edith zimmerman

hworking for the hweekend

thanks drew

Hi, I haven’t been posting a lot recently. There’ve (not a word) been a lot of sent emails to reread, facial expressions to practice, and restaurant menus to check the prices of online. I just don’t have a lot of time anymore.

So quit bugging me.*

*Maintaining silence.

Here’s my new favorite photograph from reality.

I used to enjoy a nice piece of fruit with my lunch, and every day I would buy one from the market near my work. But I have stopped doing this because every time I would bring, say, a peach up to the register, the man who was always there would say, “Miss, make sure to wash this. You must make sure to wash this.” I would thank him, and at first I appreciated his advice, because it was thoughtful, and I probably wouldn’t have washed it because I don’t care. But he kept saying it every day, and after a while he added on, “You have to wash it, Miss, make sure to wash it. Because we handle them.” And when he said “handle” he made this fondling gesture really gently and slowly with one hand. It was disgusting and I no longer eat fruit from that store. He is my boyfriend now, though.

Right now, three of the 10 most-emailed stories on The New York Times are about a talking parrot that died. The most popular article uses this picture to illustrate how smart he is. At first I was like, whoa, that parrot can put numbers in order, the way they appear on a clock.

Last night my roommate Eric noticed a mouse crawling up the back of a chair so he screamed. We picked up the couch, which it was staying behind, and beat around the sweatshirts and bags back there with brooms and shoes, but it didn’t come out. And then everyone started screaming and I was turning around to see where it went, and then a little soft whisper lingered on my bare foot and I looked down and shrieked “it’s on me, it’s on me, it’s on me, it’s touching me, it was on me, it was on me, it was on me” and pranced and slapped myself all over. And sweat. Then Bridget put on boots and we all screamed while we went after it under Bridget’s bed. Finally it came out from under a clump of clothes beneath her shelves and we all screamed and I slapped at it with the Swiffer and maimed it, and then Eric delivered a series of death blows. Here’s a picture of Bridget posing with it.

Sometimes, when you are on a crowded flight of stairs, do you get the urge to stamp on the back of the person in front of you?

Amazingly, the number of children with alopecia who want to wear a wig made of an adult man’s dreadlocks is not large, despite the fact that dreadlocks smell like candy and cakes.

R. W. McQuarters, a cornerback for the New York Giants who donated his dreadlocks to Locks of Love in March, said he wishes he had known that they are unacceptable for wigmaking and probably ended up in the trash. “I’d rather them send back the hair,” he said. “I could have sold them on eBay and then taken the cash and given it to charity.”

I am not making fun of people with dreadlocks or people with diseases, I don’t think.

Hello. I haven’t been sexually harassed much by any children recently (I’m getting fat), but I did learn a lesson on Monday and it’s this: don’t eat other people’s food. I did that, and I threw up 15 times.

Because of guilt.

A lesson I haven’t learned is: Don’t eat food off the floor.