1) When I was home a few weeks ago, my dad mentioned "Nuts Over Fudge" ice cream and I accused him of being full of it regarding that product name. Yesterday he had my mum send me a photo Friendly's Nuts Over Fudge Sundae Cones. He could have just linked to the online product page, but I think he got more satisfaction from finding it in the grocery store flyer.
2) I enjoyed listening to Steve Zimmer's story "The Case of the Pencil Case" on The Moth podcast last week. It may be in large part because of his midwestern accent, but I was reminded of Harold Ramis when listening to Zimmer. I looked him up online and discovered that I had heard and really liked another of his stories, "Stars, Rockets, and Moons." I recommend checking out "Stars, Rockets, and Moons" first and "The Case of the Pencil Case" second. There are three more performances by him available on The Moth's website if you like the first two.
3) Dang, things in my life are really slow this week and I am struggling to round this list out with a third item. I have decided to reference an embarrassing story, as I have an endless supply of those. I took the Commuter Rail to Providence last weekend for the first time in ages to attend my Auntie Kathy's 60th birthday party. In the few years after I graduated college, I used to take this train every so often to visit Kathy and family. A decade ago I had a train experience that has resulted in Commuter Rail Anxiety. (I assume that is a diagnosable condition.) Here is an email from 2004 that explains:
Friday afternoon. 4:30. I have had a lousy day at work and I have a train to catch, so I shut down my computer the very second that my workday has officially ended. One of my bosses pokes her head out of her office as I am jacketing up and asks me to email her a file. Upon explaining that I have shutdown my computer, it is suggested that I turn the machine back on. What an idea! This email business puts me ten minutes behind schedule. I book it over to South Station and am greeted by a heinous ticket line. It is the end of the month and loads of people are purchasing their February passes. I decide to wait in line until the train is five minutes away from departing. At that point, I will just hop on the train and shell out an extra couple of bucks for not purchasing my ticket in advance. As always, I suffer serious line anxiety. I spend approximately five minutes examining the second hand on my watch as the queue slowly advances. I make it to the front and buy my ticket just under the gun. I check the Commuter Rail “scoreboard” for my track number and dart off to Track 2. I get onto the train and walk the crowded aisles looking for a seat. When I find a seat, I call Auntie Kathy to remind her and Mum to pick me up at 6:10 in Providence. Moments after placing my phone back in my bag, the conductor announces, “The Express to Worcester is now departing.” Terror-stricken, I look at the woman sitting next to me and squeal, “Did he say Worcester?!” She confirms. I grab my bags and barrel down the aisle like a bat out of Hell. At the end of the car, the door to the train has been shut. I open the door and am horrified to see the view of the track is steadily moving. The train is in motion. I determine that my best move is to jump out of the train. Unfortunately my Indiana Jones moves are a bit rusty and I topple out onto the track with all of the grace of an inebriated rhinoceros. Landing on everything but my feet, I take a moment to appreciate the sheer stupidity of my actions before the last call for my train (departing from Track 6) is announced over the speaker system. I pick myself up and start a crazed sprint down the now abandoned Track 2. My knapsack rebounds off my back with sufficient momentum to drill my feet into the ground but I continue bounding toward my destination. There is no time to process the expressions of terror on the faces of onlookers as I cross over four tracks barking, “Excuse me!” By this point a perspiration and tear cocktail has rendered me nearly blind, but it appears that against all odds the Providence train has not yet taken off. I triumphantly board the train and spend the 60-minute commute contemplating my asinine conduct and imagining all of the ways in which I might have been injured and humiliated after leaping from a moving train. I relay my Commuter Rail escapade to Mum and Kathy on the drive from Providence to Somerset and they remark that I do indeed “look like Hell.” When I attempt to get out of the car, I discover that my tumble has resulted in some pain in my “Red Light” area. This proves to be fun for the whole family, as Mum and Kathy seem to enjoy watching me hobble around like a geriatric patient. I spend the night wondering if I landed directly on my lady business when I fell, but a ginormous bruise on my outer thigh later indicates that this was not the case.
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