Smokey the cat was very magnanimous this week. He refused to draw just one name. Instead, he drew three. So, Three Winners of Free Book Friday this week!
Email me your top three choices and your address at brosam (at) gmail (dot) com.
It's Wednesday. How about an edition of my list of things that must go:
Thing 1. Stress Dreams
I’m used to having stress dreams every night, but last night’s dream got a little out of hand…
It all started when I was too impatient to wait for the elevator in a hotel. To speed things up, I shimmy down the hotel atrium on a line of bed sheets.
Then the hotel security guys corner me, and threaten to kick me out of the hotel for such a bone-arse move.
I say: "Don’t you know who I am? I’m Brodi Ashton."
I proceed to dance for them, flailing my arms about, sorta like a banshee.
But I can see this is not working. They don't know who I am.
The chase is on. I dart into the hotel restaurant, but the dining area has one construction flaw. The only way in or out is to walk on top of the tables.
I do this, apologizing all the way, and explaining to every diner that usually I get paid to dance on top of tables, and isn’t tonight their lucky night. I get to a hallway that leads to the elevators. But when the doors open, the inside car is 2 cubic feet.
I squeeze in successfully, all except my right foot. So, naturally, I chop it off and hit the button that says ‘roof’ on it.
A man is waiting for me on the roof, and as soon as I get off, he tells me I’m late, and ushers me to this amphitheater like that giant one in L.A. (Of course, I’m limping because of the missing appendage).
I get on the stage, and I start dancing for the audience, balancing on the stubby bone protruding from my cankle, spinning around it like a whirling dervish on a top.
My hair is long, thank goodness, because by this point all my clothes are gone.
The conductor urges me to start singing, but when I open my mouth, a bug crawls out. Then another. Then another.
Someone please interpret this dream for me. I honestly woke up thinking to myself Brodi, you are one seriously messed up chica.
Thing 2. Acronyms for television shows.
ANTM, HIMYM, SYTYCD, RHWONJ, DWTS, GG. Maybe I’m not meant for the texting generation, but I can never figure out what the darn show is. I sit there going, “Okay. ‘A’. What could A stand for? Ants. Albuquerque. Aardvark.”
Thing 3. Expiration Dates for Canned Goods.
I found a can of baked beans in my pantry the other day. Expiration date: Oct 2000.
Now, since Oct 2000, we’ve lived in London, Washington, D.C., and Salt Lake City. Which means I must have carted this can around every time we moved. Which sounds about right, since I don’t remember buying baked beans. I don’t even liked baked beans. But Canned Goods should be eternal foods, shouldn’t they?
Thing 4. Wobbly Tables at Restaurants.
You know those tables that clank back and forth every time you put your elbows on top? Or reach for your drink?
I had one of those tables at lunch yesterday. I kept folding up pieces of paper from my purse and shoving it underneath the platform on the floor, until it was floating on a bed of crumpled paper, but it never fixed the problem.
So, what must go for you this week?