All You Can Eat Chinese Restaurant

As a payday treat I took my daughters out to the local Chinese buffet, which we’ll call “Evil Pandas” simply because the sign up front depicts two animals that look more angry than cute, and the bamboo they’re chewing on could easily be human shin bones, and we had our fill, and now I’m cursing myself for going to a buffet.  A buffet seems like a bargain because you can eat as much as you want.  But it’s not a bargain unless you glut yourself, which I’m inclined to do because of wanting to “get my money’s worth.”

Bad!  Bad!!

I should have taken them to the new Pei Wei instead.  It’s practically across the street, and wouldn’t have cost any more, and I wouldn’t have eaten as much.  So, no more food for me until tomorrow afternoon.

Bad bad bad!

Besides, I don’t think we can go back to the Evil Pandas.  We got in trouble because my kids were putting pepper in the salt shaker.  The waitress snatched both shakers off the table and treated us like naughty school children.

Working at home today!  I’m in transition from one job to another, and from what it looks like, by November I’ll be working in Richardson right next door to UTD.  There’s an irony to this that I won’t go into here.  Makes me feel a bit sad.

Have you ever had to take a single square peg and make it fit into two dozen oddly shaped holes?  That’s a bit like what my current task is.  I’m taking this rather simple but very useful data and having to completely dissect it, and put its component pieces into various boxes so that when the boxes are all viewed together, you see same thing as when the pieces were a simple whole.  The pieces must be meticulously cut into specific shapes, but since there’s not enough of it to be cut into these shapes, I have to add a lot to it via creative duplication.

It’s making my brain twitch!

We’re sitting here at the Steak ‘n Shake in McKinney, my daughters and I, all giggling because I
convinced them to try eating french fries by sucking them through
a drinking straw. As it turns out, this is possible. Care must be
taken so as not to end up choking on the fries, however.

Things overheard during this mayhem:

“Does this Universe make my butt look big?”

“I love you daddy. You are my daddy, right?”

“I no speakie the same speakie you speakie!”

“I can’t read this. It’s in Hispanic.”

Danielle has 27 sharpie pens in her backpack, each a different color.
She writes each letter with a different pen. “How do you spell
‘ether’?” she asks.

“Did you bring a pretzel sharpener?”

“These aren’t legs! What happened to my legs?”

“I just phoned my plug in!”

“Most people have imaginary friends. I have an imaginary fly!”

(Covering eyes) “See no evil! See no evil! See no evil!”

“I have an invisible floating shirt!”

I won a camera in a photo contest recently, and it showed up day before yesterday.  It’s a tiny thing!  It runs on a cell phone battery and takes some darn good pictures.  Last night was the first time I really got a chance to play with it:

HPIM0049-1

Cute little guy, isn’t he?  Found him on the way to the mailbox last night.  I named him “Bert.”

One of the things I loved most about the old Monty Python’s Flying
Circus
show was that, if they didn’t know how to end a skit, they’d
simply drop a great big black weight on the character(s) with the
label:  “10 Tons

Where’s that 10 Ton weight when I need it?  I want to drop it on my car.

Imagine the insurance person coming out to inspect the damage. 
Picture a frumpy hunchbacked guy with a faded brown sweater and a
clipboard.  “Where’s the car?”

I point.  “Right there.”

It takes a moment to register.  He looks incredulous.  “It’s flat!”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

“What happened, again?”

“A ten-ton weight fell on it.”

“A what?!”

Of course, they’d declare it an act of God and simply not pay.  So
then the guy with the tow truck would come out to repo it for the
finance company.  I can see a guy in a beat up old tow truck, wearing a
dirty blue denim jacket and a 4 day beard, driving around the block
four times before realizing the car in question is the flat thing
taking up space in front of my mail box.  He gets out of the truck and
stands in front of it, looking down and scratching his head.  By then,
of course, I’d be sitting on the front porch with a big bottle of rum,
drinking it straight from the bottle.

“Want some?” I’d call out.

He gives me a strange look then, without a word, gets back into his truck and drives away.

Later, I’d prop the car up on four big blocks of wood and use it as a table.