The Westmonster Daily

Thinking in categories is essential to life. Just look at this blog, or any blog for that matter: All the posts are tagged and assigned to categories. Life is just that much easier when you have drawers in your brain – figuratively speaking – that you can put all those experiences and people into. Imagine how stressful your life would be if you had to figure out everyone and everything bit by bit. If you didn’t have any previous experiences to draw from in order to determine the right drawer for someone you just met.

“He’s a lawyer. I don’t know what a lawyer would be like. I’ll ask him and look like a total mossback. Or I’ll just spend some time with him to find out. Oh. He has to leave for some ‘trial’ thingy and can’t talk to me? What’s a trial? I’ll ask hi… oh. Gone.”

Ugh! But:

“He’s a lawyer. So he’s basically like Ally McBeal. Check.”

So convenient!

Where was I going with this? Oh, yes. Sometimes, very rarely, there are occasions when something won’t fit an existing drawer or, in this case, category. That’s where this category comes in. It replaces all the myriads of drawers I could install in my brain to embrace every single thing I could possibly conceive of.

In a nutshell, I am going to post under this category whenever I would otherwise open up a new one, thereby preventing the creation of an inextricably chaotic mess of categories.

You may thank me later.

Stumbling around the internet I just happened upon this site full of puns.

These two made me laugh out loud (yes, I actually lol’d):

…Baby seal walks into a club… what a tragedy…

and

…A guy walks into a bar. “OUCH!”…

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Another one on the puny site (*heehee*) reminded me of a joke my favorite ex-roomie tells a lot:

What do Budweiser and sex in a canoe have in common?

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They’re both f***ing close to water.

Here’s a poem-y text fragment I wrote in my poem-y diary just about three years ago:

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I had a good cry today. Didn’t help.

Maybe it wasn’t that good a cry, then. I don’t know what exactly constitutes a good cry. I kind of always thought it was just a cry that helps you get that big proverbial sob out of your throat.

Problem today was – the sob was still there after the cry. Not sure what kind of sob stuff is stuck in there, though. Probably problematic stuff. About life. My life. Maybe the lack of someone else’s life in mine. Maybe the lack of my life in mine. Nothing a cry could cure, anyway.

I should just go to bed. Maybe read for a little while before going to sleep. Some sad book to make me think there’s other people somewhere feeling more like shit than I do. Which is, after all, rather likely.

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This summerly, lighthearted, sanguine literary masterpiece was obviously B.H. – before Hubby. I can’t remember feeling that way since we’ve been together. I am happy to report that these days, I mostly cry about other people’s misery, preferrably people in movies or books. Hardly any romantic self-pity involved anymore. Growing up – check. About time, too!

I wonder… do dogs yap on about how doggy they are? Do butterflies feel inclined to tell all the world how they are butterflying around? And… do Grown-Ups even call themselves that?

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Tonight, while I was asleep, as good girls should be at night – which doesn’t tell you anything about me being good or bad or a girl of either of these convictions because for all you know I could be an averagely okay-behaved boy who just happened to be asleep at night because he accidentally misread the clock – I had a great idea.

For a book.

I have great ideas for books all the time when I’m asleep. They usually involve me being chased by someone in a very complex and intriguing manner.

This one was different and I even remember what I think would be a great quote for a movie trailer (yes, when I dream, I dream big): “You don’t think my soul stays in this box of sand the whole time I’m gone, do you?”

Okay, so here’s the kicker: The quote is unaltered because the dream was actually in English. The whole thing, I swear.

I don’t usually dream in English. I admittedly talk to Hubby in a weird English-y kind of language most of the time we’re horsing around, and I have spent some time in English speaking countries. I sometimes can’t think of the proper expression in German and just blurt out the English one, making myself sound like a total douche showing off her mad English-language-Skillz.

But I don’t dream in English.

Well, I didn’t use to dream in English up until last night, to be perfectly accurate.

I had applied for the Green Card Lottery the day before, so maybe that had something to do with it, who knows. I just had the weirdest feeling when I was done waking up and noticed I hadn’t felt weird at all the first couple of seconds after just having awakened from a dream I had dreamed in English.

Anyway, the great idea for the book: There’s this man, who’s a strange kind of traveler. At certain points in his life, he turns to sand. In a box. And while the sand is in the box, his soul goes places. Which is why his soul doesn’t stay in the box of sand the whole time he’s gone, you see. In my dream, there also was a girl (very pretty, looked just like me) who held the box and had a very interesting look on her face.

There was more, but I forgot after having memorized the cool quote sitting on the toilet right after waking up. Well, there was of course a small time span between waking up and actually sitting on the toilet, because, a bit off as I might be sometimes, I haven’t resorted to sleeping on the toilet yet. I’m pretty much grossed out by toilets, so the chance of me falling asleep on one, which would entail me touching all kinds of parts of the bowl and the seat and… huh. This post is going places I hadn’t intended it to go. Go. Get it?

So, anyway, I guess there goes the book deal. I think there was something about shoes and interesting conversations with bums at a train station…

Oh well. Fame’ll have to wait a while for me.

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I posted a recipe for Because Pie over at the Munichies today, and one sentence made me think of a really silly joke I know. Here’s the one-and-a-half sentences that sparked this flash of inspiration: “place the dish in the oven for about an hour. Take it out, place the mozzarella slices on top and put it back in the oven for another half hour.”

And here’s the corresponding (?) joke (it’s a Q&A type of joke, where you ask some unsuspecting friend or foe a question and they’re bound to give the wrong answer):

Q: How do you go about putting an elephant into the fridge?

Naturally, most people struggle with the answer to this, as there doesn’t seem to be a sensible way (never mind a reason) of getting an elephant into a fridge, and of course they’re expecting a serious twist. Well, life could be so simple:

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A: Open door, put elephant in, close door.

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After having contentedly watched your victim slap their forehead, there goes the next question:

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Q: How do you go about putting a giraffe into the fridge?

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And of course, after having gotten the first one embarrassingly wrong, they quickly and confidently reply: Open door, put giraffe in, close door.

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Wrong.

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The correct answer, of course, is:

A: Open door, get elephant out, put giraffe in, close door.

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Tsss, silly friend/foe.

The joke goes on and on and I keep forgetting the rest. I shall look it up shortly and maybe I’ll post an update at some point. But I wouldn’t count on it if I were you, because, if “daily”, to me, means “sporadically”, what could “at some point” possibly leave to hope for?