My sink's water filter broke, and I know you wonder how I am able to carry on, and let me tell you I almost didn't. Am I just supposed to go around drinking BAD CARCINOGENIC WATER from now on? Because, unacceptable.
I made the fatal error of phonng Marvin to see if he had any idea of how to fix said broken water filter, and does anyone remember that Marvin used to bug me? Because I DO. It just ALL CAME BACK to me.
He let me tell him the whole story of how it broke (the thing won't go back on the thing) and what I tried and my theories about what it could be that broke it, and after all that he said, "Yeah. I have no idea."
Sigh.
I forgot to tell you that he managed to not only bug me during that fruitless phone call (Ned was working. This is why I plundered my past for water filter help. Ned and that pesky need to make a living. Can't his job just be ensuring my comfort and clean water at all times? And what do you MEAN lucky Marvin?), he also managed to bug me from afar the other day with the popcorn salt.
I like things on my popcorn that have nothing to do with butter (blech) or salt. This, in fact, is one of the many reasons I like Ned. He, too, abhors butter on his popcorn. Every week we go to the movies and split a giant tub of ("GodDAMMIT, I like popcorn") popcorn, and nearly every week the kid says, "Butter?" and we both screech, "NO!" like they're taking away our free will or something.
So generally I put Spike or Mrs. Dash--or in my case, Mrs. Kind of Trot--on my popcorn, and I also live large and put Parmesan cheese on there, or if I'm really lucky, nutritional yeast. Poke fun at me all you want. It's good. You just have to remember to get the nutritional yeast at the hippie co-op, is the problem there.
But the other day I made popcorn and I was out of Mrs. Kind of Trot, so I got on a chair and searched the depths of my spice cupboard for something else. And lo and behold, there at the very back was some cheese-flavored popcorn salt from God knows when. From when I was married, at least, as I was about to find out the hard way.
"Yay! Cheesy salt!" I thought, and let me tell you, odder things come out of this brain in the course of a day. I took the lid off and shook. And shook. And shook it like a Polaroid picture. Because 2004 called.
And?
Nothing.
I pounded the side of the exciting cheesy salt.
Nothing.
Finally I looked closely. Marvin. Marvin, who's been gone a year and a half, had done the thing to the salt. My cheesy salt.
You know how you get a food item now, and more often than not you remove the lid--let's use peanut butter as an example--and for who knows what reason they now put a foil-ish kind of SECOND lid underneath? And you have to peel that stupid lid off to get to the real food? (Do they think this really keeps people from tampering? Do you not think if you were diabolical enough to want to tamper with peanut butter you'd be man enough to circumvent the flimsy lid?)
Well. Marvin? Never removed those aluminumy second lids.
It's like he was SUCH a busy executive that he couldn't take time. It was like the house was aflame, but he just needed one dip of peanut butter before saving the pets from the licking inferno. He'd peel a LITTLE of it, then leave it in tact, sort of pat it back down. Because apparently MY job was to take off the whole thing at some later date.
So the salt? My cheesy salt? My big find at the back of the shelf? Marvin had poked the world's tiniest hole in it, so just one grain of salt could get out per pour. It's like he must have used a pin, and poked a hole THROUGH ONE OF THE PLASTIC SALT SHAKER OPENINGS, to get a Lilliputian drop of salt out of that thing.
Guess who is lucky he doesn't live here anymore? Because guess whose next colonoscopy would suggest he's gettin' a little too personal with Lot's Wife? Guess who'd have condiments in each of his nethers? And no, I have no idea what "nethers," plural, means, either. I'm mad. Cut me some slack.
And in case you're worried sick, I bought me some original flavor Mrs. Dash yesterday. And I peeled off the lid completely.
In other pressing news, my old friend Dot sent me this.
Dot knows what a huge Yoko fan I am, and also how much I enjoy hearing about her three-ways with celebrities.
"Okay, where WAS this? Because those are the worst replicas of John and Yoko I've ever seen," I wrote her. "Oh, we went to a wax museum," Dot told me, "and no one there looked remotely like anyone was supposed to. It was hilarious."
And that, friends, is how I decided to have a giveaway (I KNOW! You know how good my giveaways are. And how I hop right on getting your winnings to you.). The first person to actually guess who these inexplicably bad wax figures are wins a brand-new, super-exciting, chosen just for youuuuu....
...box of Abraham Lincoln bandages.
I KNOW! Honest!
Get it? Do you? Be sure to take them to the theater, in case you get wounded.
June. Tasteful and appropriate since 1965.
Okay, here we go. Who the hell are these wax people?
Good luck. I mean, I don't want to put too much pressure on you, but again. Abe Lincoln bandages.
I'll even peel the lid off the package, if it has one.
