Thursday, August 5, 2010

Pick

If junkpicking were an Olympic sport, I'd OWN that cotton-picking podium (1), although to be fair I would later be disqualified for blood doping and the Russians would boycott. At work today I went to the store around the corner to buy a cookie to eat-- alright, to buy a package of cookies to eat in one delicious sitting, causing my afternoon spreadsheet creation to be positively hyperfueled -- and I returned with:

  • a tiara
  • an unopened tube of sunscreen
  • a set of six screwdrivers still in the case
  • an unopened container of hair product for curly hair, and
  • a wig for Walter. Baby W's losing his hair, and I don't want him to be self-conscious.
Rest assured I also returned with the cookies. Stella came in to see me at work, and I offered her a cookie. She wanted a second cookie after the first one, but I told her no. Sure, some of my reasoning was because a four year old shouldn't have too many cookies, but mostly it was because I wanted the other seven for me. I love her, but there is no way I'm going down to only six cookies. They're small! Well, small-ish.


Student move-out day is approaching which means some absolutely primo junkpicking. As I bike in to work, I pass through an east-side student neighborhood with lots of good material. But I suspect the west side is where the junkpicking bling is located, considering it's somewhat wealthier area. On this side of town the students are throwing away those hippie raw wool South American sweaters that weigh 50 pounds; on the west side I bet they're tossing out the diamond rings that are too big to fit in the trailer.

Also, students: if you're throwing out cookies, please remember that I don't like oatmeal raisin.


(1) I wanted to say motherfucking instead of cotton-picking, but it seemed a little harsh in the first sentence, don't you think?
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1 comment:

  1. Thank you for the footnote. It's early in the day too.

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