Tag Archives: the rusty fork

blah, blah, blah-ging

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A well-known actress is exhibiting behavior that is frankly unbecoming someone her age and experience. Reading and listening to reports about her trials and tribulations I have muttered to myself: Who cares? What does it really mean to the rest of us with demanding jobs, equally demanding children, and relentless bills, that all combine for varying degrees of anxiety?

Sitting to pen another post it occurred to me to ask the same questions of The Rusty Fork. It was time to truthfully examine whether I had published posts infused with knowledge or thoughtful opinion on the given topic. Have any posts encouraged further exploration? Have they even provided a giggle? If not, they have simply served to waste bandwidth and I have failed in my goal to provoke conversations.

It turns out I have failed. I based this assumption not on stats, but by reviewing the posts once more and then candidly asking of them, “Who cares?”

I’m not ready to concede just yet. Rather, I will regroup and work on some observations worth sharing with you. I realize I am lacking focus. I will explore your blogs for inspiration.

Perhaps you’ll visit once again.

…in his forehead

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Salsa. Spinach. Hummus. Claudia breezes in, looking her usual fabulous self. “Hello,” we three dippers greet her in chorus. We continue in song, “How are you?” Claudia reaches for a chip and replies, “We’re great! Really great.” Two dippers leave: sushi in sight. It’s just her and I. I wonder how her new job is going: “So, how…” She inadvertently interrupts, “Don’t you hate arriving at parties after fighting with your husband the entire drive there?” I shove a chip carrying spinach dip worthy of two chips into my mouth and sound out, “Mmm hmm…mmm.” She adds, “Rusty Fork.” Unable to articulate “Whatcha talkin’ ‘bout Willis” in food mumble, I resort to head tilting and eye squinting. Her mind-reading expertise unclouded by her frustration she continues, “You know, because when you’re stuck in a car arguing with your husband, you just want to stick a rusty fork in his forehead.”

Pause.

We erupt into Fran Drescher-like cackle. Doubly attractive with incisors covered in spinach.

Let’s stick a rusty fork in the mundane. Let’s replace whine with wine. We won’t focus on one topic. Instead, we’ll explore observations for the sake of good conversation and bladder-challenging laughter.

Spark a conversation at therustyfork@gmail.com