Offer Onions
I have a small bag of onions,approx 3 pounds.
Pick up only
He walked in the door with a bag filled with onions, beaming from his great deal.
Until he saw his wife.
What are you carrying, she asked.
Onions, like you asked, he replied.
I asked for green onions, she said.
They’re a little white, he said holding up the back, but in some lights they’re green.
She rolled her eyes. He didn’t see the problem.
She turned on the computer and brought up an image. These, she said, are green onions. What you got are yellow onions.
They’re white, he protested. But that did him no good.
Can’t you just make these instead, he asked.
I could, she said, if I wasn’t allergic.
You’re allergic to what, he asked.
Any onions that aren’t green, she said. We’ve been married 25 years and you haven’t noticed that we’ve never once had a yellow onion in this house?
He thought about it and sure enough, there were never any onions in his scrambled eggs. She never made French onion soup. Hamburgers were only garnished with cheese and tomato. For the past quarter of a century, he hasn’t eaten a single onion – and he never realized it.
So, he said looking down at the three-pound bag in his hand, what do you wanna do with these?
Get them out of the house as soon as possible, she said.
Maybe I’ll make an onion salad, he said heading into the kitchen. He took an onion out of the bag and looked at it: its dark skin, its pointy top, the fact that it rolled when he put it down on the counter.
Okay, he conceited, no onion salad. You find these onions a new home, and I’m going back to the store.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Spider-Man lunchbox
OFFER- Kid's spiderman Lunchbox
Offer- kid's spiderman cloth lunchbox. It's in the shape of spiderman's head.
In good shape; just needs a run through the washer.
Abandoned by day camper last summer.
It was the last day of camp, and she was cleaning up the lost and found. Old clothing found its way into the plastic garbage bag, followed by combs and hairclips that may have been the carrier of that summer’s lice epidemic. All that was left was a Spider-Man lunchbox.
She picked it up and thought of Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst’s upside-down kiss – and how, even though it was incredibly awkward looking, it was absolutely romantic.
And then she thought of her son – and how he was into comic books and superheroes, and Spider-Man would be perfect for him.
She brought it home and her son reacted like a typical five year old.
Spider-Man is stupid, he said.
Don’t call anyone stupid, she said.
But he is stupid, he said. Iron Man is so much cooler. Why didn’t you get me an Iron Man one?
Then he ran off to play.
She was so upset. She thought her son would be thrilled, but no, she picked the wrong superhero. Although, Spider-Man kinda picked her. He was lying abandoned. But, if Iron Man is cooler and Spider-Man is stupid, she kind of understood why he got left behind. Maybe that lunchbox-less kid is getting an Iron Man one for the school year.
She put the lunchbox in the attic, just in case her son would go through a Spider-Man phase in a few months.
It never happened.
So, as part of her Spring Cleaning, she took out Spider-Man, didn’t even bother dusting him off, and decided to give him away.
Hopefully someone would have a kid who thought Spider-Man was cool.
And, if not, it would go back in the attic as a reminder that someone else’s trash isn’t always someone else’s treasure – especially in the case of comic book superheroes, young boys, and frugal moms.
Offer- kid's spiderman cloth lunchbox. It's in the shape of spiderman's head.
In good shape; just needs a run through the washer.
Abandoned by day camper last summer.
It was the last day of camp, and she was cleaning up the lost and found. Old clothing found its way into the plastic garbage bag, followed by combs and hairclips that may have been the carrier of that summer’s lice epidemic. All that was left was a Spider-Man lunchbox.
She picked it up and thought of Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst’s upside-down kiss – and how, even though it was incredibly awkward looking, it was absolutely romantic.
And then she thought of her son – and how he was into comic books and superheroes, and Spider-Man would be perfect for him.
She brought it home and her son reacted like a typical five year old.
Spider-Man is stupid, he said.
Don’t call anyone stupid, she said.
But he is stupid, he said. Iron Man is so much cooler. Why didn’t you get me an Iron Man one?
Then he ran off to play.
She was so upset. She thought her son would be thrilled, but no, she picked the wrong superhero. Although, Spider-Man kinda picked her. He was lying abandoned. But, if Iron Man is cooler and Spider-Man is stupid, she kind of understood why he got left behind. Maybe that lunchbox-less kid is getting an Iron Man one for the school year.
She put the lunchbox in the attic, just in case her son would go through a Spider-Man phase in a few months.
It never happened.
So, as part of her Spring Cleaning, she took out Spider-Man, didn’t even bother dusting him off, and decided to give him away.
Hopefully someone would have a kid who thought Spider-Man was cool.
And, if not, it would go back in the attic as a reminder that someone else’s trash isn’t always someone else’s treasure – especially in the case of comic book superheroes, young boys, and frugal moms.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Yoga Mat
Offer: worn out yoga mat
I have an old yoga mat that is really no good for yoga. It has no stickiness to it so you end up sliding all over the place. I thought it may make a good pet bed if you cut it in half or maybe you could find some other use for it. It's still soft and it's purple.
Let’s do yoga, her friend said. It’ll be fun, was the main selling point.
No thanks, she said. She was never one for exercise anyway. So that’s when her friend found a second selling point. Your boyfriend will love it, she said. I mean, yoga increases your flexibility, and when your man hears about that, your sex life is going to go through the roof. So, you in?
Sure, she said, realizing her relationship was failing and a few new moves might save it. Sure, she echoed, I’m in.
The next day she went to the store to buy a yoga mat. Purple, she thought as she looked at the colors. I’ll feel regal on purple.
That Saturday morning, she found herself at yoga. The moves were supposed to represent animals, but there were no way animals moved like that. Truth be told, there was no way she could move like that.
Stretch a little more; reach, the teacher would say.
When do we get to just inhale, lie on your back, and take a nap, she asked her friend.
No talking, the teacher barked as she stretched her body like a contortionist.
I can’t do that, she thought, with this cheap mat.
Of course it was the mat, not her.
After class, her body felt awful. Parts of her body she never knew existed hurt.
How’d you like yoga, her friend asked.
That wasn’t yoga, she said. That was torture.
How’d you like torture then, her friend asked.
She took her yoga mat and held it over the garbage. I liked it enough, she said, that I’m never going back.
Don’t throw that out, her friend said, grabbing the mat. Next week will be better.
It wasn’t.
I have an old yoga mat that is really no good for yoga. It has no stickiness to it so you end up sliding all over the place. I thought it may make a good pet bed if you cut it in half or maybe you could find some other use for it. It's still soft and it's purple.
Let’s do yoga, her friend said. It’ll be fun, was the main selling point.
No thanks, she said. She was never one for exercise anyway. So that’s when her friend found a second selling point. Your boyfriend will love it, she said. I mean, yoga increases your flexibility, and when your man hears about that, your sex life is going to go through the roof. So, you in?
Sure, she said, realizing her relationship was failing and a few new moves might save it. Sure, she echoed, I’m in.
The next day she went to the store to buy a yoga mat. Purple, she thought as she looked at the colors. I’ll feel regal on purple.
That Saturday morning, she found herself at yoga. The moves were supposed to represent animals, but there were no way animals moved like that. Truth be told, there was no way she could move like that.
Stretch a little more; reach, the teacher would say.
When do we get to just inhale, lie on your back, and take a nap, she asked her friend.
No talking, the teacher barked as she stretched her body like a contortionist.
I can’t do that, she thought, with this cheap mat.
Of course it was the mat, not her.
After class, her body felt awful. Parts of her body she never knew existed hurt.
How’d you like yoga, her friend asked.
That wasn’t yoga, she said. That was torture.
How’d you like torture then, her friend asked.
She took her yoga mat and held it over the garbage. I liked it enough, she said, that I’m never going back.
Don’t throw that out, her friend said, grabbing the mat. Next week will be better.
It wasn’t.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Cookbooks
I like reading freecycle and the classified sections of newspapers, just to see what people are selling. There’s never an explanation why ... until now. I’m going to start writing a story a day [[or as frequently as possible]], breathing life into these classifieds. The actual ad will be posted up top, followed by the tale. Enjoy. -- lisa
RE-OFFER -- 22 paperback cook books. Last time I offered these the "Taker" never called back. These are 5-1/2" x 8-1/2" paperbacks, about 60-70 pages each. Each on a different subject from soup to nuts. Some "Good
Housekeeping", some ShopRite. Thumb worn, but handy.
I’m done trying, he told himself as he leafed through one of the cookbooks his grandmother had left him. It wasn’t much of an inheritance, but his grandmother was hoping the gift would travel to his wife. She made notes in the margins that would help her future granddaughter-in-law, markings like, “a dash of salt isn’t enough” or “if you add too many peas, the color is off-putting.”
The problem was: He never got married. He had the books in his kitchen for years, sitting under take out menus. Real men don’t cook, he once said. He told that to his grandmother one day, and she said a nice woman would one day come along and change his mind. She said when his wife was pregnant with their child, he would cook her anything she wanted. I can make reservations, he told his grandmother, but she said that’s not the same as her famous lasagna.
His grandmother died and he felt an obligation to at least try one recipe from a book. He came home with all the ingredients, put them into a glass Pyrex dish and put it in the oven. He took it out of the oven and placed it on the counter. Next thing he knew, he heard a loud bang. He wanted back into the kitchen and the Pyrex dish had exploded – sending shards of glass and food everywhere.
He picked up a piece of chicken- and cheese-coated glass and thought, I’m done trying.
He swept the glass into a garbage bag and put the books in a box. It gives more room for take out menus, food that doesn’t fight back, he said.
That’s when he posted the classified ad.
It was admitting defeat, admitting the food had won. But there was another victor: bachelorhood. His grandmother has given him the cookbooks with the hope that some young housewife-to-be would enjoy cooking as much as she did, and her recipes would feed and comfort future generations as it had past ones.
There would be no wife for this man. There would be no cookbooks. There would be no more explosive glass dishes.
Unless, of course, the person who is picking up the books is young, pretty, and owns metal pans instead.
RE-OFFER -- 22 paperback cook books. Last time I offered these the "Taker" never called back. These are 5-1/2" x 8-1/2" paperbacks, about 60-70 pages each. Each on a different subject from soup to nuts. Some "Good
Housekeeping", some ShopRite. Thumb worn, but handy.
I’m done trying, he told himself as he leafed through one of the cookbooks his grandmother had left him. It wasn’t much of an inheritance, but his grandmother was hoping the gift would travel to his wife. She made notes in the margins that would help her future granddaughter-in-law, markings like, “a dash of salt isn’t enough” or “if you add too many peas, the color is off-putting.”
The problem was: He never got married. He had the books in his kitchen for years, sitting under take out menus. Real men don’t cook, he once said. He told that to his grandmother one day, and she said a nice woman would one day come along and change his mind. She said when his wife was pregnant with their child, he would cook her anything she wanted. I can make reservations, he told his grandmother, but she said that’s not the same as her famous lasagna.
His grandmother died and he felt an obligation to at least try one recipe from a book. He came home with all the ingredients, put them into a glass Pyrex dish and put it in the oven. He took it out of the oven and placed it on the counter. Next thing he knew, he heard a loud bang. He wanted back into the kitchen and the Pyrex dish had exploded – sending shards of glass and food everywhere.
He picked up a piece of chicken- and cheese-coated glass and thought, I’m done trying.
He swept the glass into a garbage bag and put the books in a box. It gives more room for take out menus, food that doesn’t fight back, he said.
That’s when he posted the classified ad.
It was admitting defeat, admitting the food had won. But there was another victor: bachelorhood. His grandmother has given him the cookbooks with the hope that some young housewife-to-be would enjoy cooking as much as she did, and her recipes would feed and comfort future generations as it had past ones.
There would be no wife for this man. There would be no cookbooks. There would be no more explosive glass dishes.
Unless, of course, the person who is picking up the books is young, pretty, and owns metal pans instead.
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