A rental car full of sweaty Irishmen with small thighs and MacBooks

Apology to the girl on School Street yesterday, I didn’t mean to stare.  But all I could think was, “Wow, you could fit a rotisserie chicken between your thighs.”  What it must be like to not hear a whooshing sound when you walk due to skin-rubbage.

On NPR this AM – “Never in the history of the world has anyone ever washed a rental car.  People only care about what they own.”  I like that quote.

It defeats the purpose of the action when you first mop up the puddle of sweat and then use the same towel to “wipe down” the stairclimber.

A guy asked me to watch his baby [MacBook] at a coffeehouse while he went to the rest room.  Airport security warnings pinged around in my head, and “Oh god, I hope there’s not a bomb in it” was my immediate reaction.  I miss the days when I’d just look up and smile, feeling good that I had the look of someone trustworthy and enough muscle to fend off any would-be baby-stealers.

I’ve had deck-building Irishmen working outside my bedroom for the past week.  Much like I think pretty girls can and do use their looks to advance in the world, so it goes with British-accented men.  They could pop their head in my window and ask to use my toothbrush to spread their tar and I’d say yes.  Irish-brogue.  Mmmmmmmmmm.

I’m really happy.  I usually gripe and judge here.  So just wanted to write that.