baggage's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- On Cheese, Dirty Feet and Bad Words I had a Garth Brooks moment last night. Yup. Little ol' me. He sings this cute little cheeseball song called *Unanswered Prayers* (which I happen to enjoy muchly, thank you very much). And well-this song came to mind after I spent the evening talking to a former teenage fantasy of mine. She came by to watch the band, and we spent the night reminiscing about events long ago forgotten and filed away. She brought her soon to be husband and we danced, laughed, and cried. It was better than Cats you know? But, well, the whole time I was talking to her, I couldn't help but wonder what exactly I saw in her so many years ago. She was still sweet, still nice, still an all-around-cool person to be around-but not quite the person I had elevated her to be when I was a teenager caught in the throes of adolescence. Which brings me to my Garth Brooks moment. I crawled into bed last night with a woman whose company I enjoy immensely. A person who is equal parts friend and lover, as well as everything in between. And as I was laying there with my cat purring on my chest and girl unit's head on my shoulder, I prayed a silent thank you to the Big Cheese In The Sky-whoever or whatever he/she/it is. Yes. I fell asleep last night caught in the throes of cheese. _________________________________________________________________________ Speaking of cheese, Girl Unit sez that parmesan cheese smells like dirty feet to her. Excuse me? I happen to love parmesan cheese-the texture, the taste, and yes the smell. But, now, my Parmesan experience has been tainted. Everytime I pour the crap on my pasta, I sniff it suspiciously. Dirty feet? My dirty feet? I wash my feet! Who else's dirty feet has she been sniffing anyway? Do I really want my spaghetti smelling like dirty feet? Dear God-I wonder where she gets this stuff. Oh yeah-her sister sez she can smell ants. Ants for God Sakes. Must run in the family. ___________________________________________________________________________ Speaking of family. I've been acting as the middle man for my mom's e-mail correspondence with her niece back in the Philippines. My mom, despite a successful career as a librarian and an uncanny ability to know when I haven't been eating enough red-meat-can't seem to understand the complexities of the fax machine. Hmmm. Anyway, since I have a mac, and since I have all the time in the world, I've been sending faxes and e-mails back and forth between the two-which is interesting because the language used is a haphazard mingling of Tagalog and English. I call it taglish. And well, since I've been in the U.S. since I was 8, my taglish skills are somewhat mediocre. I type in the words, and read the letters-but understand little of their international conversation. But I do recognize a few words. Like Putanginamo. That's not how it's spelled, but that's how it's pronounced. Say it slow at first. P-U-T-A-N-G-I-N-A-M-O. Then work your speed up so you sound like a bee on crack-which, coincidentally, is exactly how my mom sounds when she speaks to me. PutanginamoPutanginamoPutanginamoPutanginamoPutanginamoPutanginamo... Have fun with it-but only reserve it for those moments where you'd like to say something like: DAMNITYOU LITTLEPIECEOFSHITTHELITTERBOXISOVERHERE! Yes. Use it wisely. Use it well. And your cat will have no idea that you talk like a sailor. 12:07 p.m. - 2001-05-04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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