Not to Mention Newman-O's, Snack of the Gods

In an effort to pinpoint why I'm so itchy and low-energy lately, I'm embarking on a crusade against wheat. That's right, no wheat for two weeks, because according to what I've read on the internet, consuming wheat and skin allergies go hand in hand for a lot of folks.

If that doesn't prove helpful, I'm going to cut out all gluten (which is found in almost everything, including the wheat-free rye bread I bought at Whole Foods yesterday). At which point I'm going to cry and cry, because as I see it, life isn't worth living unless you can devour a pot of angel hair pasta in bed during reruns of The Sopranos on A&E.

If I come up empty at the end of those four weeks, I'm going to be out of ideas, and probably very bitter.

Oh, and this experiment will not go into effect until after Thursday evening. I mean come on, I'm already a vegetarian. Without stuffing and pumpkin pie, it would be a dark day indeed.

With My Head in the Clouds

Air travel is a drag these days, but nothing quite compares to the feeling of moving great distances while soaring high above humanity. I often miss my nomadic life.

Like Swiss Cheese

Which part of the brain is the one that stores all the memorized stuff like basic multiplication tables and the spelling of everyday words? Because I'm pretty sure mine is full of holes.

Yesterday, I had to really, really think about whether 7+5 equaled 12, or if I was totally crazy. I knew for a fact that 7+6 equaled 13, which made the moment that much more pathetic.

Then this morning, I was composing an email to a co-worker and forgot how to spell the word "integral". Instead, I kept typing the word "intregal" over and over. Which isn't even a word. And because Apple Mail kept flagging it as misspelled, I was convinced the program was malfunctioning. A quick Google search straightened me out, but now I'm not positive I haven't been saying "intregal" out loud to people who definitely know the difference between a real word and a made-up word.

TGIF.

Buried Treasure

I recenly downloaded Miro, the free, open source video player, and am very happy with it so far. In fact, I think I'm going to transition over from iTunes completely, at least with video content.

During the installation process, Miro asked if I'd like it to search my computer for videos to add to my Miro library. Sure, why not, I thought. Show me what I got.

Turns out I took a video with my little Nikon Coolpix 5200 during our Efes Pilsen-filled cruise along the southern coast of Turkey last June. The file's been buried deep in an iPhoto Library folder for over a year, and chances are I'd have forgotten it forever. So, thanks Miro. If only I could remember more details from that evening...

Oh. Huh.

So I'm driving along the avenues as I often do, trying my best to hit the timed lights and minding my own business. The Clash – Should I Stay or Should I Go comes on the radio. I like this one. I turn it up.

Except that halfway through the song, I realize something rather obvious and disturbing. He doesn't actually sing the line: "Don't think your witch clothes even fit me". 

What he sings is: "Don't you know which clothes even fit me?"

And just like that, my head explodes. See, I always wondered why he was considering staying with a witch in the first place. I mean, she's a witch. He should obviously go, right? Plus, the cross-dressing thing is kind of perplexing. He seems to want to wear her stuff, but they aren't in the right size. And the statement kind of comes out of nowhere. He likes her, but the relationship is difficult, he doesn't know if she wants him around, he's confused, oh and by the way, HE DOESN'T THINK HER WITCH CLOTHES EVEN FIT HIM. For the record, I've always imagined his girlfriend as a Stevie Nicks lookalike. I've also sung this particular line loudly in mixed company at least a handful of times over the past 20 years.

And now I feel a little silly.