(1) I’ve been thinking a great deal lately about bank names. I’m sure people pick their bank in terms of location, or online service, but what if we based it on names? I’d be petrified that Wells Fargo would take my paycheck, transfer it into gold coins, lock it up in a ricky wooden box, and bounce it along on a stagecoach to Dallas. There are robbers out there, people. And who is Chase chasing, really? I kinda like the image of Frost, where their people are cold and rigid and won’t let some stranger sign my name on a check without peering at them over wire-rimmed glasses and asking for seventeen forms of ID. But it crosses a line somehow with all the I Heart America banks, like adding Federal or National or America to the title gives it automatic credibility. Would you switch brands of applesauce if it said Applesauce of Liberty?
(2) My daughter was staring forlorn out the window the other day on her way to school. I was worried she was harboring some vengeful and growing hate toward me since I yelled at her earlier about putting on her shoes. “I’m just thinking of a castle playground where there are many sparkling pools that transfer you into a mermaid and you can travel through special tunnels.” Sweet. All the while I thought you were mad.
(3) This Saturday, I took my children to the Stock Show in my hometown. I might have been wearing a pair of Seven jeans and fancy boots from Dillards, but I really felt that I fit in. As we walked around looking at pigs and cows ready for auction, my children said the following things: (a) What’s that awful poo smell? (b) Oh my gosh! A cow! (c) why does that goat have so much fur? (d) can we leave for lunch soon? and (e) where’s the antibacterial gel? Oh wait. That last one was me. Maybe I am a city girl after all.
(4) I was watching Martha Stewart on Television the other day, where she spent like ten total hours preparing beef broth out of bones and vegetables. It involved sauteeing, deglazing, simmering, checking, and straining. In the end, it made like one container of broth. Girl, if I’m spending my precious Saturday worried that much over future soup, it better make enough to last me until retirement.
(5) I think it’s funny that my husband and father refuse to speak Starbuck’s little language and just say “I’ll have a small coffee please.” I wonder how many men walk in there all bow-legged and manly asking for a medium cup of joe. The baristas just roll their eyes, like “would it have been so hard for you to just say grande? Couldn’t you have gone to McDonalds if you hate our fancy code words?”
(6) I made an entire pan of roasted brussel sprouts the other day. My daughter acted like I was asking her to eat battery acid, but there was ice cream for dessert and she was determined to prevail. Finally, after plenty of mock gagging and loads of whining, she peeled off the layers of half a sprout and dramatically put each layer on her tongue like a Listerine Breath Strip. Oh the drama in our home.
(7) And finally, don’t make an entire pan of roasted brussel sprouts. You have lots of leftovers no one will eat, you can’t throw it into a quiche, and they make your house smell like used socks.
