Pasta e fagioli — amazing! Linguine with shaved truffles — exquisite! Service — impeccable!
My wife had the veal liver. I don’t even like liver but I tried it and loved it! They can make you like things you don’t even like.
It’s not inexpensive — that needs to be mentioned — but if you feel like helping to spend the country out of this recession we’re having, I think you’ll really enjoy it.
I put a half-full cup of soda from Extra Mile in the fridge and went out to run some errands. When I got back home, the soda was gone.
“What happened to my soda?” I asked.
“I cleaned out the refrigerator,” my wife said.
The optimist sees the glass as half full. The pessimist sees the glass as half empty and throws it out, even if it belongs to someone else . . .
Iranian envoys hoping to get a piece of American pie, or at least a hot dog, will have to wait. The invitations extended last month to Iranian officials to attend Fourth of July celebrations at American embassies have been rescinded, reports The Times’s Mark Landler.
I hope that’s because they continue to murder their own citizens in the streets and not just because they failed to RSVP in a timely manner.
I stand side by side with President Obama in my support for human rights and opposition to totalitarian autocracy!
NO IRANIAN DIPLOMATS WILL BE ALLOWED AT MY HOUSE FOR JULY 4 FESTIVITIES!
Oh yeah, we’re playing hardball now . . .
Kodachrome
You give us those nice bright colors
You give us the greens of summers
Makes you think all the world’s a sunny day, oh yeah!
I got a Nikon camera
I love to take a photograph
So Mama, don’t take my Kodachrome away
Kodak takes your Kodachrome away
I saw these husband and wife profile photos on a Facebook friend list:
The photo on the left is the husband’s profile photo. He looks like a more effeminate, French-looking version of the Dos Equis guy.
The photo on the right is the wife’s profile photo.
You’ll notice it’s the same photo, but she’s taken a page from the Stalin revisionist history playbook and removed hubby from the photo.
And note that she didn’t just crop him out, which would be the easy thing to do. She went to the trouble of firing up some photo editing software, erasing him, and recreating her bustline against the new background.
She’s just not that into you!
Seen on Facebook:
Original Poster: RIP Michael Jacokson!
Commenter: Michael Jacokson died on the same day as Michael Jackson? How bizarre is that?
Original Poster: OMFG really!! I think the death of Michael JACKSON is more important than a freakin typo!
Commenter: So Michael Jacokson is still alive? THANK GOD!
Northwood High School grades came out today. My son got A’s in all of his classes. He won’t know that himself until Saturday night because he’s currently incommunicado at Children of the Corn camp, but the honors classes at Northwood are anything but a slam-dunk A, even for the best students, so we’re very proud of him.
He’s become a lot better at managing his time and plotting out academic strategies, down to the level of selecting the right background music for study sessions. He’s still not as proactive with his teachers as I’d like him to be, but behavioral modification takes time. You can offer ideas, but until an idea and the kid’s readiness for the idea converge, nothing happens. Years may go by.
For example, he just recently started setting up more study groups with his friends, a mere four years after I first mentioned to him that study groups were a big help to me when I was in school.
I’m considered the parent in charge of academics at our house. I used to spend quite a bit of time with the boy up through junior high school but now that he’s in 10th grade, I don’t really do much. Or actually, I do the same thing I’ve always done, which is to say, ‘Let me know if you need any help with that,” the difference being that he rarely asks for help anymore.
My wife has never been totally on board with my approach. “You can’t just say, ‘Let me know if you need any help,'” she says. “You have to help him.”
I say, “You’ve probably already noticed this yourself, but if a person doesn’t want your help, you’re not going to be successful in helping him, no matter how smart or wonderful you are.”
“Blah blah blah,” she says.
I’m scoring this semester’s report card as a triumph for my pedagogical method.
During the eight years of the Bush administration, liberal outlets such as the Huffington Post often accused the White House of planting questioners in news conferences to ask preplanned questions. But here was Obama fielding a preplanned question asked by a planted questioner — from the Huffington Post.
My wife and I saw Up yesterday at the Irvine Spectrum. The movie features a “talking” dog — a whole pack of talking dogs actually. When the main dog character meets the main human character, the dog jumps up, licks his face and says, “I have just met you and I love you.” If dogs could talk, that’s exactly what they’d say.
After the movie, we walked over to Spectrum Pets and looked at a puggle puppy. Same reaction — jumping, face licking. I have just met you and I love you.
Of course, there are some people who feel that they don’t deserve this kind of unconditional love. We call them “cat people.”
President Bush was unreflective and cocky for playing golf amidst serious world events.
President Obama’s “frequent golf outings reflect a cool self-confidence.”
My son’s at a church camp in San Jose for the next week. He doesn’t actually go to the church, but friends of his do, and he’s been to this camp with them before and liked it.
He left yesterday morning, which was Fathers Day. That’s the first thing I don’t like about this camp, that they take the kids on Fathers Day.
The next thing I don’t like is that they collect the kids’ cell phones when they arrive, so they can’t call home except in cases of emergency.
“I thought churches were supposed to teach kids to honor their parents,” I say to my wife. (She’s not sympathetic to this line of inquiry. She thinks all churchgoers are good people although I’ve never been able to see the correlation.) “They’re probably up there right now telling the boy his dad is going to hell . . .”
It’s a warm early summer day here in Southern California. As I come back to the office from lunch, a colleague is setting up one of those windshield screens to keep the sun from shining into her car all afternoon.
Toughen up, sweetie. I like my steering wheel to be blazing hot when I return to my vehicle. The pain reminds me I’m alive.
AAAAHHHHHHHH!!!
The men’s and women’s restrooms at our office face each other across a hallway. Neither one of them has a double-door entry for privacy. If you push open the door to the men’s room, you’re looking at a row of sinks, but if you’re coming out of the men’s room at the same time someone opens the door to the ladies’ room, you’re looking right at the stalls, including ankles and feet if anyone’s in them.
I’m all for collegiality in the workplace, but isn’t this overdoing it? Even at home, I don’t mind if people close the bathroom door . . .
My son’s been out of school for two days now . . .
“Summer’s going by so fast,” he moans.
“Is that supposed to be funny?” I ask him.
“It’s almost July already,” he says.
Originally uploaded by sommjet
Originally uploaded by ♥ellie♥
Originally uploaded by markcosy
Originally uploaded by kerbear4u2001
Originally uploaded by ♥ellie♥
Today was the last day of school here in Irvine . . .
“Can I get a ride to Orchard Park?” my son asks. He has friends that he meets there to play basketball.
“Did you check with Mom?” I ask.
“I don’t have to check with Mom,” he says. “I’m out of school now.”
“So you don’t have to check with Mom?”
“No. Not any more.”
After he checks with his mom, I drive him over to the park. Actually, he drives to the park and I ride along.
As we’re approaching a red light at Jeffrey and Trabuco, he says, “I’ll stop the car so you can’t even feel it.”
This is something I showed him how to do. I’m pretty good at it, but he goes through so many slow-motion false stops and starts that by the time he’s done, the car is almost entirely in the crosswalk.
“We’re in the middle of the intersection,” I point out to him.
“I did it though,” he says.
As we drive past the Arco station, I notice that gas prices are up over $3.00 again for a gallon of regular.
“Obama needs to stop playing basketball and deal with these gas prices,” the boy says.
“You’re right.”
