I don’t know how accurate it is, but it’s certainly flattering. Thanks, Jo, for directing me to this one.
 I am Chocolate Flavoured.I am sweet and a little bit naughty. I am one of the few clinically proven aphrodisiacs. Sometimes I can seem a little hard, but show warmth and I soon melt. What Flavour Are You? |
...the things that dreams are made of…
Dear friends,
I am in awe, total eyes-wide-open, jaw slack, arms hanging limply at sides, torso leaning forward, butt pooched out awe. Think of Bugs Bunny in “Beanstalk Bunny,” stumbling onto Elmer Fudd’s giant carrot patch. It’s that kind of awe.
Look at where the good folks at the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow are putting me up for the month.
I cannot believe that I am not only allowed, but encouraged to live and work in this beautiful space. I can’t believe that I will be using this amazing kitchen for my class. I am just beyond words. I cannot get there fast enough.
Although I have taken quizzes in this spot, I have never written one of my own. If I did, though, the results would look something like this:
You are a desk monkey at a box factory!
Every day is La Marche Futile for you. Purchasing agents call and scream at you, plant managers tell you blandly that they cannot accommodate your screaming customers, prepress designers tell you why the customer is obviously on crack if they want this job run the way they want it—would you mind calling the customer and telling them that, please?, accounts receivable managers announce that they will not let you ship the order until the customer pays its damn bills already. All of this activity is on behalf of a humble little carton, designed to be thrown away the instant the customer gets it home, made out of materials that contaminate air and groundwater, and will not biodegrade for a good 500 years from now. When you go out to a bar, anyone who asks you what you do will suffer instant glazing-over of eyes. You are trying, really trying, not to be bitter, for fear that your husband will leave you for a woman in a more cheerful industry, and that any lovers you may acquire in your dead marriage’s wake will be frightened off quickly by the haunted look in your eyes. Your parents will wonder why they scrimped and saved to put you through that fancy-pants liberal arts college. You fear dying alone, saving little bits of string and muttering about your third-grade teacher.
What Useless Tool of the Man Are You?
Just between us, dear friends, I suspect that I might be just the tiniest bit tense about my job.
Lest I give the impression that the day was a complete wash, though, I did have a nice conversation with a food writer from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, who is writing an article for this Sunday’s food section about eggs. I don’t know if anything I said was at all usable, but there are worse ways to pass part of a difficult morning than to talk to a smart and friendly journalist about the pros and cons of pasteurization. We’ll see this weekend if any of my stray nonsenses make the final cut.
And no day can be a complete wash if you find your long-lost copy of Talking Heads’ Little Creatures and listen to it with only one light on in the living room, casting a warm sepia glow over everything. At times like this, the living room stops feeling cramped, and feels warm and snug instead. From our window, the lights on the Triborough look like pearls. This is a perfect world. I’m riding on an incline. I’m standing in your face. You’ll photograph mine.
