Congratulations on your new purchase from IKEA! The Väarkenbark birch 8-drawer armoire is sure to add just the right touch of mass-produced European'ness to your home. Wow, 8 drawers! That sure is a lot of drawers! Way more drawers than I need, even if all my sweatpants weren't dirty. This piece must be for sharing! That's ... nice....
1) Carefully set down your new piece of IKEA furniture onto a level surface. Take caution; this IKEA piece is very heavy and requires at least two people for lifting. Funny, isn't it? Seems like everything these days is designed for two! I'm sure you've got it covered though. I mean, who would buy an 8-drawer armoir for one? Now, If I were doing it, I guess I'd have to ask Hans over in 2B to come over and help me. He's been a big help lately, though I do always have to refill the hard candy bowl after he leaves. I don't want to accuse him of anything, but last night I detected the slightest hint of butterscotch scent coming from his apartment.
2) Open the box using a sharp cutting utensil. Take extra precaution with this step, as you could cut yourself with the knife and then start bleeding all over the floor and then he'd really be sorr ... It's just too soon to stain that nice birch finish, don't you think!
3) Remove all enclosed plastic bags with necessary screws and assembly parts. Set them aside to refer to during assembly. I think you've got this part covered, it's pretty basic. Nothing like relationships! Boy, those are tough to figure out, huh? One minute you're all two straws, one frozen margarita at Chili's and the next you're riding the New Jersey Transit up and down the Northeast Corridor Line just so you have other people to cry with!
4) Screw in boards B and C to the main frame, piece A.
5) According to my mother, I'm eating my feelings, but if I'm feeling like delicious Swedish meatballs, well so be it!
6) Attach security mounts to piece D. Place piece D atop of B and C to form the top of your armoir. Security, ha! You'd think even the smallest bit of basic security that comes along with any monogamous relationship wouldn't make purchasing Michael Buble tickets a couple, or maybe even nine, months in advance such a big deal, right?
7) Wrong.
8) Now that the base of your armoire has been assembled, you're ready to move on to the drawer assembly. Hurray! But listen, don't let me tell you when you need to or have to move on. I get it, you move on WHENEVER you're ready, even if it is "turning you into a miserable pile of self-pity and unwashed hair grease."
9) Maybe two dozen meatballs was too much. Though this Absolut has liquified them quite nicely.
10) Each drawer should contain three boards, a metallic handle, and seven E-Z fixed screws. It should not contain a pile of pictures from your vacation to Atlantic City with strategically scratched out eyeballs and three and a half pairs of stolen tube socks, but who's to say what should happen anymore, anyway?
11) Wouldn't YOU have taken things a little more seriously if you heard the words, "If you walk out that door, I'm moving to Sweden?" from a loved one? Well, who's bluffing now?, Or, should I say, "som är bluffa nu?"
12) Oh, the drawers, right. Guess you need somewhere to put all your stuff, huh? Though I bet you're like, "so in love" and you'll just end up mixing it all together and then you'll wear each others' tube socks to work and then laugh about it over a bottle of pinot later that night on your overpriced Swedish futon bed. Well, just be careful because ... because ... because red stains, OK!?!
13) Attach piece E1 to F1 and G1 using the included seven E-Z fixed screws. Repeat for each drawer. But really, what the hell do I know about keeping anything together, anyway? If it were up to me, I would probably tell you to put the drawers together with an unconditional support of one's acting career despite an uncanny inability to memorize lines, a stoic dedication to remaining under 130 pounds, and a willingness to feign interest in "Battlestar Galactica", but then you'd probably end up with your clothes all over the floor. And not in the good way, either.
14) Congratulations! Your IKEA Väarkenbark birch 8-drawer armoire is complete and ready to be used!
15) I don't want to die alone. God, why is this chocolate so damn sweet?!
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
"I'm Beginning to Think the Author of my IKEA Self-Assembly Guide Just Went Through A Soul Crushing Breakup"
Thursday, July 24, 2008
The Summer I Didn't Lose An Ear, or, The Summer I Lost All My Self-Respect.
Sometimes in life, you have to learn how to just say "no." And that time should come way before you find yourself having a medical professional take Polaroid pictures of you in his personal office space. What follows is the long and torrid story of how I learned that very valuable lesson.
It was the summer of 2007. And it was hot. That's really the only characterization I can give you about the time, because that's all I remember, but I understand that that's like saying, "She worked at Hooters. And she had breasts." Charles Dickens, I am not. Regardless, it was the summer and I had just returned from a wonderful five months abroad in Europe, racking up my cliche college-memories quota. All that was left for me was to do a little sexual "experimenting."
At this point, this story can go one of two ways. One, I can go proceed to tell you about the summer I was a lesbian, and hope someone from penthouse.com is reading. The other way involves no sort of sexual activity whatsoever. My apologies to Larry Flynt, but this story is the latter.
Anyway, I had come home and all was well, except for the fact that, oh, my left ear was in danger of falling off. I will spare you the grim details, but I had developed some sort of strange cut behind my left ear that was in desperate need of medical attention. And five months later, from the time I first realized it was in desperate need of medical attention, I was a few paint brushes short of becoming a modern day Van Gogh. Or Evander Holyfield. Well, minus the whole painting thing. Or being able to box. God, doesn't anyone become famous for just losing an ear anymore?
So, I decided the first thing I needed to do upon reaching US soil was to find a good doctor to take care of my little ailment.
And I had found one. Her name was Betsy and she had been with me through thick and thin, through strep throat, through the flu, and even through 'da Pox (chicken, not small.) That's right, I had found Betsy about 22 years ago, at about the same time when I had found my way out of the womb (and not just any womb, mind you. My own mother's!) And apparently, a 21 year old wishing to still see her pediatrician is a problem. Like some slutty ex-girlfriend who had "found herself" during the first few months of college and came to see me at Thanksgiving break only to dump me, Betsy wanted to terminate our relationship. "But what about the free lollipos?!?", I thought, but then again, who doesn't at the end of any great relationship? Despite my pleas, Betsy wasn't having it. No, take that back, her front desk ASSISTANT wasn't having it! She didn't even have the decency to tell me herself that she wanted to start seeing younger people.
Once I dealt with the painful sting of that rejection, I picked up my self-pride and what free lollipops I could fit in one small, stubby fingered handful, and set out to find someone new. Now, everyone always tell you that there are "other fish in the sea," but that is not the case when the sea is the private health care industry, and the fish is someone who has been denying the onset of adulthood for years and years. I couldn't find anyone within a 50 mile radius who wanted to look at my ear-ailment. Finally, help came in the form of a public health clinic who agreed to fit me in with their resident physician. OK, OK, I know what you're thinking ... I should have known, right? Well, listen, when you live in fear of the day a magician tries to pull a coin from behind your ear and gets just the whole ear, you'll understand why I did what I had to do.
I came for my appointment with ... well, let's call him Dr. Unicorn, because much like unicorns, this guy was UNREAL. He wore Coke bottle-glasses and I kid you not, his business card read, "Dr. Unicorn. M.D.D.D.S" That's right. He was both a physician AND a dentist. I've done the calculations and that meant he had been in school for ... sixty-three years. Give or take a few. But, allow me to get this out right off the bat: The man fixed my ear drama, and for that, I am eternally grateful, as are the many people who speak to me my left side every day of my life. For that, he earns no flack from this lady. But his "bedside manner" ... well, that is a different story.
From the moment he came into the room, he was very intent on telling me about his son, who he reminded me repeatedly, "was about my age." "Wonderful! But now save my fucking ear!", I thought. His son, who was about my age, I mind you, had recently graduated from college and was back living in the area. He son also liked music. Which was a real mind blower, because hey, I like music, too! As does mostly every other human being on the planet. Well, all the ones with fully functioning ears.
After the most awkward doctor's visit of my life, one in which, during the standard doctor-patient dialogue of "are you sexually active?", Dr. Unicorn M.D. D.D.S deemed it necessary to add in, "I'm not trying to suggest anything here," I was all cured. I left his office with Dr. Unicorn telling me that he'd, "tell his son about me" AND giving me his son's e-mail address. But despite all that, I was like brand new and ready to show off my perfectly attached ears in front of Betsy. Life, however, had other plans for me.
Within a few weeks, I found myself sick. Very sick. The kind of sick one only gets from ... visiting a public health clinic? Perhaps. But I needed meds, and the only person I could turn to was, yes ... Dr. Unicorn, M.D. D.D.S.
Despite the promise I had made to myself never to see that man again, I returned to the clinic, hoping Dr. Unicorn would be off at some sort of convention for crazies and I'd be home free. Not so, I learned as I walked into the office and immediately locked eyes with him from across the waiting room. I waved, thinking that would be the appropriate thing to do. Dr. Unicorn, however, took the route of acting like a geeky 6th grader who checks behind himself to see if the cool girl really is waving at him from across the cafeteria. The man was standing in front of a wall. This is the man whose hands I was placing my well-being into. I clearly have a pretty high opinion of the value of my own life.
Dr. Unicorn was not my medical saving grace this time, however. To be honest, I'm not sure his first concern was my illness, either. Why do I think this? Well, perhaps it's because his first words to me were not the standard, "How are you feeling?" or even a "What seems to be the problem?", but a "You never e-mailed my son." Honestly, when is the last time you heard that on House? (I don't actually watch House, so if there is a story line involving House pushing dating his son onto one of his patients, I'm going to feel preeetty foolish.)
As Dr. Unicorn continued to go on about his son's current job situation and how we were, yes, still about the same age, I thought, "how far am I going to let this go?" I also thought, "I think I just coughed up my uterus," but I digress. Dr. Unicorn gave me a medical examination about as thorough as one you would expect from a sorority girl dressed up as a nurse on Halloween (with way less cleavage and way less eating disorders.) He did, however, casually drop in that he would "take a picture of me to show his son."
A picture. Of me. To show his son. And yet, did I run for the door? Did I punch him in the face? Did I report Dr. Unicorn to the authorities in his hometown of LalaLand? No, no, and no. I sat there and I took it. Like a chump. I took it all the way to his office, where he got out a Polaroid camera and actually did, in fact, take a picture of me. Two, to be precise. The first one was a straight headshot, whereas the second was a more artistic half side-profile. This guy was Annie Leibowitz, M.D.D.D.S. I wish I were kidding. So very much. But I'm not, and there's photographic evidence to prove it.
A few weeks later, I got a phone call from a certain individual who is about my age and likes music, apologizing for his father's forwardness. He did not, however, apologize for his father going into my sealed medical records and giving out my phone number, but what can one expect from someone with a horn sticking out of his forehead?
Moral of the story? Never let your fear of losing a body part, even if it was one that can be adorned with jewelry, compromise your morals. Also, I'm a big dumb idiot. Also, you ruined me, Betsy, you ruined me.
Side note: I warned you that it was long and torrid, didn't I?
It was the summer of 2007. And it was hot. That's really the only characterization I can give you about the time, because that's all I remember, but I understand that that's like saying, "She worked at Hooters. And she had breasts." Charles Dickens, I am not. Regardless, it was the summer and I had just returned from a wonderful five months abroad in Europe, racking up my cliche college-memories quota. All that was left for me was to do a little sexual "experimenting."
At this point, this story can go one of two ways. One, I can go proceed to tell you about the summer I was a lesbian, and hope someone from penthouse.com is reading. The other way involves no sort of sexual activity whatsoever. My apologies to Larry Flynt, but this story is the latter.
Anyway, I had come home and all was well, except for the fact that, oh, my left ear was in danger of falling off. I will spare you the grim details, but I had developed some sort of strange cut behind my left ear that was in desperate need of medical attention. And five months later, from the time I first realized it was in desperate need of medical attention, I was a few paint brushes short of becoming a modern day Van Gogh. Or Evander Holyfield. Well, minus the whole painting thing. Or being able to box. God, doesn't anyone become famous for just losing an ear anymore?
So, I decided the first thing I needed to do upon reaching US soil was to find a good doctor to take care of my little ailment.
And I had found one. Her name was Betsy and she had been with me through thick and thin, through strep throat, through the flu, and even through 'da Pox (chicken, not small.) That's right, I had found Betsy about 22 years ago, at about the same time when I had found my way out of the womb (and not just any womb, mind you. My own mother's!) And apparently, a 21 year old wishing to still see her pediatrician is a problem. Like some slutty ex-girlfriend who had "found herself" during the first few months of college and came to see me at Thanksgiving break only to dump me, Betsy wanted to terminate our relationship. "But what about the free lollipos?!?", I thought, but then again, who doesn't at the end of any great relationship? Despite my pleas, Betsy wasn't having it. No, take that back, her front desk ASSISTANT wasn't having it! She didn't even have the decency to tell me herself that she wanted to start seeing younger people.
Once I dealt with the painful sting of that rejection, I picked up my self-pride and what free lollipops I could fit in one small, stubby fingered handful, and set out to find someone new. Now, everyone always tell you that there are "other fish in the sea," but that is not the case when the sea is the private health care industry, and the fish is someone who has been denying the onset of adulthood for years and years. I couldn't find anyone within a 50 mile radius who wanted to look at my ear-ailment. Finally, help came in the form of a public health clinic who agreed to fit me in with their resident physician. OK, OK, I know what you're thinking ... I should have known, right? Well, listen, when you live in fear of the day a magician tries to pull a coin from behind your ear and gets just the whole ear, you'll understand why I did what I had to do.
I came for my appointment with ... well, let's call him Dr. Unicorn, because much like unicorns, this guy was UNREAL. He wore Coke bottle-glasses and I kid you not, his business card read, "Dr. Unicorn. M.D.D.D.S" That's right. He was both a physician AND a dentist. I've done the calculations and that meant he had been in school for ... sixty-three years. Give or take a few. But, allow me to get this out right off the bat: The man fixed my ear drama, and for that, I am eternally grateful, as are the many people who speak to me my left side every day of my life. For that, he earns no flack from this lady. But his "bedside manner" ... well, that is a different story.
From the moment he came into the room, he was very intent on telling me about his son, who he reminded me repeatedly, "was about my age." "Wonderful! But now save my fucking ear!", I thought. His son, who was about my age, I mind you, had recently graduated from college and was back living in the area. He son also liked music. Which was a real mind blower, because hey, I like music, too! As does mostly every other human being on the planet. Well, all the ones with fully functioning ears.
After the most awkward doctor's visit of my life, one in which, during the standard doctor-patient dialogue of "are you sexually active?", Dr. Unicorn M.D. D.D.S deemed it necessary to add in, "I'm not trying to suggest anything here," I was all cured. I left his office with Dr. Unicorn telling me that he'd, "tell his son about me" AND giving me his son's e-mail address. But despite all that, I was like brand new and ready to show off my perfectly attached ears in front of Betsy. Life, however, had other plans for me.
Within a few weeks, I found myself sick. Very sick. The kind of sick one only gets from ... visiting a public health clinic? Perhaps. But I needed meds, and the only person I could turn to was, yes ... Dr. Unicorn, M.D. D.D.S.
Despite the promise I had made to myself never to see that man again, I returned to the clinic, hoping Dr. Unicorn would be off at some sort of convention for crazies and I'd be home free. Not so, I learned as I walked into the office and immediately locked eyes with him from across the waiting room. I waved, thinking that would be the appropriate thing to do. Dr. Unicorn, however, took the route of acting like a geeky 6th grader who checks behind himself to see if the cool girl really is waving at him from across the cafeteria. The man was standing in front of a wall. This is the man whose hands I was placing my well-being into. I clearly have a pretty high opinion of the value of my own life.
Dr. Unicorn was not my medical saving grace this time, however. To be honest, I'm not sure his first concern was my illness, either. Why do I think this? Well, perhaps it's because his first words to me were not the standard, "How are you feeling?" or even a "What seems to be the problem?", but a "You never e-mailed my son." Honestly, when is the last time you heard that on House? (I don't actually watch House, so if there is a story line involving House pushing dating his son onto one of his patients, I'm going to feel preeetty foolish.)
As Dr. Unicorn continued to go on about his son's current job situation and how we were, yes, still about the same age, I thought, "how far am I going to let this go?" I also thought, "I think I just coughed up my uterus," but I digress. Dr. Unicorn gave me a medical examination about as thorough as one you would expect from a sorority girl dressed up as a nurse on Halloween (with way less cleavage and way less eating disorders.) He did, however, casually drop in that he would "take a picture of me to show his son."
A picture. Of me. To show his son. And yet, did I run for the door? Did I punch him in the face? Did I report Dr. Unicorn to the authorities in his hometown of LalaLand? No, no, and no. I sat there and I took it. Like a chump. I took it all the way to his office, where he got out a Polaroid camera and actually did, in fact, take a picture of me. Two, to be precise. The first one was a straight headshot, whereas the second was a more artistic half side-profile. This guy was Annie Leibowitz, M.D.D.D.S. I wish I were kidding. So very much. But I'm not, and there's photographic evidence to prove it.
A few weeks later, I got a phone call from a certain individual who is about my age and likes music, apologizing for his father's forwardness. He did not, however, apologize for his father going into my sealed medical records and giving out my phone number, but what can one expect from someone with a horn sticking out of his forehead?
Moral of the story? Never let your fear of losing a body part, even if it was one that can be adorned with jewelry, compromise your morals. Also, I'm a big dumb idiot. Also, you ruined me, Betsy, you ruined me.
Side note: I warned you that it was long and torrid, didn't I?
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Now With a Little Bit of Tats
Tattoos I Am Strongly Considering Getting
-"If you can read this, you're naked."
-"Buy milk"
-"Permanent. Do not scrub."
-"I finally got that tattoo I've be (turn over to other side of arm)-en wanting!"
-"Rosebud=sled."
-"If you can read this, you're naked."
-"Buy milk"
-"Permanent. Do not scrub."
-"I finally got that tattoo I've be (turn over to other side of arm)-en wanting!"
-"Rosebud=sled."
Thursday, July 17, 2008
I Heart the Service Industry!!!
Today at work, a celebrity who will remain unnamed came in and ordered an iced coffee from me. I prepared his beverage, then rang him up at the register while he stared at my breasts. He then tipped me fifty-six cents. That's right, fifty-six cents. That's a dime short of being a full house of change, my friends.
Now, normally if a customer were to ogle my chest and then tip me fifty-six cents, I would try to convince myself it was all he could possibly afford to pay for such a view, if only to save the precious little that is left of my self-esteem. Not something that can be done with Mr. Celebrity Pocket Change.
Anyway, point is ... I'm fifty-six cents closer to my boob job!!
Now, normally if a customer were to ogle my chest and then tip me fifty-six cents, I would try to convince myself it was all he could possibly afford to pay for such a view, if only to save the precious little that is left of my self-esteem. Not something that can be done with Mr. Celebrity Pocket Change.
Anyway, point is ... I'm fifty-six cents closer to my boob job!!
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Concerns of the Neurotic Baby
"These ceilings are just ... unreasonably high."
"Come here, feel this fontanel. I should really be wearing some sort of hardhat, don't you think?"
"I haven't slept a wink. I keep thinking, what if, one day, I wake up and I can't put my foot in my mouth?"
"It would just put me at ease to see some sort of identification. Sure, they claim to be 'Mom' and 'Dad', but the other day I could have sworn I heard someone referred to as 'Mr. Passive Aggressive.'"
"I mean, I could just wake up tomorrow and bam, I'm allergic to applesauce. Then what?"
"I look ridiculous. Unless we're having lobster, I'm not wearing this."
"Who's going to hire me with this pansy-ass handshake?"
"What if I have to chew my way out of something?"
"Be honest. Is that puppy cuter than I am?"
"Come here, feel this fontanel. I should really be wearing some sort of hardhat, don't you think?"
"I haven't slept a wink. I keep thinking, what if, one day, I wake up and I can't put my foot in my mouth?"
"It would just put me at ease to see some sort of identification. Sure, they claim to be 'Mom' and 'Dad', but the other day I could have sworn I heard someone referred to as 'Mr. Passive Aggressive.'"
"I mean, I could just wake up tomorrow and bam, I'm allergic to applesauce. Then what?"
"I look ridiculous. Unless we're having lobster, I'm not wearing this."
"Who's going to hire me with this pansy-ass handshake?"
"What if I have to chew my way out of something?"
"Be honest. Is that puppy cuter than I am?"
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Antonym for "iPhone"
Someone plugged a black and white TV into a telephone pole on the corner of 7th and Greenwich Ave. It was pretty awesome, until the homeless guy next to me didn't want to watch another episode of Law and Order because, "he's seen 'em all." First of all, I HIGHLY doubt it, and second of all, some people are never happy, are they? Also, some people eat their own hair, so take that for what it's worth.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Bee Cool
Today being Wednesday, the metaphorical cream to the Oreo cookie that is my week, I decided to venture outside (!!!) and eat lunch somewhere I had never been. Considering I try to restrict every meal I eat to the restaurant where I work so that it's free, I figured this wouldn't be too difficult. It wasn't, but what followed ... was.
So I walked as long as I could, fighting the pains of hunger, and ended up at this place that is about three minutes and twenty-five seconds from my apartment. I was immediately taken aback upon entering this establishment, which will remain nameless to protect the innocent (also, I don't remember it), because there was only one customer in the entire place. Always a good sign. Then, when I got close enough to the counter, said customer closed his newspaper and proceeded to go underneath the counter in front of me, because he, in fact, works there. Even better sign. After I adjusted to this role reversal and ceased treating him with respect, as to adhere to the rules of the service industry, I took a look at the menu. At least, what I think was the menu; to me, it more closely resembled a list of trees and plants I had to memorize for my 7th grade science class. Suddenly, I was unsure if I was there to eat or build a terrarium.
He invited me to ask him any questions I had about the menu, which luckily answered my original question. Now, here is where a common problem I run into took over. Any other normal person who isn't accustomed to eating things they can't pronounce ("sub-way." So easy.) would have just walked out. However, I have a strange need to "play it cool" in situations and thus, the urge to make it look like I knew exactly what I was doing and had meant to come there took over. The thing is, I don't usually make much of an attempt to be cool in front of people who know me; that is a lost cause. Yet, in front of total strangers, I usually aim to make myself look like I walked straight out of a Virginia Slims ad, which is like some uber-level of coolness, because 1) everyone knows smoking cigarettes is cool and 2) it makes me vintage-cool, because I'm pretty sure they stopped advertising Virginia Slims in the late 80s.
Anyway, I caved under the pressure and ordered the first thing I could pronounce. After the owner told me that the "delivery hours" weren't for sale, I went for some sort of salad. I'm sure you hear salad and a few various things come to my mind: for sure lettuce, tomato (hopefully salmonella-free), cucumbers, carrots; maybe you're the wild and exotic type and you hear "avocado, feta cheese, portabello mushrooms"; or maybe you're batshit crazy and you think of those McDonald's Salad Shakers. I don't know, but I'll tell you what you probably don't think of: sprouts, sprouts, sprouts, nothing but sprouts. Fine, I understand that sprouts are something that comes on salads and sandwiches often, but to be honest, if I didn't know better and I ordered a salad with sprouts on it, I would probably call the waiter back and say, "I'm sorry, but there is vegetable sperm on my salad."
Point is, this salad had nothing but sprouts. There were a few things on top of the sprouts, but there were so few that it looked like they were there by accident, like they had taken a wrong turn on the way to fertilizer they belong in and ended up on my sprout salad. As I ate my heaping bowl of sprouts, I began to wonder if my body was going to go in fat-storing mode, thinking that I must be trapped out on the side of a mountain or in the middle of the woods with no rescue squad in sight and no human companion's arm to gnaw on.
Let me interject to say that I am not trying to knock people who eat this type of thing on a daily basis or the kind staff at this establishment. It's just that I am not used to eating meals with less than 264% of my daily sodium intake. And trust me, for all my confusion at how this could serve as a suitable lunch, I ate my sprouts right up, like I was on death row and it was my last meal at Woodstock prison. And shocker, once I was done, my processed-food-loving American stomach wanted more. So I looked at the "menu" once again and decided to go for a smoothie. This one didn't have sprouts, and all the ingredients were fairly standard smoothie-fare, except for the ... bee pollen? Now, I know bee pollen is something people do eat and there are much stranger things people put in their bodies (opting out of the easy joke on that one), but I had never had it before, and all that kept running through my mind was how recently someone told me that bees are the most vital of insects because, quote, "if the bees all die, we all die." I don't know how much validity there is to that statement, but let's just say that the image of a T- rex telling his buddies to "lay off the bee sandwiches, bro" in vain until shit really hit the fan has crossed my mind.
My bee pollen-infused smoothie, nevertheless, was delicious. I was enjoying it whole-heartedly and was even about to ask where I could find a good pair of Birkenstocks in the neighborhood when I heard a buzzing sound near my right ear. I kid you not, it was a bee. You can imagine how awkward this was for me. He was just hovering there, like I owed him something. And sure, maybe I did, but I've never had a wild turkey give me the evil eye when I was enjoying a fresh-toasted (sprout free!!!) 12" delight.
Let's just say I'll be "staying fresh" from now on, if you know what I mean.
So I walked as long as I could, fighting the pains of hunger, and ended up at this place that is about three minutes and twenty-five seconds from my apartment. I was immediately taken aback upon entering this establishment, which will remain nameless to protect the innocent (also, I don't remember it), because there was only one customer in the entire place. Always a good sign. Then, when I got close enough to the counter, said customer closed his newspaper and proceeded to go underneath the counter in front of me, because he, in fact, works there. Even better sign. After I adjusted to this role reversal and ceased treating him with respect, as to adhere to the rules of the service industry, I took a look at the menu. At least, what I think was the menu; to me, it more closely resembled a list of trees and plants I had to memorize for my 7th grade science class. Suddenly, I was unsure if I was there to eat or build a terrarium.
He invited me to ask him any questions I had about the menu, which luckily answered my original question. Now, here is where a common problem I run into took over. Any other normal person who isn't accustomed to eating things they can't pronounce ("sub-way." So easy.) would have just walked out. However, I have a strange need to "play it cool" in situations and thus, the urge to make it look like I knew exactly what I was doing and had meant to come there took over. The thing is, I don't usually make much of an attempt to be cool in front of people who know me; that is a lost cause. Yet, in front of total strangers, I usually aim to make myself look like I walked straight out of a Virginia Slims ad, which is like some uber-level of coolness, because 1) everyone knows smoking cigarettes is cool and 2) it makes me vintage-cool, because I'm pretty sure they stopped advertising Virginia Slims in the late 80s.
Anyway, I caved under the pressure and ordered the first thing I could pronounce. After the owner told me that the "delivery hours" weren't for sale, I went for some sort of salad. I'm sure you hear salad and a few various things come to my mind: for sure lettuce, tomato (hopefully salmonella-free), cucumbers, carrots; maybe you're the wild and exotic type and you hear "avocado, feta cheese, portabello mushrooms"; or maybe you're batshit crazy and you think of those McDonald's Salad Shakers. I don't know, but I'll tell you what you probably don't think of: sprouts, sprouts, sprouts, nothing but sprouts. Fine, I understand that sprouts are something that comes on salads and sandwiches often, but to be honest, if I didn't know better and I ordered a salad with sprouts on it, I would probably call the waiter back and say, "I'm sorry, but there is vegetable sperm on my salad."
Point is, this salad had nothing but sprouts. There were a few things on top of the sprouts, but there were so few that it looked like they were there by accident, like they had taken a wrong turn on the way to fertilizer they belong in and ended up on my sprout salad. As I ate my heaping bowl of sprouts, I began to wonder if my body was going to go in fat-storing mode, thinking that I must be trapped out on the side of a mountain or in the middle of the woods with no rescue squad in sight and no human companion's arm to gnaw on.
Let me interject to say that I am not trying to knock people who eat this type of thing on a daily basis or the kind staff at this establishment. It's just that I am not used to eating meals with less than 264% of my daily sodium intake. And trust me, for all my confusion at how this could serve as a suitable lunch, I ate my sprouts right up, like I was on death row and it was my last meal at Woodstock prison. And shocker, once I was done, my processed-food-loving American stomach wanted more. So I looked at the "menu" once again and decided to go for a smoothie. This one didn't have sprouts, and all the ingredients were fairly standard smoothie-fare, except for the ... bee pollen? Now, I know bee pollen is something people do eat and there are much stranger things people put in their bodies (opting out of the easy joke on that one), but I had never had it before, and all that kept running through my mind was how recently someone told me that bees are the most vital of insects because, quote, "if the bees all die, we all die." I don't know how much validity there is to that statement, but let's just say that the image of a T- rex telling his buddies to "lay off the bee sandwiches, bro" in vain until shit really hit the fan has crossed my mind.
My bee pollen-infused smoothie, nevertheless, was delicious. I was enjoying it whole-heartedly and was even about to ask where I could find a good pair of Birkenstocks in the neighborhood when I heard a buzzing sound near my right ear. I kid you not, it was a bee. You can imagine how awkward this was for me. He was just hovering there, like I owed him something. And sure, maybe I did, but I've never had a wild turkey give me the evil eye when I was enjoying a fresh-toasted (sprout free!!!) 12" delight.
Let's just say I'll be "staying fresh" from now on, if you know what I mean.
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