Sometimes, I’m just too lazy to go hunting around for Saran Wrap to preserve the leftovers.
I call this “The Food Terrarium.”
Making do
Small stuff
I always feel a sense of accomplishment when I finish my leftovers before they grow mold.
I guess you have to appreciate the little things.
The really little things …
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(Ready to be) home from journalism camp
The I News Network journalism camp, or “institute” rather (as I was so emphatically reminded when I told one of the students she didn’t need to go out and buy cotton balls; she should suck it up because she’s at “camp”), has been great, but I’m not sure what I’m more excited about: a bed that isn’t made of plastic, food not served on a tray or a towel that’s full and fluffy and covers more than my unmentionables.
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Keeping tabs
Last night when Mike and I went out to dinner at Pasta Jay’s, I noticed he was staring off into space for a minute.
“What’re you thinking about?” I asked.
To which he responded, “Math” and went on to explain how he’d been working on a single, tremendously involved problem all day, how he’d gone down one rabbit trail searching for an unknown only to realize he should have been focusing on a different aspect of the equation.
I shook my head, amazed at how brilliant this man sitting before me is. And how patient. How anyone can have the fortitude to spend the whole day on a single analysis is beyond me.
When the bill came later on, Mike, like the Southern gentleman that he is, gave the waitress his credit card for her to run it through the machine.
She returned a few moments later with the “merchant copy” for him to sign and a pen. He looked at the numbers and hesitated. Five, 10, 15 seconds … I glanced at the $33.30 sum and said, “Six bucks and 60 cents is 20 percent.”
He smirked at me and began to add. He wrote something down, looked up at the ceiling, looked over at me, back down at the paper, up at me. He scribbled something out and rewrote something different.
“I miscalculated,” he said.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Mike is a genius … most of the time.
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I’m a jerk
Got a text last night from a friend asking if Mike and I wanted to go to a delicious Mexican restaurant here in Boulder, Efrains. Having already made dinner plans with some other buddies (see last post about the Reese’s debacle), I couldn’t go.
So I didn’t respond to the texto.
However, on a different occasion, I’d planned to go to said restauranté only to find out it was closed on Sundays.
When I noticed the text, I distinctly remember thinking to myself, “Hmm, good luck eating there. That place is closed today.” I chuckled and deleted the message.
In retrospect it wouldn’t have been that difficult to tell Jess that I couldn’t go.
And it probably would have be thoughtful to advise her and her fiancé to pick a different dining option, thereby saving them the wasted trip.
Oops.
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Epiphany
Today as Mike and I G-chatted instead of diligently working on the copious amounts of crap we really need to be finishing up, this wonderful man had a spurt of genius, the extent of which I don’t think he fully understands.
See, a bunch of our friends are getting married this summer, which means lots of invites and the promise of considerable dancing and merry-making to come; however, RSVP’ing does pose one significant drawback. (This is where Mike’s stroke of wisdom comes in).
Mike: so we need to pick what we want for dinners; there are like 4 options
me: mmmm
Mike: which stinks, because i don’t know what i’m in the mood for in the middle of april; I know what sounds good right now.
Yep, pure brilliance.