“It’s not you, it’s me,” I said to my Blackberry as I flushed it down the toilet.
Flung it into the East River.
Placed it into that shoebox I keep in my closet that is filled with all the things I once thought I loved. But was wrong about. Very, very wrong.
(Lies, I tell you. At least in this case. Blackberry – it was definitely you.)
Did you just hear that?
No, I’m serious. Be quiet for a second. Listen.
There it is again.
A faint, subtle whisper. A twitter of a sound.
Everything tastes better in Italian.
And I’m not just saying that because with a last name like “Bruno”, one could infer that I am slightly biased.
There are some occasions. Some extenuating circumstances. In which I squeal when I take things out of the oven.
How does one run a marathon with a broken pelvic girdle?
Not just any marathon, I should specify. But the Walt Disney World Marathon.
A marathon held in the capital of miracles. The place where dreams come true.
“I’m here to check your oven.”
That’s what the maintenance guy said when he rang my doorbell on Wednesday afternoon and then proceeded to enter my apartment without actually waiting for me to open the door.
Mind you. This was the third time he’d been there in the past week and a half. He obviously felt like he owned the place.
After each previous visit he left me a little post it note. On which he wrote the date and time that he had arrived and then checked off the little box that said “Must return. Work not completed”.
Can you imagine coming home to something so disheartening? Not once. But twice.
And to think, it would have been three times, had I not been home on Wednesday at 2 pm.
Armed and ready for action.
Welcome to Eats Well With Others, where we take a vegetable-and-cupcake laden approach to life (always with a bit of laughter on the side)!
