.



What to write, what to write... Brian is sitting across from me, type-type-typing away, and I, the writer of this fearless pair, am stuck. I'm debating. Shall I share a childhood memory with this (mostly) imaginary readership... or something more immediate? But what's happening immediately? Uuuuuuuuuum, I'm drinking some wine? And watching Brian type? Yes. Riveting. I'm aware.

I'm clicking the keys because I feel like something's there. More accurately, I feel like something SHOULD be there. But godammit - the dogs are making a lot of noise. I mean, honestly, does faux-battle require THAT much growling?!?!? And jumping!??!?!

I guess what I'm saying is: I'm fussy. Annoyed by the noise of the animals (human and otherwise) that I love. I'm fussy because I'm things, writing-type-things, are supposed to be flowing freely and they're just stuck with nary a day job in sight to assign the blame.

Grr. I thought this blog was about the funny. Not about the fussy.