I know that just about everyone loves Elton John’s ‘Tiny Dancer’. The Ben Harper version is spectacular, in fact. But the song has always kind of creeped me out. ‘Now she’s in me’ always with me’ Tiny Dancer in my hand’. Is it just me? I kind of get an Ed Gein vibe out of that. But maybe it’s because I live in the Serial Killer state and somewhat overly suspicious.
Also, I suspect that linen sheets would offend my Princess and Pea mentalities. While undoubtedly absorbent, I just wonder wouldn’t they rather have some find pima cotton 600 thread count instead? Linen? Might as well sleep on burlap. Or very nubby Empire Strikes Back sheets with faded urine stains.
Kerouac had his road trips, I babysat for bed wetters. It’s amazing, the parallels.
A few nights ago, Esteban was working late and I was forced to feed only myself. It’s amazing (or not) how the quality of my food preparation is directly proportional to the number of people who will consume said food. For instance, when I prepare meals for Esteban and myself, I make some pretty good non-recipe stuff from my mental cook book, usually involving a better cut of meat, some kind of carbohydrate, a vegetable (summarily ignored by half the diners), and a good chance of some fresh bread product, be it either a spawn of the Pillsbury Dough Boy or something I cobbled together on my own. And usually, it’s pretty tasty. If we have a guest, I’ll usually up the number of vegetables, homemade bread becomes a must, and something in the chocolate family will make an appearance. If several people are coming over and I know about it in advance, I will generally plan something that involves a lot of work, like homemade ravioli, and usually go for some impressive side dish culled from a cooking show, and then go for a showstopper dessert that may or may not involve edible sugared flowers.
But to feed myself, I pretty much rely upon a sandwich, cereal, or, if I want to be extra special, a bowl of tomato soup. But really, let’s not kid ourselves’ most times, it’s just toast. Toast with peanut butter, toast with peanut butter and bananas (if they have not reduced to a black slurry), or toast with chopped cherry jam. And sometimes, just toast with toast. And then if I’ve been very good, more toast.
And honestly, I’m 32 years old. I should be eating better than that. I am mocked by 1970’s Saturday morning public service cartoons because I never not ever feel like a little sunshine on a stick. Toast. Just give me toast, thank you very much.
Also, apparently my star sign is in the frugal plane right now, as I found myself in front of the open refrigerator contemplating the boulder of Esteban’s leftover rice. And I decided’ hey, how hard can it be to make fried rice?
So I did. I had to actually scrape out sedimentary rice and break it up with my bare hands, so I was pretty skeptical that it was going to work. Also, I didn’t have (or feel like dealing with) any appropriate vegetables other than some rogue frozen peas and I didn’t add a vegetable. I did, however, have Kikkoman soy sauce (my friend Tim who owns and is head chef at a Japanese restaurant in town swears that it is the secret to his incredible fried rice) and fresh eggs. Esteban walked in after I had added peas (and therefore, in his opinion, turned the rice into a biohazard) and was whisking the eggs, so I got bonus points for being caught IN THE ACT of cooking for my very own self, as though I do it all the time and what is this ‘toast’ thing you speak of?
Then I tasted it.
I couldn’t believe what was in my mouth, so I carefully scooped up a non-pea portion and had Esteban try it.
‘Wow! That’s really good!’ He exclaimed.
‘I KNOW! I can’t believe it! It’s like’ the best fried rice ever in the history of fried ricedom! I wonder if I’m secretly an Iron Chef?’ I was perplexed.
‘See’ I know how to make good rice.’ Esteban smirked and wandered out of the kitchen.
Ok, Big Chief Automatic Rice Cooker. Whatever.
Seriously, it was the best fucking fried rice I’ve ever had in my life. I don’t know if it was the Kikkoman or the careful rehydration of the Brick O Rice, but holy hell I was way impressed with myself! And the plus side was that because I’m used to cooking for three people (Esteban has a farm boy appetite), by the grace of peas I still had a plethora of the delectable rice for leftovers. Leftover leftovers. Woot!
Esteban and I were watching my televised American Idol crack last night (seriously, if ever I have a doubt in my head that poor man loves me, I have only to think about how much stupid television he endures to hang out with me) when, during a commercial break, he snickered.
“I love it when the commercials offend you. You make the cutest little exasperated face!”
I had no idea. But he was right. The particular piece of offense this time was the Herbal Essence commercial, in which an apparently repressed woman derrives sexual pleasure not from touching her magic place, but rather from washing her hair with a certain shampoo. First of all, I’m pretty sure that’s a sexual dysfunction, but I don’t have my copy of the DSMIV lying around to check. And there are all sorts of obnoxious implications that a psychologist could probably expound upon entire reams of paper, finally blaming the entire mess on an emotionally distant father figure.
But then (but THEN!) her politically correct, same ethnic-grouped genetic male (which for purposes of the advertising world, is her husband and not her, say, fuck buddy) wanders in and says “Honey, where are my socks?”
She growls back “In your drawer… next to your loin cloth.”
Oh! You big sexy man beast! You grunting ape of a man who cannot fathom where the laundry fairy has laid your socks on that day. Could they be under a magical toadstool in the yard? Perhaps they are in the attic, with the Christmas decorations (because, of course, they are WASPs) in the wardrobe to Narnia. Yes, you smoldering pillar of phallus, the very fact that you must ask this obviously sexually UNDERWHELMED woman where she has last seen your tube socks, it makes her want to rip off your clothes! Ask her if the underwear in the drawer are clean and I’m betting that she’ll start humping your leg right then and there! She wants you! She wants you in all of your incompetent selfish male glory! Make sweet missonary position sex with her for at least two minutes like the porn star you are!
Fucking commercial.
PS. I do NOT make a cute face when I’m offended.
