This past November, I traveled to New York on business. (Ah yes. New York. We all know how much I LOVE New York.) A few minutes before boarding, a colleague of mine grabbed a seat across from me in the waiting area, breathless from running to the gate after the hell that is security. When she had finally collected herself long enough to talk, she patted me on the leg. “Hey, did you hear Michael Symon was here?” Yes, I said, Michael Symon is from Cleveland. Lives here sometimes when he’s not shooting The Chew or Symon’s Suppers or The Next Iron Chef: Redemption or Jerk Chickens Of Canada.
Don’t be shocked when that turns into a thing.
I’m an unconventional celebrator of love. One might even call me unconventionally UNcelebratory. This doesn’t mean love and I don’t go back a ways. But if I show no mercy in expressing my disgust for holidays created for sheer marketability (oh hai Christmas), I’d be doing you all a disservice in taking it easy on Valentine’s Day.
Please. Don’t thank me, it’s embarrassing.
Have you ever taken the Jenkins Activity Survey? You know, the one that quizzes you on which characteristics you favor that ultimately make you a Type A or Type B personality?
You should take it. I’ll wait.
Pain in the butt, right? My first year out of college, I had to take a modified version of that test to determine if I was a good fit for a call center with a health insurance firm. By the time the test was over, I felt like I needed a sheepskin degree from Harvard. SOMETHING for my trouble, especially since I didn’t get the job. (Must’ve been the one question where they asked if I liked to drop little kittens in the ocean. I said yes. I still don’t see what’s wrong with that.)
Last weekend, the Midwest was given a reprieve of our normal January weather with a 60-degree weekend. As a native Midwesterner, I scoff at 60-degree weekends as flukes. Being from Cleveland, I’m waiting for something bad to greet me right around the corner. (Don’t believe me? See our latest in drama among the sports world.) With an impending snow storm set to dump a projected two-feet on us in the next two days, it’s finally starting to feel like business as usual around here. Ah, Cleveland. We’re nothing if not optimistic.
01. Cold Sparks — Mutemath
02. Cold — Maxwell
03. Cold War — Janelle Monáe
04. Stone Cold Sober — Paloma Faith
05. Mrs. Cold — Kings of Convenience
06. Cold As Ice — Foreigner
07. Cold Cold Heart — Norah Jones
08. Cold Desert — Kings of Leon
09. Cold Shoulder — Adele
10. Funky Cold Medina – Tone Loc
[UPDATE: I GOT AN A+!... I mean "she" got an A+. Parental yayyy.]
No one likes to do homework during a long stretch of vacation. No one likes this task less than my children. OK, maybe yours don’t either but, for arguments’ sake, let’s just say if there was a way to dislike something so much you could wear it as a sweater, roll around in it, stick it up your nose, then blow it out snot rocket-style — thems would be muh kids.
Not long after Christmas, after everyone had gotten almost everything on their lists, our oldest dropped a bombshell on us. (Not so much “dropped” as got found out by deduction and plain old common sense. By her parents, not her, let me clarify.) She had a butt ton (not a ton, and not a button; a BUTT HYPHEN TON) of homework to do. Homework designed to maybe separate into sections. Maybe tackle a page a day if you were using the good sense God gave you. Spread it out, you see. Instead, this love homework packet was hidden. Forgotten about by way of selective memory.
In my house, we are short on a myriad of things. Add common sense to the list.
Did I mention this packet was found AFTER CHRISTMAS? Oh-ho-HO, we’re not THAT dumb, are we?