Thursday, October 14, 2010

My Love Affair with Food

Do I still have followers?  I'm pretty sure the number one rule of blogging is to not let eons of time pass between posts.  But it's not my fault.  I've been a criminal on the run, dealing with the fact that I invented The Facebook (I know.  It surprised me too.), getting lost in a town the size of shoe box and drowning in dressing and bacon.  Clearly there was no time left for blogging.

I should probably address each one of these separately so that I have something to write about for a few days.  We'll see what happens...

Let's deal with the dressing and bacon, because food completes me.

I'm in love.  With the new guy at my favorite deli.  And it's not because of his adorable boyish smile.  It's because he knows how to make a salad.  My kind of salad.

For the last month and a half the deli has been closed, which has been absolutely devastating to me, partially because I've had to go without their yummy food, but mainly because I hate envy people who can close down their store/shop/business for a month and go on a fabulous vacation.  I don't actually know that's why the deli was closed, I'm just assuming.  It's possible they closed because of some horrible personal tragedy, which is exactly why you shouldn't compare your life to others and be thankful for what you have.  That's my advice for the day.  Give thanks.

The person who used to make the salads was the cute lady who would mix all of my selected ingredients together, toss it in my selected dressing and yum!  Except that I always wanted more dressing...and more bacon.  She probably thought oh this is just the right amount of dressing and bacon for this little girl.  She couldn't possible want more than this.  But guess what?  I totally did.  But, of course, I never said anything, because hello fatty. 

But adorable new boy?  He could either sense the desperate dressing, bacon, dressing, bacon, dressing, bacon vibes emanating from my being, or he could just tell I'm the kinda girl who likes to super-size her dressing and bacon.  Whatever the case, it was amazing; hence being in love, hearts, rainbows and sunshine.  But not in love, hearts, rainbows, and sunshine, I want to marry you kind of way, because hello he's twelve. Okay, he's actually probably eighteen or twenty even, but when you're as old as I am, (late twenties) anyone under 22 seems like a baby to you.  Also, I'm already married and polygamy isn't really my thing.   My point is I'm in love, hearts, rainbows, sunshine, he can toss my salad any day.  Uhh...you know what I mean. And I don't mean that.

Talking about bacon and dressing reminds of that time I tried to get a cupcake after work.  I never told you that story did I?  I think I started writing about it and then just never posted it.  Hold on.  Lemme check.

Yep, I did start writing it, and guess what?  It. Is. Awesome.  Except I never finished it and only have a vague recollection of how it ended.  So I'll post it and just make the rest up.

Cupcakes Are Assholes.  So is 7-Eleven.  And also, Moe’s.

Today at work I was daydreaming about cupcakes, which is not all that unusual except that it was actually work related.  I know.  How awesome is my job that I get to talk about cupcakes?  (Honestly?  Not that awesome.)

There is a store in town that makes to-die-for cupcakes, and after talking about cupcakes with my boss, obtaining a to-die-for cupcake became the single most important thing on my mind. 

It was a race against the clock.  Finish work, call husband to say I am leaving work to drive to friend’s house to pick up cell phone, husband starts talking about something, interrupt husband and say, “honey, can we talk about that later, I need to get to the cupcake place before they close,” leave the office, take a pee and fly down the stairs like a spaz, tell myself to calm the eff down - me and stairs don’t work out so well under normal, non spastic situations, and I’m pretty sure acting like a schizophrenic squirrel on crack while trying to attempt what most people have mastered by the age of three, is asking for trouble– fly out of the stairwell, start to run toward my car, but see people in the parking lot, decide to not embarrass myself, and walk like a normal person. 

While I’m walking I contemplate running, because while it may be embarrassing to sprint toward my car as if seeking cover from an impending asteroid attack (note, I’m pretty sure your car will not save you from an asteroid attack.  Asteroid are assholes.  They’re probably going to kill you no matter where you seek shelter. Unless you’re the lead actor in one of those end of the world disaster movies.), it makes for a more interesting blog story if I trip over my own feet and eat shit in the parking lot in front of an audience.  That is the state of confliction I live in these days: trying to avoid situations in which I make a complete ass of myself because oh-my-gosh-how-embarrassing and hoping to end up in situations in which I make a complete ass of myself because oh-my-gosh-this-would-make-a-totally-good-post.

I get in the car and check the clock.  It says I have eight minutes left until the little cupcake shop closes and I am denied an explosion of awesomeness in my mouth (get your mind out of the gutter you dirty whores) and all my dreams are crushed.

As I’m driving out of the parking lot I remember I have no cash. There is no way I’m paying for one cupcake with a credit card.  As I sit at the light and contemplate methods of suicide, I think I can’t put ONE cupcake on a credit card, but I could put TEN.  See that, my friends?  Those be some stellar problem solving skills.  I should work for NASA like Gary Sinese in Apollo 13 where he brings the astronauts home on a toaster or maybe it was a coffee maker or maybe it was on the power it takes to run one of those things.  I can’t remember because some asshole broke into my house and stole my VHS.  And by ‘some asshole broke into my house and stole it’ I mean I most likely lost it.  And I have been devastated. Because Apollo 13 is one of my favorite movies.  Because I can relate to the superior intelligence of astronauts.  On a side note, I think I should rename this post The One Where Everything’s an Asshole.  In related news, I think I have adult ADD. 

Yeah, so I’m going to pretend I didn’t just go off on a tangent about toasters and the space program and pick up where I left off.  If you don’t remember what I was talking about, it’s probably because you have adult ADD.  You should go to a doctor.  They’ll give you medicine for that shit, which you can sell for Anthropologie dresses.  That’s my way of saying I would have posted this fabulous piece of awesomeness earlier but I spent the last hour drooling over Anthropologie dresses online and lamenting over the fact that I can’t freaking afford the 8-10 dresses I just absolutely have to have, so uh, you should totally go by them for me.  Kay?  Thx.

So…anyway… before I can make the right turn on the highway to cupcake heaven, the ever-diminishing part of me that doesn’t want to become a huge fat blob, overrules the ever growing part of me that screams CUPCAKE GOOD, MUST HAVE NOW and I remain at the light.

And then my brain screams CHANGE!  CHANGE! CHECK YOUR PURSE FOR CHANGE!  So I do, and find quarter after quarter after quarter in the disgusting depths of my purse that I’m pretty sure is lined with mouse ashes, or maybe just a crumbled cookie – but seriously it’s probably mouse ashes because I’ve already emptied my purse of the crumbled cookie, like, four times and yet the crumb/ashes are still there.  Ipso facto, mice keep crawling into my purse looking for cookie crumbs, can’t find any, can’t find their way out, and die.

This story is weird.

After I unearth ten pounds of quarters – did I mention these to-die-for cupcakes are also the most expensive freaking cupcakes on the planet? – I look at the clock.  There is only six minutes until the store closes.  Which means they are probably already closed.  Because the people who run the cupcake shop are assholes.  (Okay, they’re actually not assholes, but I’ve got a theme going here.)

 I’ll spare you the details of my fantasies of obtaining-free-cupcakes-because-it’s-the-end-of-the-day-and-surely-they’re-just-going-to-throw-them-out-anyway-so-they-might- as-well-give-them-to-me on the twenty miles over the speed limit drive to the cupcake shop, and just tell you that, of course, they were effing closed.

The story would end here (you’re totally hoping it would), but cupcakes are assholes and they set off a chain of assholey events.

I go to the 7-11 to get gas and water.  While I’m pumping the gas, the evil cupcakes remind me of my other favorite thing in the whole world.  Donuts.  Seven-eleven sells donuts.  I go inside to buy my water and tell myself not to look at the donuts.  That even though they say they are delivered fresh each day, they are actually sitting in a rat infested back room and are full of lard and all kinds of disgusting evilness. 

I give myself mad props for ignoring the evil tempting donuts and head straight to the water cooler thingy. 

And then 7-11 became an asshole.  Probably because I wouldn’t buy their rat-turd lard- filled donuts.

I grab a bottle of Zephryhills.  Not cold.  I reach for one further in the back.  Not cold.  As I reach for the one further in the back my arm brushes a bottle of 7-11 water.  Freaking freezing. 

Touche 7-11, I won’t by your heart attack inducing donuts so you get me with your super cold toilet water.  I am a sucker for cold water. I can’t resist.  I grab a bottle and go up to the counter.  And do you know what they have up there?  Do you have any idea what they have on the counter? 

Go ahead.  Guess.  You’ll never get it. Here, I’ll count to three so you have time to guess, and then I’ll tell you.

One.

Two.

Three.

Big Gulp Cups. 

Filled. 

With. 

Donut. 

Holes. 

Are you effing kidding me 7-11?  What’s the one thing I love more than donuts?  Donut Holes. 

My hands tremble as I retrieve my change.  I do not let my eyes wander back to the donut filled Big Gulp.  I bolt out the door, run to my car sans donut holes and unscrew my water. I tell myself that this water is no different than Zephryhills and Disani and Aquafina.  I tell myself it’s not moldy full of lard toilet water from the 7-11 bathroom.  (It’s pretty much a requirement that all food things sold at 7-11 be injected with lard.)  But as I drink it, I dry heave.

I am drinking toilet water and 7-11 is an asshole.




So that's where the story ended and I don't remember all the details of the rest, but here is what I do know...

After retrieving my phone from my friend's house I go to Moe's and everyone's all "Welcome to MOES!" which I totally hate, because it makes me feel all awkward.  Should I say hi?  Thanks?  I'm pretty sure the welcome is rhetorical and they're not looking for a response, which just makes it seem so in-genuine and the exact opposite of welcoming, which makes me wonder if that's the point.  Like they don't want you to feel welcome because they hate their jobs and they just want you to leave.  But without customers they don't get paid which seems like a really bad business practice, but when the hell do I know?  I'm just a girl trying to get a freaking cupcake.  Or in this case, a burrito.

Next, I remember there was a dad balancing  his can-barely-stand-on-his-own-two-feet-toddler on a two inch beam and I had to turn away so I didn't a.) scream what the hell kind of parent are you? and b.) see the kid's head split open when he tumbled to the ground.  Hey idiot dad, if you're reading this, you should teach your child how to walk when he's on the ground, not on a two inch beam four feet of the ground.  Honestly, you should have to pass a test and obtain a license to be a parent.

The Moe's employee takes my order.  "Two Joey's," I say.  The employee's eyes widen.  "Two?"

Yes, asshole.  Two.  I want two effing burritos.  Have you ever heard of someone ordering food to bring home to someone else?

Seriously, can you imagine what it's like to be that guy's boyfriend?  You want a soup and salad?  A burger and fries?  Cheerios and milk?

We get it dude, you have a small penis.  Stop trying to distract us from that fact by talking about how much food I eat, you're only making your inferior penis size more obvious.

Perhaps you think it's way harsh of me to accuse this guy of having a small wiener just because he asked if I wanted two Joey's (in case you've never been to Moe's a Joey is a burrito.  It's actually called a Joey Bag Of Donuts, which is totally misleading because they do not stuff a donut inside a burrito.  False Advertising if you ask me.) but let's remember I didn't get my to-die-for cupcake and am therefore completely justified in anything I say or do No Matter What.  Never mess with a girl who was denied her cupcake.
 
I think that's enough for now.  I'll talk about inventing The Facebook, being a criminal and getting lost later, so stay tuned.

And THANK YOU to Tab, Kins, and Juli for commenting on my last post. Your comments complete me.  Even more than food.  Definitely more than cupcakes.  And don't worry that I haven't friend requested you yet.  I have created my The Facebook page yet.  I've attempted to five times now, but I never get further than my name before I end up rocking myself in the corner.

3 comments:

  1. Yay!! You're back! I've missed ya!

    ReplyDelete
  2. Hi! I found your blog when I was at Juli's blog the other day checking up on her and her baby girl! You crack me up, I love reading your blog! =) Hope you and Mark are doing well!

    ReplyDelete

I had to change my comment settings because I was getting too much spam. You can no longer comment anonymously. (I don't think anyone besides the spammers were doing this.) But I don't want to block the rest of you from commenting! If you're having trouble, tweet me at @sarcasmgoddess or email sarcasmgoddess at ymail dot com and I'll see what I can do to fix it.