That's My Bix!

A few weeks ago, while I was in Everwood demanding that Jake drive me around and find things that would delight and amuse me, he pointed us at a bakery that was apparently founded by Joseph Smith or something. I tried half of a piece and demanded the box be taken away before I eat an unfair share of the booty, but a week later, I was still thinking about that cake. Perfect frosting, cake made of clouds. Hell, it was even coated with coconut and I hate coconut almost as much as I hate clowns but I was willing to overlook it for this cake of the gods (or cake of the Nephites, as the case may be).  Luckily for my inner food demon, a week after my visit to Utah, Jake was flying out for a 22 hour stay in San Francisco for the sole purpose of going to the Stars concert (that’s us at the Fillmore, trying our best to look indie rock and roll and also, I swear my bosoms do not normally burst forth in such a manner. I will pretend it’s joyfully unexpected satire or something). I made a trip across the East Bay just to procure a Lego Advent calendar that would serve as a sweet enough bribe for him to bring me one little box of cake. Later that night, I was driving down Highway 101, one false MAC eyelash partially obstructing my vision, listening to “Smack My Bitch Up” on the radio and eating cake with my fingers did it occur to me that maybe I should put Mrs. Backer’s cake on the list with fresh hot Krispy Kremes and white chocolate covered pretzels– foods that I should really just avoid, because otherwise a criminal mastermind could plausibly use it to get me to do their bidding.

Food demon quelled.

But then, I had to go to Boston on Tuesday for an 18 hour trip. Four plane flights in 18 hours does not a happy Bix make. I was somewhat buoyed by the fact that I have never been to Boston and I have recently learned that I am a descendant of the Plmouth Rock-y types and some guy who founded a big school there.  This totally explains my long-held secret wish to be called “Muffy” and be swathed in argyle cashmere during months containing an R.

Unfortunately, since it was a business trip, I didn’t get to choose my airline, so was stuck riding United and flying through O’Hell. Longtime readers know about my long hate affair with O’Hell. In fact, I have actually changed airline allegiances based on how much I loathe O’Hell. And to make matters worse, since I was flying United, which I only fly when I have no other choice (ie. someone else is paying for it) I was in totally strange and bizarre parts of O’Hell. Like E and F terminal, for instance, which I’m pretty sure is where lost souls go to earn their way back to the light. But one thing I had not realized is that United had several perks that the American Airlines folks in G, C, H and K would certainly cry mutiny over if they knew what they were missing. For instance, a Jamba Juice! Oh Jamba Juice! What I would give for a convenient location to the very tasty and highly calorific, marginally nutritious buckets of dietary delusion!

I was thisclose to gleefully loading up on a Coldbuster with extra Immunity magic when I spotted something even better than Jamba Juice to blow my empty calorie wad just a few feet down the concourse.

A Garrett’s popcorn stand.

I’ve only had Garrett’s once before and had mercifully only been given a small portion of the pre-packaged Chicago Mix (cheese and caramel corn living together in delicious sin) but I knew that it was some kind of crazy addictive meth corn from the first bite.  But fresh cheese corn straight from the source? Dripping with orange artery-clogging delicious liquid cheese grease (Chrease TM)? It was as if they peered into my inner secret heart. I had found my soul mate. My cheese corn soul mate.

What I had also found was an unholy mess.  After about four dives into the bag, I realized, oh, look, orange fingers. Then I wiped with a napkin. It didn’t come off. Then I went to the bathroom and washed my hands. Less orange, but still orange.

Yes, I’m aware that the bag is editorializing in the photo on the right.

Yesterday, after a shower that involved double hair shampooing,  I accessorized my black tailored business suit and crisp white button down with an accent of orange finger tips. It’s going to be all the rage in Milan, just you wait!

Maybe if I’m lucky, I can add a Kool-Aid mustache for formal occasions.

By the way, today my fingernails are still orange and we’re reaching the 40 hour mark. I’m kind of freaking out about having my cheese corn weakness broadcast to the world days later (aside from its obvious addition to my ass).  I’d like to believe that I’m imagining the shadow, but I’m not. It’s there, labeling me as a cheese corn pariah. A carbohydrate addict’s Lady MacBeth!

On a side note, I woke up this morning with a monster cold.  You saw that coming, right? Of course you did.

(I just noticed that I’m wearing the same dress in both photos. As you can see, I did not lie in this post for BFD, I’m totally addicted to it right now and have in the span of the last four weeks, worn it in all four time zones. I did wear it with a cami and a scarf while traveling this week, though. I save my whorish ensembles for backstage at rock concerts. Also, yes, that’s the lining from the Igigi coat mentioned in the same BFD post.)