Preservatives

My next door neighbour soaks his feet in formaldehyde every night.

I imagine that hundreds of years from now, after worms and bacteria have eaten and destroyed practically his entire body, his feet will remain remarkably intact. He says it stops the smell. Some poor archaeologist will have a tough time figuring that one out.

Seattle, March 2000. Sparrow et al. had made the mistake of attempting to peel oranges in the backseat of Brad's van while we were trying to cross the border. When they asked if we were carrying fruits and vegetables, Brad and I said no, the border guards saw the oranges, long story short, we got searched. They confiscated everything.

We stopped at a grocery store with the largest freezer section I have ever seen. Most of our time in the store was spent running around, looking at all sorts of things you couldn't get in most grocery stores at home, at least at the time: bizarre freezer dinners, alcohol, organic condoms, soy water and ketchup that came in not one, not two, but thirty-six different types of bottles. People like us don't need monuments and tourist attractions for amusement.

Among the things that I took home with me from that trip was the remaining bagel of a bag that I had gotten from that store. I forgot about it and finally found it nine months after its fresh date.

It looked fine.
It smelled fine.
Hell, it tasted just the same as it had when it was fresh, whenever that was.

There was a time once when people used to assume that I was my sister's mother. I got younger somehow, and now I get ID'd everywhere I go. Was it because I lost weight? Is it that I wear my hair down more often? I will probably never know, but my bet is on the bagels.