I called up P.F.Changs to place a lunch order to-go. Mike was going to pick it up on his way back from his off-site client, so I ordered for Raphael, Chris, Mike and me.

Mike wanted "beef with scallions."

No problem. Standard dish.

After waiting on-hold for too long, I finally managed to talk to someone to take my order. The first item I ordered was the "Beef with scallions."

"We don't have any dish like that."

Um...

Okay.

Without pausing, I continued with the next item on our order, while simultaneously looking up the closest item from the menu. From the menu:

MONGOLIAN BEEF
Quickly cooked steak with scallions and garlic.

Hm. No dish like that, eh?

Lady, you need to learn your restaurant's menu better.

When I was 4 years old, my parents sent me on my merry way to visit my cousin Janelle and her husband Paul down in Kentucky. I remember much more about that trip than I suspect I probably should.

I vaguely remember the inside of Janelle's house. I remember playing in the back yard with the milkweed along the back fence. I remember looking up and seeing a jet and its contrails across the clear blue sky. I remember Paul coming home late in the afternoon.

And I remember taking my first shower. I remember it being strange to stand in the tub and have water fall down upon me. Janelle bathed me, so I wasn't taking one by myself, but it was still slightly frightening. The water - its moving! Really fast!

Mid-July, one of my two nephews is coming to visit me for a week. The journey will certainly be entertaining, and I suspect the week will be crazy, too. But I'm looking forward to spending the week with a 4 year old boy.

Admittedly, I'm a little nervous about being able to keep up with Sam for a week. How do I keep a 4 year old entertained? I can't bring all his toys over here, and I'm certainly not plunking him down in front of the television for a week. I wonder if he'd be willing to garden with me.

I talked to JenO about sitting for a week. She says we should schedule a play date between Cole and Sam. And that I can borrow various toys for the week.

I'll also have to put away all my clutter, child-proof the house. That's going to be a chore.

Oh, yeah, and buy a plastic mattress cover for the twin bed. The only thing worse than a dog pissing in a (read: my) bed is a little boy pissing in a (read: my other) bed.

Remy started playing with Mischief a few weeks ago, and played with us a few weekends ago in Ashland at Cramp-Up.

That's pronounced like Amy, but with an R.

She's cute (if I were male, younger and not attached, I'd be asking her out), just a bit shorter than I am, and wears her dark blonde hair in a perfect bun when she plays. Now, when a woman (or man, for that matter, but I'm ignoring them for the sake of gender-correct pronouns in this sentence) can play ultimate and keep her hair in a perfect bun, she has really long hair.

And Remy does.

On Sunday, she pulled her hair down and began twisting it into a bun. It was the most gorgeous hair I'd seen a long while. Long, slightly wavy (probably from the bun the previous day), light and dark blonde streaks. Very pretty.

I complimented her on her hair. And, to my surprise, she responded, "Thanks. I can't wait for it to grey. I have two hairs that are grey and I'm excited about them."

Blink.

Blink. Blink.

"I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not."

"Oh, I'm not. That's the first thing I noticed about your hair."

Great.

She continued. "I love grey hair. I think it looks dignified. Classy. I really like grey hair. Paul has grey hair, too. It's cool."

Pei, sitting next to Remy, readily agreed.

What the?

I'm thinking of coloring my hair to cover up these shocking white hairs and everyone around me loves them? I'm so confused.

Actually, that's not entirely true. I'm not so confused about the white hairs as fascinated. Do they grow in white, or turn white? If they turn white, how? If they grow in white, why do I have hairs with white (and I mean white) ends and black roots? Do the cells responsible for color just take a break, then start back up again?

And is the amount of white dependent on my stress level? Because I started getting a lot of white when the girls showed up.

Odd.

It's a night like this one that makes me wish I liked the taste of alcohol, or at least had a vice with mind/reality altering effects.

Something, anything to ward off the inevitable moments of self-reflection and self-inspection that lead to the writing of inane drivel that makes me cringe when I read it weeks, months, years later.

Ah, but those readings and cringings are far off in the future, and the emptiness is here now. Do I fill it with the usual putzing and fluff crap, or to do stop to listen to what the world is telling me?

Try to place an order at a fast food restaurant, or any other restaurant, without looking at the menu.

Try looking at the waiter/waitress/person behind the counter. Look them in the eye.

Unless you've been doing it for a while, it's not as easy as it sounds.

A note I received from a friend of mine from L.A:

Kitt-

Is there nothing left sacred?  A blog about your breasts?

This is definitely a unique site to visit.  

John

What? A blog about my breasts? When did that happen? Wha? Wha? Did I miss something?

Seriously though? Nope. Nothing is left sacred. They are pretty nice breasts. You'd write about them, too.

Trust me on that one.