Tuesday, January 26, 2016

The Zen of French Press

Quick Puppy Update: good news and bad news. Good news is he no longer needs a bandage. Bad news is he is cone-bound for the next week until the stitches come out. Damn! So close!

So. I do not like waiting. Patience is not something I have an abundance of. Near the end of deployment I always had a book in my back pocket so I could read while I had to stand in line for x, y, and z. However, I feel like if I "play on my phone" while I wait, I'm just wasting time. There's so much better things that I could be doing instead. So much productive time wasted.

Lately I hopped on the "adult coloring book" craze. I still haven't finished a whole page, but I've started a few. I didn't want to "make time" for coloring, because that seems a little extreme... but I never knew quite when to do it. Enter the French Press.

It's quite a process for someone like me. I have to wait for the water to boil. I have to wait for the coffee to brew. That's like at least ten whole minutes! I can load or unload the dishwasher while I wait, but there's only so much to clean sometimes. So I've started keeping one of these coloring books and a set of markers in the kitchen for those long drawn out moments during brewing coffee [and cooking, too]. Coloring while coffee brews is nice. Yesterday, for some reason, a particular anecdote popped into my head while I was coloring for coffee. Now, the validity of this certainly can be disputed, because considering the source it may be exaggerated.

But once upon a time, I was a strange child. [no way! go figure!] When I was in pre-school, I guess they called my mom and said there was a problem. My mom went in to talk to the teacher. The teacher pulled out a page I had colored and sat it on her desk. The assignment had been to "color the farm animals." The rest of the exchange went something like this:

Mom: "I don't see the problem. She colored the chicken."
Teach: "Yes, but she colored the chicken blue."
M: "Okay, so what?"
T: "I told her there was no such thing as blue chickens. Chickens aren't blue. She said yes there was... 'that's a chicken, and I colored it blue. So there are blue chickens.'"
M: "Are you serious right now?"

So yeah, this teacher lady was practically distraught that I colored a chicken blue and then called her out on it. It's not like the assignment said to only use real colors; and besides, it's pre-school!The rest of the story, as I was told, goes on that my mom took me home laughing, told me to color animals whatever color I wanted, and proceeded to tell this story to her mom [my grandma, a psych nurse] who went on to tell a doctor friend, who theoretically included "The Blue Chicken" as a chapter or section in his book on child psychology.

I checked today, and haven't been able to find such a book by the doctor in question.

But. Here is a Blue Chicken for you all. You can tell he's a badass because of the shades and cigarette.

Moral of the story? Life is short. Color the chicken whatever damn color you want, and if someone tells you "it's wrong" or "that doesn't exist," then you laugh in their face.  

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