One of my favorite bloggers, Fluid Pudding, admits to a bit of a crush on Zach Braff who apparently professes to being a bit of a blogger himself. Who knew?
I can see her point, almost. I mean, he's cute, but he's no Adrien Brody, Craig Ferguson, or even Andy Hampsten (ok that last one was from 20 years ago, but I bet he still looks good in bike shorts).
Anyway, this Sunday's LA Times magazine had a fashion feature on Zach baby.
Because I am so utterly cool and thoughtful, I emailed Angela to ask her if she wanted me to mail the article to her. Sure, she replied.
I am sure she was wondering what kind of weirdo I am to remember that she likes ZB when I can't remember to take laundry out of the washer for 4 days or to pee before I take the dog for a long walk.
The only problem was that, my memory being like it is, I promptly forgot, between emailing her the offer and getting her email back, that I needed to save the magazine in case she did want it. I couldn't find it anywhere.
"I bet I recycled it when I was cleaning house," I said. I get the urge to clean house so rarely that when I do it, I am likely to throw the baby out with the bathwater.
I took my flashlight out to the recycling bin and pawed through all the recycled Sunday papers, about 5000 wrinkly pages worth. Nope.
"What an iiiiii-d-iiiiot," I muttered.
Maybe I filed it, I thought. In the 8 inch high pile with all the other "to be filed" stuff. I dug around in that for a while. Nada.
I am not one to give up easily. I hit the recycling bin one more time. Flashlight. Tiptoes. Leaning way over in that sucker. Dark. Yogurt cups, empty cans, junk mail. No. No. No.
Then I decided to just stagger around the house and lift up random piles of junk.
Voila. Behind the closet door, right where it belonged.
My life. Welcome to it.