New NEW Strategy!

So I mentioned that I was going to start writing about my experiences in cooking to get noticed by publishers.  That lasted all of about half that post.  (Apparently I have the attention span of a hyperactive gnat who's got to pee)  Now I have decided to just go back to talking about randomly occurring thoughts that happen to scream across my consciousness.  (I know what you are thinking...Yes, I am conscious when I write these blogs and No, I am not under the influence of any mind-altering substance either - unless Dr Pepper counts.) 

I am going to stop courting publishers.  The way I figure it is that when I had finally decided to stop keeping my eye out for a wife, Sylvia tackled me from behind and dragged me home to meet her parents.  (Thank God...Seriously!!!)  That is actually not what happened but I am saving that story for around our anniversary...whenever that is.  Now before I lose all of my female readers let me assure you that I know exactly when our anniversary is, I know what she was wearing on our first date, and I even remember the number of the table we ate at when I proposed.  (December 17, that off-white European outfit with the buckles, and table 8...by the window)  I mention this not to alienate my male readers (either of you) or to cause women everywhere to print this out and put it on their refrigerators to show that some men remember stuff like that.  If you do that I will be forced to publish the series that I have in the works with Time/Life books titled, "Stupid Things That Jeff Does Around the House."  It's a 17 volume set.  Leather bound, very nice actually. 

So my point was, if I stop searching for someone to print my blog then I will get tackled from behind.  What can I say, I'm a glutton for tackling.

And lucky for you all, I have a nearly constant stream of random thoughts that cruise in and out of my brain (they have to go in an out because there is no more room to stay).  My brain is full to the brim with random pieces of individual trivia that like to spill out at the most unusual times.  I have worked hard to stop announcing things that make no sense in the context of what I am doing, but every once in a while they bubble up to the surface.  Did you know that an ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain?  Not news to those of you who follow politics but it does sound strange when in a staff meeting where the subject is student attendance.

I think I have figured out a simile for my brain but it is so obscure I have a hard time using it in polite conversation.  (the simile...not my brain...that rarely gets used)  I have determined that my brain is like one of those clear plastic pencils with multiple sharpened tips stacked together inside.  In the days before affordable mechanical pencils, kids had to use these other contraptions.  The idea was, when you used up the first part you would grab it by the plastic sleeve at the top of the pencil, yank it out, bring it to the bottom of the pencil, and shove it in!  (Sort of the clear plastic pencil version of a suppository)  Well this plastic encased lead suppository would so surprise the clear pencil that the next pre sharpened point would poke out the top and be ready to use to write, draw, or practice being a plastic pencil medical technician.  That is my brain, to a T!  (My brain to a "tea" is just adorable...with it's little white gloves and the hat with the ribbon...I'm kidding of course...my brain would never wear white gloves after Labor Day)  You see, my brain is so full, if someone tries to shove more information in (keep those plastic encrusted lead suppositories away from me thank you very much!!) then some of the information that I wanted to keep is going to fall out.  The other day at a teachers' meeting we were learning about school climate and its effect on test scores.  I said, "Wow!  I didn't know that!"  and 'CLINK' there it was on the table.  A startled colleague asked, what is that!?  I just said, "Oh that?  That's my mom's phone number.  Must have just learned something new.  It happens."

You say you want proof!  (Really nobody asked, but for the sake of moving things along I need to imagine that there are actual people reading along with me...and you are all wearing paisly full body swimsuits from the 30s for some reason.  "You" should all have yourselves checked out...seriously!)  Well here is the proof that you asked for.  Some years ago I was shopping when I saw a friend of a friend in the aisle.  Our two minute conversation went something like this:
"Amy?" 
"Yeah?"  puzzled look.
"I'm Jeff.  Rachel's friend from (this portion has been deleted to protect the ages of all of the innocent victims of my blog.  I'm using real names, but I refuse to say that we hadn't seen each other in decades...that would be innapropriate)"
"Oh yeah, Jeff.  Wow!  You have some memory!"
"Well that's nothing.  Watch this.  You don't like croutons."
***stunned silence as she fumbles in her purse wishing she had spent the extra money and gotten chemical Mace instead of the more economical yet wimpier pepper spray***
"Uh, yeah? ...that's right...  How did you....?"
"Rachel mentioned it one time."
Actually we finished with a nice conversation about kids and working and how Rachel should keep her crouton knowledge to herself...and I walked away un-peppersprayed.

Now let me alleviate some of your fears of my becoming unhinged (like that train hasn't left the station) and turning into a stalker.  I must tell you that Rachel did mention it once.  But she mentioned it by saying that Amy was actually a little afraid of croutons.  I had never heard anything so curious before, so it stuck.  Of course this was still in the time when there was some storage space in the ole noggin.  And I am guessing that you, my wonderful readers, will remember that there is a person out there who is known for not liking croutons.  (So there!  Now who needs therapy!....I'm not the only one!)

Oddness has a funny way of following me around and then sneaking up on me.  Amy and Sylvia have since become friends in a home school capacity, unbeknownst to me...but knownst to them...and we have run into each other from time to time.  The last time I saw Amy, she brought up that she remembered what I remembered of what Rachel remembered about the croutons.  Enough of that.  My brain hurts and now I can't remember the tune to "Happy Birthday."  (Amy must have a larger brain)   So I feel vindicated.  Someone else remembers strange stuff too. 

So there you go.  The story is done.  Proof positive that my brain is full of weird stuff.  Socially inept, yes, but don't try to challenge me to Trivial Pursuit.  (especially not the Crouton Edition)  My writing is not the sort of thing that publishers are looking for, so I am resolved to have my words here on the internet and not be paid to have them in newspapers or books.  Besides, who would want to read about "plastic encrusted lead suppositories" anyway!?