Wake Up

I have an irrational fear of a home invasion. I don’t know why this is — I mean, other than an attempted break-in more than a year ago, when we may or may not have been home, no one knows — nothing’s happened, although that’s probably enough. And I’m certain that I’ve mentioned this before, but just a friendly reminder that the police officer who came to our house and freaked us out with his overall lewd and lascivious demeanor? He’s in prison right now awaiting ruling on child porn charges. I feel safe, is what I’m saying.

That being said, it’s still utterly ridiculous that I live like this, and honestly, I don’t know what I’m terrified of more — actually being broken into and tied to a radiator like that awful scene in “Unbreakable,” or becoming one of those women who has to wander around the house three times, completing a set of completely meaningless-but-comforting rituals like a designated hitter with OCD.

This is unrelated to anything other than the fact that I’ve freaked myself out while walking the dog almost every night this week, convinced that someone — maybe Michael Myers — is lurking behind the bushes to force his way inside my home and do that radiator thing.

So here’s something funny — or shall I say hurtful and extremely disappointing — only one alert reader asked about the toe jam radish recipe, which I’d clearly (CLEARLY) mis-typed, and I’m wondering, do you all have something against food that smells like rotting feet mixed with dog farts? For shame.

And hey, I meant to tell you: I say bathing suit, too! Swimsuit is for people who use Bain de Soleil tanning lotion (for that St. Tropez tan!) and wear big sunglasses. Big white sunglasses, maybe with excessive rhinestones, paired with very pale frosted lipstick. Those are swimsuit people. Bathing suit people are the practical sort who use Coppertone — Banana Boat, if they’re feeling sassy. Bathing suit people know how to make good cookies, maybe a nice rib roast, and have raunchy senses of humor. Bathing suit people are okay with fart jokes — no, no, they are great with fart jokes. Or maybe we’re just old-fashioned and learned the wrong way from our mothers. That’s my excuse.

Hey, and while we’re on the topic of language, I must know: do you say sherbet or sherbert? I am firmly — OH SO FIRMLY — in the sherbet camp, and am intensely distressed by the use of sherbert. This whole language-as-dynamic-entity thing? Sometimes it really pisses me off. But sometimes it can be really fascinating, like, for example, did you know that normalcy was considered a malapropism by Warren G. Harding, when he used it in his campaign, but really, it was merely improper, at worst? It’s been the topic of conversation in our home many times this week, I’m not sure why, except that Adam is still on his American history kick, and tomorrow we could be talking about the Iran-Contra Affair over falafels.

But anyway, don’t get me wrong — I’m thankful that spit-and-image has evolved to spitting image, really, I am, although who uses that phrase anymore? Do you? But I will never, ever be okay with sherbert. Never.

And um, oh, hello, did you not realize you bought a ticket for the Language Dork Picnic 2007? Oboe players welcome.

Wrapping it up with as few exclamation points as possible, today turned out to be a surprisingly decent day, despite the fact that it started with my husband angrily — and rather sleepily — flipping me off, as I’d allegedly kept him up all night with the first snores of the dry allergy season. There’s nothing like an angry chewed cuticle in your face at 7 a.m.

Happy Friday to you. I hope you have a wonderful weekend full of shiny happy things. Ours will be full of fried whole belly clams! WHOLE BELLIES! I even hear they’re flown in from Ipswich. Oh yes.

*Arcade Fire

40 comments October 4th, 2007