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.