Many people have called me classy over the years. None of them have meant it.
“Classy” suggests a kind of sophisticated elegance and I am neither interested in, nor do I have the time to waste on such frivolities. If I could get away with it, I’d wear fleece pajamas with elastic waistbands all the time and drink exclusively from containers because I don’t like doing dishes.
A classic example of me just being the way I am is when I was recently felled by another version of the flu that’s going around. Taking matters into my own hands, I whipped up a smoothie to provide sustenance, vitamins, protein and hydration to get me through the illness, but none of the glasses in this apartment are big enough. (Stupid Europeans and their tiny drinking vessels piss me off like crazy.) But not being classy means I also have no shame so I did the only thing I could do.
It worked perfectly well and the concoction (frozen banana, peanut butter, frozen berries, fruit juice and milk with Desenfriol) worked like gangbusters. It’s so good that I’m kind of looking forward to the next time I’m sick.
In Spain, reusable plastic food containers are called tupper, as in «¿Tienes un tupper para la pasta?»
- Some stuff about England and geography (with maps!).
- Beer is better than wine.
- The return of “Mad Men” triggers a Word Mystery.