The Junk Drawer

Anyone who’s been to the Junk Drawer before knows I have a special place in my heart for delicious bacon.

So I was over the moon when a friend sent me a link to a blog documenting the adventures of Bacon himself.

I love, love, love this blog!

Bacon’s owner, Devon Boatwright, graciously agreed to an interview so I could learn more about my new fatty best friend. 

I’m Bacon’s #1 fan, possibly in a Kathy Bates/Misery sort of way. I just love him so. Where did you get Bacon and how did you get the idea for Bacon to have his own blog?

Bacon was actually kind of an accident! My mom ordered Bacon for my sister but accidentally ordered two Bacons. Not knowing what to do with the second one, she decided to give it to us as a family gift. She kept joking that it wasn’t a big deal and we could open it before Christmas and it was just a silly gift. Well, I opened up the box and completely freaked out even more than my children.

Since I opened Bacon before Christmas and my sister was also receiving a Bacon, I was not allowed to post pictures of Bacon. Despite my begging, I posted no pictures of Bacon for 3 days! Then Christmas day I managed to wrangle Bacon from my children and was inspired to pose him with the turkey. Then I thought it would be funny if he helped Ray with the dishes. And it just went from there.

When I posted all the photos, people on my Facebook loved them and someone told me I should start a blog. I figured I would do it and make a coffee table book out of it when I was done. I didn’t realize how many people would actually think Bacon was as cool as I did! 

I don’t know if I should say that! It’s a secret! Hee hee. Really, Bacon has this wire along the sides of him that make him poseable. His mouth also moves when he says “I’m Bacon!” so that actually allows me to use the mechanics of his mouth to hang him on something. I have a thing about people handling Bacon for photographs so I try to make sure as much as possible that no one is touching Bacon when I photograph him.

If someone has to be propping him up, then I try to cut their hand out of the picture. Sometimes I snap really quick pictures as Bacon slowly slides down whatever I have managed to prop him on. I probably look like a weirdo posing Bacon in public. Especially at our night out where I took like 20 photos of one of my friends holding Bacon up on the pool table to play pool. I kept saying “I can see you in the picture and I can’t crop that!” So we’d repose. Heh.

I think we can learn a thing or two from Bacon. What is Bacon’s philosophy on life?

I asked Bacon what his philosophy on life was. After all, he’s read many books and must be quite brilliant by now. I waited with bated breath as Bacon thought long and hard about my question. Finally he answered, “I’m Bacon!” So there you go.

Bacon believes everyone should be like him. We could interpret that to mean he thinks everyone should live life to the fullest and go on many fabulous adventures and take lots of pictures. Or we could take it to mean that Bacon has a bloated self image and thinks everyone should be him.

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Devon, thank you for taking the time to help us get to know Bacon better. Also, if you get that coffee table book published, I want a signed copy (and I wouldn’t be disappointed with a Toilets of Rome book either!) I just hope Bacon remembers me when he gets famous.

Adventures of Bacon blog
Author, Devon Boatwright’s Facebook page

This week, the Internet went all knee-slappin’ hysterical when a video of a woman who fell into a mall fountain while walking and texting was posted on YouTube.

Yes, she was embarrassed and, of course, she’s suing because that’s what people do in this country when they should just walk away and laugh at themselves.

And that is this woman’s problem.

She does not know how to laugh like a hyena at her own stupidity.

Let me show you how it’s done, you silly woman.

I lunched with some blogger friends a few weeks ago at a very fancy shmancy restaurant. I’m more of a cheeseburger and fries kind of girl, so I was totally out of my element.

After our meal, we decided to order some dessert. The only thing on the menu that sounded exciting to me was fried ice cream.

Who doesn’t like ice cream, and holy clogged arteries, who doesn’t like it fried?

All three of us ordered it and when it was delivered to the table, the waiter approached each dish with a small serving boat, which I was hoping was full of hot fudge.

It was not.

It was full of something that set my dessert on fire when the waiter touched a flame-tipped lighter to it.

OK, so now I’m hip to the dessert. I’m getting flambéed here.

I dig it.

It’s pretty.

When my dessert flames out, I start eating. It’s good and decent, but not fabulous, as I prefer my desserts to be.

Why? Because at the bottom of my dish lay a puddle of cream mixed with alcohol.

Alcohol? Why is there alcohol in my dessert? Who puts alcohol in ice cream? I didn’t ask for it and I’m not at all pleased.

But I continue eating because my lunch mates are infinitely more refined than me and not the kind of people who go around freaking out about alcohol in their desserts.

After we say our good-byes and I get home, I immediately Google “flambé” and am surprised to learn that it’s alcohol that makes a flambéed dessert shoot up in flames when you light it.

Oh.

Oh, wait.

I knew that, didn’t I? Yes, I’m sure I knew that. I think. No, I didn’t. Did I? No. I did not.

What I’m sure of is that I’m a dumbass and my blogger friends who are just now reading about this will never invite me to lunch again because I’m just that stupid.

So, lady who fell into a fountain while texting, that is how you laugh at yourself. You do not sue someone. Instead, you realize how dumb you are and then you blog about it for other people’s enjoyment.

That should be the new American way.

People, people, people. It’s so simple.

When you stand behind me in the grocery store checkout and you inch your way ever closer to the cashier, and in the process kick my feet, you can avoid having to say “Excuse me” and I would not have to burn a hole through your skull with my angry stare.

I promise you, you will get through the line with all your stuff quickly enough, whether you’ve hopped on my back or not. I prefer you not get all up in my grill and then have to apologize for it.

Here’s today’s lesson: There is an comfortable distance that you should stand behind a person before that person gets decidedly uncomfortable. For me, that’s two feet, not two inches.

You’re not running a marathon, there is no prize for getting to the end of the line faster and all it does is make me want to squeeze your bread until it looks like one giant matzo ball.

Two feet. Not two inches. Got it?

I don’t understand the resistance, really. It’s not like I asked him to shave my legs.

I’ve asked my husband repeatedly if he would help me do something that is impossible for me to do by myself.

When we took our wedding vows, I’m sure there was something in there about helping your wife in her times of need — whether it’s when she’s sick, needs moral support, or if there’s a clog of some horrific magnitude in the shower drain.

But most especially – I’m pretty sure I heard it, right before the death part – he’s supposed to pull gray hairs out of the back of my head where I can’t see to pluck them myself.

Yes. I’m sure I heard it.

Listen. I’m not gray enough to start getting my hair colored, or maybe it’s that I’m too cheap to start laying out fifty bucks every six weeks.

I just want those few suckers gone. I know they’re there, and I need someone to do it for me.

He won’t do it because it’s “weird.” Weird shmeird. Pull ‘em out!

Maybe I should remind him that when we were bride and groom, the operative word there was groom.

Photo credit: Alex Clayton

I think Babs of Beetle’s Memories ‘n Ramblings must have a room in her house full of Junk Drawer merchandise because she won yet another What’s That contest!

The item in question is the front speaker panel on an old Zenith AM-FM radio.

One of the pieces of item information I gave you – that it was found a storage room where I work – wasn’t a hint at all.

Frankly, I don’t know why it’s even in the room, but now I wanna steal it and put it up on eBay. Might be worth fifty bucks if it works.

Congratulations, Babs! I’ll write you soon to see which prizes you want that you don’t already have. Must I ban you from further contests? You keep winning!

Thanks for all your guesses, everyone.

p.s. to Linda Medrano, who said it looked like her prom dress. My sympathies. Got any pictures of that?

My parents raised me right, I swear. I’m polite, courteous, respectful of my elders, and have good table manners.

But I will bare my teeth, growl and possibly stab you if you try to take food away from me. Especially if it is my very favorite dessert, The Perkins Chocolate French Silk cream pie.

It’s a treat I allow myself only once or twice a year. It’s a special thing to be preserved and protected, and certainly not wasted, for it is divine.

Which is why when I dropped a slice of it on the floor Saturday, I picked it up, plated it and ate it. The whole sad, malformed blob of it.

I did not cut off the dirty side. The side that probably spells bacterial infection.

Shut up. I did this two days ago and have suffered no ill effects.

The fact that I ate some combination of cat hair, floor wax and outside world dirt proves one thing: Mothers everywhere are all wrong. You can eat off the floor like an animal and survive.

You won’t look at yourself the same way again, but you will survive.

Bon appétit!

I’m too late for a What’s That Wednesday, but does it really matter?

No, it does not.

How to play:

1. The photo shows a small portion of a larger object.

2. First person to guess the object wins a Junk Drawer magnet and your choice of either bacon bandaids or Jesus bandaids.

Item Info:

1. The item was found in a storage room in my building at work.

2. It’s old.

3. The pattern is distinctive to the item. Most of the items I’ve found like it in my research have this particular design.

Go!