Comma Dot Comma

We thought briefly of switching to blo*k*uster, but then we couldn’t enjoy our favorite reviews. Today, the Netflix reviewer weighs in on Love Actually.

“But that this movie little bit of porngraphic I still enjoy much. Different stories of the finding love for the many people, youthly and elder, is much to my heart a warming sensation. Many the protagosists to shine and triumphment in rejoicing in discover their lovers. And I also too rejoicing in their discoveries! My predict is you also will rejoicing!”

It’s time to face the cold hard facts, after a lifetime of denial.

I don’t like lettuce.

Not romaine, not butter, not red-leaf, not iceberg, not spring mix, not arugula nor any of its brethren.

It’s a likeable vegetable. Bright green, low-calorie, easy-to-chew crunchy texture. In high school my brother used to stuff all the leftover salad in his mouth after dinner rather than put it away. I secretly admired him for this.

And I do adore salads. I keep ordering salads at restaurants and buying bag lettuce for home. I don’t mind including a bit of lettuce with each bite of some tossed concoction. But when I get down to that layer where all the other vegetables are mostly eaten, and nothing remains but a deep well of leafy greens, a wave of dismay crashes through my very core. Must I really? I think. Really?

At home I pick cabbage, squash, broccoli, or beans over lettuce almost every time. Maybe one salad, and then the rest of the lettuce goes to slime.

The fact is, I’ve had it with lettuce.