Sunday Girl

I had french toast and bacon for lunch today, and honestly, it was one of the best things in the world I could have done. Yes, yes, I know that no one cares what I had for lunch, but that french toast took me to a different plane of existence, it was so good, oh my God, and I’m only telling you this, because sometimes, it turns out, when you crave something — when you really, really crave something, oh my God — you should just have it. Please do as I say and not as I did, and do not try to fill the void with fat-free Jello pudding, because it totally won’t work, and will just piss you off.

I’ve mentioned this a thousand times, but I am such a sucker for a good description. Oh, the cinnamon is imported, you say? That must be special! The vanilla is from Madagascar? AWESOME. Wait wait – you’re telling me that this is DAIRY-FRESH cream? Sold. Totally sold. Give me the toast.

(Random aside: I actually do know the difference between vanillas, but most vanilla comes from Madagascar, so no, it’s not that special. Tahitian is used in perfumery, and Mexican vanilla is also a slightly different ballgame, but not as common due to a dangerous additive, and are you asleep yet? Because I can go on about vanilla for no good reason.)

Anyway, you can see how I ended up hunched over my desk, shoveling in french toast and bacon, and oh my God, I buttered every slice before I put syrup on it, and I could have WEPT, it was so good. Except for some reason, I’m really self-conscious eating things like that at the office, like I should be subsisting on lettuce and maybe some watercress, if I’m feeling really saucy, because buttering and syruping shouldn’t be done at lunchtime. That is MORNING food, appropriate only for Sundays if you’ve saved your Points (TM). (I totally did, in fact.) I realize this is a horribly anti-feminist notion, because a man would never feel this way, no, my God, he would just EAT the whole thing and not worry about it, but instead, I was all surreptitious about it, buttering and shoveling and and buttering and shoveling, then looking around like I was about to be busted with crystal meth instead of creamy, egg-dipped sourdough.

And Jesus, I totally went on far too long about what I had for lunch, and I’m really, really sorry, it’s just that the memory of it lingers, and I wish I was back there, lurking around my cubicle and buttering my toast, which sounds like a dirty euphemism for something, but in fact, it is not. I’m disappointed, because “butters my toast” sounds like something positive and maybe kind of hot.

In other news, I’m going to go ahead and admit this, in the event that it will cleanse me of my sin: I left a note on a car on Friday, informing the car owner that his choice of parking for his fancy car (smack-dab between two spots, totally on purpose) was, in fact, a “dick move,” only to discover that the owner of said car is actually a someone I know quite well, which, um, oops. Had I known, I wouldn’t have left the note, obviously, and upon discovery of this information, I ran out to my car because I “forgot something” and removed the note, thank Jesus, before it was spotted, but not before I ranted and raved to everyone I saw about the offense, which is how I made the discovery of the car’s owner.

Bad parking jobs do not, in fact, butter my toast, but they do grate my cheese, and though I am loathe to write passive aggressive notes under most circumstances, you must trust me that this was particularly egregious and all too common, and was pretty much the BAJILLIONTH car parked in such a manner, and I just wasn’t having it, I guess.

(I’ll stop, I promise, it’s just that it’s new to me, the buttering and the grating. And maybe the sauteeing.)

Finally, I have never won millions of dollars in the lottery. I have also never been handed wads of cash just for standing somewhere and looking pretty. Also! Also! I have never, not once, been offered a high-paying writing job (maybe a novel!) for no other reason than I have short hair. Why am I telling you this? Because it seems like every time I make some sweeping declaration about the Moon Cup, about a problem I’ve “never” had, I am mysteriously plagued with that problem, and I’d really like it to be something good instead, like maybe money, fortune and well-protected fame. For example, I’ve had leakage. Miserable, awful leakage these last few days, and I promise, I’ve done nothing different. I did, however, learn some valuable lessons, in addition to many e-mails thanks to last week’s post, that may help, and I’m debating: do you really want me to go into it here, or would you rather e-mail me? Hint: it involves, um, clotting, and no one really needs to see that unless they ask for it, oh my God.

(Although secretly, I am so not squeamish about this stuff, but some people are, and really, I can’t say that I blame them. Also, I tried The Keeper, and no no no no no no no NO. Don’t do it. DO NOT DO IT. Stick with the silicone, please. I don’t even want to tell you why.)

Happy Tuesday! Hooray!

*Erasure.

26 comments July 23rd, 2007