In Which I Slander Robert Frost And The Dictionary Guy
So, I’ve been thinking about this website, and about how sometimes, very large chunks of time go by between me inadvertently committing a felony and Brian sealing a live animal in our wall, and when that happens, this site just sits here all lonely and ignored, and I don’t like that. So, over on the Facebook page, I asked everyone what they thought about me converting Miss Doxie into more of a journal-type blog, where I sometimes tell stories, but sometimes I do not, and I just spew forth whatever is lurking in my brain, even if it is not fully story-like. And everyone was all, “Woo!” and said that would be okay and then they promised not to poke me with sticks if whatever I say is boring. And so I am believing all of those people, and here is what I am going to try to do: I am going to try to post every few days (she said, with the best of intentions) just to keep myself in the habit of writing, and to keep things somewhat fresh over here, and then when a big story DOES happen, WON’T WE ALL BE GLAD? Because, in the absence of anything actually happening, you get my musings on potato chips. You’re welcome. Let’s just bear in mind that (a) at least you do not have to live with me, as poor Brian has to endure my internal musings aaaaallllll the time (I even email him my musings, in case he misses me at work); and (b) y’all promised not to poke me with sticks. And, that being said…Imma journal now! Let’s see how this goes.
So, last week, Cookie and I were in the little store downstairs in our building when we discovered that there is now such a thing as Dill Pickle-flavored Lays.
Notice we got the "HUNGRY GRAB" size. Of course we did.
Naturally, we bought them, and came back upstairs with our pickle-flavored chips and then we discussed how we were both repelled by the chips, but we were also oddly…drawn to them. And I was like, “I feel about these chips the same way that Robert Frost felt about death, when he talked about how the woods are lovely, dark, and deep,” and maybe that is giving dill pickle-flavored potato chips just a little too much credit. But then we tried them and they were delicious, and now I think that maybe death tastes awesome. Or maybe Frost was talking about pickle-flavored potato chips all along, and then people were all, “Ah, a poem which succinctly describes the paradoxical emotional response to one’s own mortality,” so he was like, “Uh…YES,” because it was too embarrassing to admit that really, he was talking about pickle-flavored chips. And really, these are all weighty questions, but I just hope death doesn’t taste like Cool Ranch Doritos, because Cool Ranch Doritos smell like feet.
Also, I have never typed “pickle” out that many times in my life. It has gotten to the point where pickle doesn’t even look like a word anymore, which actually brings me to my next thing:
So. Later that day, Brian and I were discussing tattoos (and possibly…drinking), and he was saying that he was sort of tempted to get another one, but it would have to be large, because he didn’t want some random assortment of tattoos all over, thereby resulting in him looking like a human bulletin board. And then this happened:
Brian: If I got another tattoo, I’d want it to say something profound about me. Like, about my uniquity.
Me: Your what?
Brian: [slowly, as if speaking to an idiot child] My uniquity.
Brian: What? Is that not a word?
Brian: Really? HEY! BABY! I made up a WORD! Shit, that was EASY! I’m going to make up MORE WORDS
Me: I don’t think it works like tha--
He has been making up all kinds of words since then. I should really keep a log of these words, so that I can submit it to Mr. Webster, or whomever is in charge of running the dictionary now. Probably Mr. Webster isn’t in charge of the dictionary anymore. Probably Mr. Webster is dead, and never even had the chance to try a pickle-flavored potato chip. I just hope Cool Ranch Doritos were not involved.
Heee. Journaling is fun. Maybe I will be back tomorrow! Maybe they will have even MORE interesting chip flavors downstairs. I will have to try them. For literature. It’s what Mr. Webster would have wanted. Either that, or he'd want to poke me with a stick.
Kisses to y’all!