Ok, more reasons why I’m a Freak.
I think I would quiver with excitement if I ever met Uncle Bob in person. He’s a superstah to me. More excited than I would be if I met the lady who played Aunt Bea on ‘The Andy Griffith Show’ or Tim Conway, of ‘Dorf Goes Fishing’ fame. I’d probably offer to be his voluptuous love slave, simply because a suave sense of humor goes a long way with me, but then he’s happily married and has an adorable little baby. But he did a rare double entry this week devoted to the poop in his child’s diaper. I’m certain that he’s somehow doing a shout-out to me. But then, the voices inside my head tend to disagree. They think it’s an elaborate plot to overthrow Nixon. But that’s what they think EVERYTHING is. I think Abby Hoffman died and settled in my brain. Anywhoo, UncleBob is one sexy mutha.
Yesterday, our managers at work took a gaggle of Gemini’s and Cancer’s out for a ‘birthday lunch’. To whom did all of the employees turn to pick the lunch locale? How did they all know that I am a foodie? Could it be from my luscious hips sculpted by years of mashed potatoes and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups? Could be. I picked a lovely bistro. Green Bay now has not one, but TWO bistros. Who says that we have less culture than a tub of Dannon yogurt? I have a dream that someday the bistros will outnumber the sports bars and the ‘Dew Drop Inn’ bars. Ok, I know, not very likely, but it’s my dream. Anywhoo, the reason I’m bringing this up in the ‘More Reasons I’m a freak’ entry is: I ordered a black angus Au Poivre burger. Why did I order that? Because I could pronounce ‘Poivre’ and I wanted to be able to say in a very snotty tone ‘I’ll have the Au Poivre burger with the corn fries, bien&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9-. Plus, there were onions in the quiche of the day and they could not be removed’. Not that I didn’t ask.
I’m high-maintenance. Like a fine Jaguar. Or possibly a corn combine’ the type that people get their arms stuck in.
I don’t like it when food touches on the plate. For instance, those baskets that they bring you at the aforementioned sports bars’. You know, a basket of fries with a burger on top and a pickle haphazardly thrown on the fries. The burger touching the fries doesn’t bother me so much’ the bun forms a protective dry layer between the wet burger and the fries, which must remain dry until the instant that I dip them in ketchup. The pickle on the fries horrifies me. Those vinegary briney fries must be pushed aside. Please do not remind me that I’ve voluntarily put vinegar on my fries in England. That is not the point. I also must eat half the fries without ketchup because only then will I have enough room to put a ketchup blob to dip my fries in. Fries must not prematurely dipped. It’s just not right.
I just want the world to go to those little divided tin trays, like in the army or at camp. That would make me very happy indeed.
Although soup eating would pose a problem.
