Buy the Worst Salad in the World at …

My husband ate the worst salad in the world in the Madrid airport. It most have been pretty bad, because it seems to have left more of an impression on him than the salad with a German cockroach in it that he ate in the Canary Islands. He brought the napkin from the Madrid airport restaurant home with him because he thought the name of it was so funny. The napkin sits on our dining table and every time we eat he picks it up and asks me if I’ve written a post about it yet.

My husband tends to have lots of ideas about posts for this blog. Usually if I stall long enough he forgets about them, but this napkin thing just won’t go away. So here’s the napkin.

He says that if he had noticed the name of the resturant before he bought the salad he would’ve gone somewhere else.

The reason I was reluctant to post this is because before I moved to the UK that would’ve meant anything to me. My husband says that I’m in the minority and that most people know what that means. So if anyone else out there is completely unaware of how the English pronounce certain words here’s an explanation. Ars which I think should have an e on the end so it is spelled arse is how the English pronounce the word ass. (I’m pretty sure that’s a run on sentence, but I so don’t care.)

Chicken Fat

Here’s the final song from Patrick Sings His Innermost Feelings. It was inspired by D’Angelo’s Chicken Grease. If you don’t know the song here’s a good live version of it.

My husband has also decided that he’s going to start spelling his name like this PatriQ and wearing a pick in his hair in honor of Questlove…

Questlove

…because they have so much in common.

Anyway, this is the song. It was inspired by D’Angelo, chicken, and Simon and Garfunkel.

Yoga

The other morning I walked into the living room to find my husband doing some strange new exercise. When I asked him what he was doing he said that it was his version of yoga.

“If you want to do some yoga I’ll teach you,” I told him. I taught him how to do the sun salutation. “How was that?” I asked when we were done.

“I didn’t like it,” he said.

“Really? Why not?”

“It was too hard. I just want to do the kinda of yoga where you just lay around.”

Handy Pat

My husband is quite upset by the implication that he isn’t handy.

My Husband: I was always the handiest of the Bettison boys. My brothers are all mechanical, but I’m handy. Remember that time I fixed something around the house and you were surprised?

Me: No, what did you fix?

My Husband: I don’t remember, but you were impressed.

Me: Like when you fixed the mirror and now it hands two inches from the wall and we have to keep a box wedged between it and the wall at the bottom so it doesn’t hang on a crazy angle.

My Husband: You are so mean.

Wood

Though my husband isn’t very handy, he certainly does come up with some interesting projects around the house. The latest one involved purchasing a large square piece of plywood. After doing a bunch of measuring he determined that the piece of wood he needed would easily fit into our car.

We went to B&Q so my husband could buy this piece of wood that he needed right that instant. When he got the board cut I thought it looked big, but I didn’t say anything. I stood in the parking lot watching him try to wedge it into the car and I kept my mouth shut. Sometimes I’m good at restraining myself.

I waited in the parking lot patiently with the board while he went inside to buy rope to tie it to the roof of the car. But, when he started tying the doors closed as he tied the board to the roof, I had to speak up. “How are we going to get into the car?” I asked. “What are we the Dukes of Hazzard?” While I loved watching the Duke boys outrun Boss Hog just as much as anyone else as a kid, my legs were sore from interval training and I wasn’t going to climb into a car window in a busy parking lot.

We tied the board onto the car by wrapping the rope around and around and around until we could tie the ends together. We didn’t have any scissors, of course. Then I prayed the whole way home that the board wouldn’t fly off and cause a major accident. We made it home in one piece. It’s a good thing we made that trip too, because today my husband told me that he doesn’t think he’ll use the board after all.

Our flat is too small to have a stray board laying around. We’ll have to tie it to our roof again and take it too the dump.

Esperanza Spalding Deserves Nothing

When my husband got home from his gig tonight he asked me if Esperanza Spalding had Brazilian parents. Apparently, he had a bit of a disagreement with someone about her ancestry. Someone was insisting that she was Brazilian and my husband insisted that she was African-American or what I sometimes refer to as North American Black. I find that it causes less confusion when living overseas.

Anyway, I went to Wikipedia to find out about her ancestry for certain. Instead, I learned that she deserves nothing. In fact, she is non-existent. I copied the page because I knew it wouldn’t be up long. Here it is.

Biography

Early life and education
WHO IS ESPERANZA SPALDING!?!? REVOKE HER GRAMMY. SHE DESERVES NOTHING! I FEEL SORRY FOR JUSTIN BIEBER… HE SHOULD HAVE WON THE GRAMMY. ESPERANZA SPALDING, YOU ARE NONEXISTENT!
Spalding grew up in the King neighborhood of Portland, Oregon,[6] a neighborhood she describes as “ghetto” and “pretty scary”.[7] Her mother raised her and her brother as a single parent.[8]
Spalding has a diverse ethnic background.[7][9] She notes, “My mom is Welsh, Hispanic, and Native American, and my father is black.”[10][11] She also has an interest in the music of other cultures, including that of Brazil,[12] commenting, “With Portuguese songs the phrasing of the melody is intrinsically linked with the language, and it’s beautiful”.[13]

Poor Justin Bieber. Well at least he has the privilege of existing.

I Love Cheese

My mother says that when I was a toddler every time I got sick I’d lie in bed and ask for cheese. After about a day of eating only cheese I’d be just fine. I guess that’s why cheese holds a special place in my heart. I’m especially found of unpasteurized cheeses. My favorites these days are gruyere and some other French cheese that I don’t remember the name of. It smells kind of like old crusty feet, but it tastes really nice.

My husband is big into soft cheeses, but I don’t like those at all. I especially hate brie and reblochon. I’ve never liked brie and I got sick after eating some reblochon once. Okay, the reblochon in question had been open in the refrigerator longer than it should have been, and if I’m completely honest I have to admit that it did look a bit suspect. But, what is cheese exactly? It’s bad milk. If it’s already gone bad how can it go bad any more. That was my theory at least. Sadly, my theory was proven wrong when I promptly brought up the contents of my stomach after eating a piece of slightly questionable reblochon.

The point of all of this is that my husband wrote a song about cheese for his upcoming album. Here it is.