oo.naw.naw.naw.

Havana oo nana...

I just don't understand the Jeffrey bridge, you guys. You've got this young, sultry, swept-off-her-feet voice singing about falling head-over-heels, and then

(Jefferyyy)Just graduated, fresh on campus, mmFresh out East Atlanta with no manners, damn...Bump on her bumper like a traffic jamHey, I was quick to pay that girl like Uncle Sam (here you go, ay)Back it on me, shawty cravin' on meGet to diggin' on me (on me)She waited on me (then what?)Shawty cakin' on me, got the bacon on me (wait up)This is history in the makin' on me (on me)Point blank, close range, that beIf it cost a million, that's me (that's me)I was gettin' mula, man they feel me

It sounds like some guy chillin' at home toying with a free autotune app. He listens to this young lady in love yet torn, and then, "Humpty-hump. Yeah, you want me. I'm Jeffery. You're a tasty piece of ass. I have money!" Now, I'm no good at slang, but according to Urban Dictionary, "pay that girl" could either mean a) to ignore, b) to like something (maybe as in pay it a compliment?), or c) to literally give the young woman money for some kind of not-so-wholesome service. Regardless, I'm just not a fan of this guy's little.... rap-thing.

On my drive to work today, I allowed my still-waking-up low energy to filter through a chill mood, instead of the high-blood-pressure "don'tchu play games with ME, Prius muddabucka" "dammit I'm late again" mentality. Head-bopping to a cheerful dose of Kpop, I witnessed the little sedan in the next lane blow its back tire, but attempt to continue along, while other cars crept up its bumper and cut across to another lane with a "Y U SO SLOW!?!" attitude. I put on my blinker, safely merged behind that distressed car, and slowly drove a safe distance behind it, blinking my emergency flashers to let others know to go around. When she finally had some extra road room, she pulled to the side of the road, and I drove on past, glancing back at the older lady with the beat-up three-wheeled sedan.
... A part of me felt proud of myself for what I consider "helping" that lady, but a louder voice in my mind held the opinion that it was silly and unnecessary.

I like to help people. I like to consider myself, well, considerate, and empathetic. I'm not sure where I personally draw the line between being helpful and wasting my time/resources. I like to think of myself as fairly efficient, but that doesn't always coincide with the whole considerate thing.

...

... I mean, I get that a rapper like Ludacris comes off as too assertive/aggressive, and that Young Thug style is a lot more smoky and chill, but what about B.o.B or Snoop Dogg or Luis Fonsi or T.I.? I mean, I guess it makes Cabello's clear voice sound even better, but... c'mon.

EDIT: 10/25
Oh of course there's a way better remix:

Grass is Greener

Jerome is upset because he is no longer in the warm womb where he came to exist. He is cold, hungry, and ferociously uncomfortable.

Jack is upset because a wheel has popped off his toy firetruck, which is baked in happy memories of his grandfather whom he misses more than he understands.

Jesse is upset that he doesn't have a date for the big school dance. He'd been focusing so hard on improving his facial complexion, smelling ok, working a part-time job to afford renting a suit and purchasing a corsage, and trying not to be too embarrassingly awkward around Theresa, to realize his poor grades won't allow him to graduate with the rest of his class.
... Oh, and Jesse's best friend told Theresa that Jesse's not into girls, swooping in on the rebound.

Jim is upset that his new wife is unable to conceive. His natural instinct is to blame her for withholding such important information, even though she hadn't known until after the honeymoon. Jim counts the days until the divorce is finalized while he continues to sleep with his arms around the woman he once loved.

John is upset that his partner is leaving him. Already teetering on clinical depression, he racks his brain for just one reason why they weren't perfect together. He obsesses day and night, but manages to respect his ex's request to ask no questions. The chaos inside eats away at John's self-esteem, his identity, and ultimately his sanity.

Jai is upset that his beautiful, healthy baby boy has a strong wail that blasts day and night. As much as he loves his new family, he jumps at any opportunity to work more hours or sit in traffic just a little longer to enjoy the peace. He rationalizes that the child needs his mother at this stage of life, and he'll step back in when he becomes "more helpful".

toy. crap. brilliant.

I came home from work to greet my handsome cat.
He seemed normal, albeit a little apprehensive-- though I could just be reading into things.
Then I saw it-- one small hard kitty poop with a sprig of hair, sitting on my carpet.
My first thought was the same as any cat-owner: What have I done to displease you?!
I refilled his food bowl, cleaned the heck out of his food/water station, rendered his litterbox spotless (without losing his natural scent, of course)...
... aaaand as a sort of afterthought, I cleaned up his little "message".
Kinda impressive that he could will a single one out.... hm....

I wake up to my cat meowing out of boredom. I get up and squint at the toy he had dragged into the room (look what the cat dragged in, har har...) and the dark object beside it. He started to bat at the object, flicked it into the hall, and I recognized it as another hairy poop. (Honestly, part of me was relived that he didn't bring in a bug that large.) I quickly substituted it with a normal cat toy and cleaned it up. He then proceeded to check both areas where he'd left... his new favorite toys..?

Oh, God, no...

I realized his little sprig of hair made for easy carrying, the little ball was perfect for movement, and the weight wasn't too heavy to carry but substantial enough for captivating interaction.
... My normally-clever cat... had discovered the attributes of the perfect cat toy...
... in his poo.

friday. lights. action.

Friday nights tend to be date nights for a lot of couples. It's a time for celebrating the end of the work week. It's a great night to check out a hot new restaurant.

I arrived at the hot pot restaurant before the dinner rush. However, this trendy establishment relied on an iPad merely to place a patron's name on the waiting list. The lanky host seemed confused when the app faltered, and crashed again and again, no matter how insistent he pressed the screen. After a phone call and a brisk walk to fetch help, the young man returned to point at the broken thing and quickly explain the situation in Chinese. More touch-screen prodding ensued, escalating to a full tablet restart. When this didn't seem to solve the problem, the two disappeared down the hall to heatedly discuss their options.

Meanwhile, a couple entered the restaurant, the young woman stepping right up to the tablet to experience a couple of rounds of the growing-fad-of-a-game "Crash da App". To avoid letting the cycle continue, I stumbled over my own foot and awkwardly brought the couple up to speed. They nodded and sat down. Instantly, three more couples and a family reunion of about 20 people all materialized in the blink of an eye. Children chased each other, 30-something-year-olds embraced smiling elders, bundled newborns were introduced, reservation times were reaffirmed, doves sprung into flight sprinkling shimmering confetti over a cheery crowd chanting, "We want food! We want food!"

--- The lanky host returned (!!!) ... with a piece of binder paper. He fumbled with a pen, scribbled words, looked at me uneasily, and asked for my name and the number of members in my party. He added two more names before the app miraculously reopened, as if there were never a problem in the first place.

I managed to snag a seat in the waiting area, and I awaited the arrival of my sister and her daughter. A stool remained available around the corner from where I sat, in a tight squeeze between wall partition and a cocktail table. A young couple ambled around the table with some effort, and I barely watched in my peripheral vision as I played a mindless game on my phone, secretly hoping to earn the envy of the toddler next to me. (Setting them goals high!) When the couple quietly remarked how crowded it was as the young woman slid slowly onto the only available seat, I silently assumed my fluffy potato body was taking up a bulky amount of room, and that girly was probably in uncomfortable shoes and clothes to do some impressin'. Scoffity-scoff-scoff.

My sister arrived just in time to have our little party of 2-and-a-baybeh seated. I glanced back at the young couple to discover that the girl had a cast on her lower leg, instantly hoisting the flag declaring me an asshole.

We assembled ourselves in a small booth beside a moving conveyor belt of food. My sister created a mountain between her torso and the moving plates of food using her baby-wrangling supply sack and accompanying car seat. Baby sat across from the conveyor belt, with a backdrop of about 40-feet-square's worth of unoffensive live sports at a brightness setting of "The Sun".

Although Baby was a good distance from grabbable edibles, she sat nearly within stretching-distance to our active electric stovetops and accompanying bubbling broths. Keeping an eye on her to make sure she didn't try to reach for my dangerous territory, I tried to focus on an awesome, quality dinner while maintaining an active conversation with one of my favorite people in the world. I watched the conveyor belt for items I wanted to cook in my broth and consume. I began to notice a pattern: three dishes of each ingredient within reach of multiple tables, then only two dishes of dessert-- one orange cake, one tiramisu. At first I tried to be considerate of other tables, glancing across at the twelve people piled into a booth modestly built for four, children hopping around, teens glued to their glowing screens, eyes glancing disinterested at dish after dish. I tested the waters, allowing one tiramisu to pass, and then another. Neither were touched. I humbly accepted the responsibility of collecting and enjoying all of the tiramisu. I built a civilization of tiramisu in my tummy, and it was divine.

Of course things easily became a little overwhelming. My sister couldn't reach the conveyor belt ('member Mt. Diapers'n'things?) so I had to continue to offer to swipe, pass, shuffle-- block the baby from hot counter-- damn that wall of tv's is bright-- ADD TO TIRAMISU EMPIRE-- you need more of this kind of noodle?-- oo! My kobe beef is ready to fish out of my broth! -- Sure, I'll have more water, thank you -- OMG Baby sauce dish is not for you! -- oh there's the bok choy, yoink! -- So how's the husband? -- No one cares that this is my 17th tiramisu right? -- Where did you find a spoon, Baby? -- Argh, couldn't they find a channel of dark colors instead of bright sunlit whateverball?! -- Yeah, dude, that sucks-- Oh yes, thank you for water. Boy, they're diligent here, aren't they? We've gotta tip 'em-- Prawns! Got 'em! Yes! Here ya go! -- Oh I never started cooking my noodles-- TIRIMISU-- NO, Baby!

... I don't remember if I felt full after that experience, but I wouldn't mind going back. Thems was good eats.

tone. run. ouch.

An Amazon review I've written for a sports bra:

I knew buying this thing would be a gamble. This bra is ridiculously tight. Trying to squeeze my fluffy marshmallow torso into this thing is hilariously awful. Perhaps it could be marketed as an arm exfoliator; during my feeble efforts, it certainly took away some of my skin cells. Finally, securing a cellphone in a kangaroo pouch located between one's shoulderblades adds an element of annoyance unless the rhythmic slapping on the back happens to motivate you.

Every morning, I awaken from an uneventful yet oddly realistic and thus immersive dream to somehow drag myself out of bed, slap myself with a cup of coffee, rub soap on my greasy self, leisurely pet my darling cat, close my eyes and meditate on the option to attempt a morning workout, reawaken to realize I'm officially running late, utilize adrenaline rush to get to my car, sit and listen to the nagging beep of the key sitting inactive in the ignition whilst I gingerly feed the stray cats whom I call Little One and Little Scrappy Cat (taking care to scatter the treats so they don't fight), resume adrenaline rush to speed to the toll booth to sit.
... and strategize to sit. ... in the moving-est lane.
... while silently judging others...
... and applying make-up...
... sometimes listening to Bollywood...
... brainstorming ways to remind other drivers that we're frail little squishy human bodies in our low-emission tanks...
... irrationally hating all red Priuses...

-- AND I REALIZED!!!!!! .. guys... In the morning, I look for the one asshole who isn't a total jerk, cleverly weaving from gap to gap while still using their turn signal and managing not to cut people off-- I mean, you still kinda hate the guy, but you're also a little impressed and you think to yourself, "Damn, if I were smarter, I'd be following that guy. Then maybe I wouldn't be as late to work!"
... In the evening, that same feller becomes demoted to impatient asshole, and I find a stable driver who won't stop short (usually a semi or an old pick-up full of tools), and I relax behind them while allowing my crazy little wound-up multitasking brain to wander.
I mentally prepare a to-do/idea list a hundred items long, but rarely have a chance to write them down even though I keep notebook paper and a pen in my car at all times.
I park.
Catch up on messages.
Chill with the strays after making a couple of scattered treat piles.
And happily allow myself to be judged by passers-by who are convinced that I'm a homeless crazy cat witch.