Ming and I were walking at the park. I was complaining more than usual. We saw a scrub jay. For some reason I explained they like the scrub.
“Do you mean shrubs?” Ming asked.
“No, the scrub,” I said. “You know, like in the foothills, not the conifer forest or the real oaks–just the scrub.”
“Oh,” Ming said. “I thought you used them to scrub pans. Oosh, oosh.” He made a scrubbing motion.
“I love that, but I hate it,” I said.
