This words are majic (bom shaka laka bom ) say it next to your vagina and the jenie will come out to make your wishes come true
- an actual message on OKCupid
Even now, I can’t recall whether it was the soft accent on the word “majic”, the rhythmic onomatopoeia of the bom shaka laka bom or the tender advice to whisper to my vagina so that a mystical “jenie” would come out that made me fall for you, Rider911.
But I fell hard.
I studied your provocative beach picz with a hookah in hand for hours.
What I wouldn’t give to be a grain of sand on that beach!
Your glorious room, where the real majic would happen…
But then I tried your request, Rider, and nothing happened.
Just me alone in sweatpants whispering to my vagina.*
Waiting for an answer that would never come…
YOU MADE A FOOL OUT OF ME, RIDER!
I see now that the jenie was a metephor.
You’re the jenie; the jenie who broke my heart.
So why don’t you and your chic oversize black coat and XXL vespa helmet go toy with another woman’s emotions and leave me here.
I hope I never see your hauntingly sexy blurry face again.
Today I woke up from my Xanax-induced slumber with a chihuhau-mix puppy on each breast.
I’d like to tell you that the night before I had left my crack den apartment, white-girl twerked the night away & made an emotional connection with a human woman/man, but no. Instead I spent my night frantically Wikipedia-ing Gouda cheese, lisping along to Drake through Crest Whitestrips, and forcing my two 8-lb dog-children Taco & Nacho into a position so that I would be middle spon.
I recently moved to Bushwick aka “Tha Dirty B” aka “Rape St. USA” and am living with my friend Roman and a Canadian male model named Tina*
They sleep in a bunkbed in the next room, and our apartment is something like a bizarro world Threes Company, only with more hair products.*
I also now have a corporate j-o-b where I have started wearing Hillary Clinton pantsuits and I like it.
Now instead of waking up hungover next to a pizza box that looks like a raccoon has attacked it, my mornings consist of me:
removing dogs from each teet
taking a shower (I know)
packing a healthy lunch (I know, again)
power-walking to the L train in sensible flats to the husky overtures of an elderly meat factory worker grunting: “Looks goooood on ya, snowflake.”
(I assume he’s referring to the flats, but he could be a shoulder-pad guy.)
Check back soon for my next post “OKcupid? More like OKSTUPID!!! #LOL #SINGLE”
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*Names have been changed for privacy
*Thanks to Tim Garbinsky for this lucid and haunting comparison
This recent presidential election highlighted an intense divide in our nation.
It is now more clear than ever that some people are Democrats, some people are Republicans, some people are vampires and some people are humans who love them.
But the one thing we can agree on across the political and mythical spectrum is that everyone enjoys a good bowl of soup.*
This is why 3-7 nights out of the week you can find me at the Hale & Hearty Soup on 23rd and Madison, taking up an obscene amount of window-seats with a hoarder’s cocktail of bags, coats and empty soup containers, dunking my chicken salad sandwich into a jumbo container of Tomato Cheddar soup with a fervor that can only be described as “NSFW.”
My neighborhood Hale & Hearty Soup is like Cheers! where everybody knows your name, only here absolutely no one knows who you are or gives a sh*t about you, and there is a surly Hispanic teen named Marco whose sole purpose, it seems, is to remind you of this.
The scenes of sexual tension between me and the aforementioned Marco usually go something like this:
Me: Hey there! How’s it going?
Marco: (surly and wearing a hairnet in silence, staring ahead)
Me: So what’s good today?
Marco: (dead eyes, more silence, more staring, thrusts hand at board)
Me: Alright! I think I’ll try a sample of the loaded baked potato! Sounds cheesy!
Marco: (removes lid from vat of soup and slams it down, throws ladle into liquid, slops soup into a tiny plastic cup and skids it across the counter at me)
Me: (catching cup) Woo! Looks good today. (sips) I’ll take a large one of this please! This’ll get the juices flowing for my writing today!
Marco: (rolls eyes and speaks flatly) 7-grain or sourdough
Me: Sorry, what?
Marco: (annoyed) I said, 7-grain or sourdough
Me: Oh, both please!
Marco: (looks me up and down and tosses both breads on counter with disgust)
Me: Thanks bro! (goes for fist bump)
Marco: (systematically denies fist bump and shifts entire body away from me)
Despite this particular love-hate relationship, there is a striking sense of camaraderie among soup-lovers. It seems that hot, savory, liquid truly transcends race, gender, age and sexual preference.
As if to prove this, at the present moment this Hale & Hearty crew* consists of: a serial-killer-esque man in a a trench coat silently watching his Asian girlfriend eat soup in the studious and determined way of someone plotting how to murder their next victim, a 20-something blonde woman in post-workout gear pawing at her lentil soup, and a small Indian child in a stroller screaming for his mother.
As I sit, staring at them from my window perch, with traces of Tomato Cheddar around my mouth, looking out the window at trash bags piled outside on the sidewalk, the dog with three legs, and the woman who looks like she bathed with a can of tuna, I am overwhelmed with a sense of hope and unity for our country.
It reminds me of Obama’s famous speech at the Democratic National Convention in 2004 where he said, “There’s not a liberal America and a conservative America; there are people who like soup and then there are people who are idiots.”
So I sit back, comforted by the fact that I am that small Indian child, I am that creepy white dude, I am that … Ok I am not that girl in workout gear.
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*For vampires, that’s blood soup.
*As I call them. I got us jackets but no one wears them.
I’ve spent the past three hours rolling around in bed in a mixture of sweat and Indian food. I can’t tell if it’s hot in my apartment or if the heat is coming from the kinetic energy of me eating three plates of paratha.
I started tonight thinking, “You know what? I’m treating myself. I deserve it!” (and all that Eat, Pray, Love bullsh*t) Cut to three hours later, I’m spread-eagle on my bed, angrily sipping a mango lassi out of a straw.
I’ve decided to stop eating meat for a while. This turn of events came when I touched the ribbed, hard vein on the underside of a raw chicken the other night and nearly threw up.
My new “vegetarian” diet has increased my bread and cheese intake tenfold. I now order Tomato Cheddar soup from Hale and Hearty two times a day. I am slowly going broke, gaining weight and losing self respect. (In other words, my usual prep for bikini season.)
You know what F**K THAT S**T! F**k killing yourself to look good for three months out of the year. Just give up like me. It’s easy. Turn the lights off during sex. Problem solved.
I’m beginning to get a belly and I kind of like it. Now I just unbutton my top button at work and let it hang. That made for an awkward moment with my co-worker the other day but it sure felt good.
My pouch is comforting like a little friend, or a pet. I want to name it something cool like “Zanzabar” or “Melissa” or something.
But today I decided to “go out and get some sun!”*
On my way to the park, I picked up some pan-seared salmon from Cafetasia off of Broadway. It had a B rating but I like to live on the edge.
"Pan-seared" turned out to be a generous term, as what was handed to me was a plastic container of gray fish soup.
"F**k it, not turning back now,” I thought, walking past a teen couple dry-humping on a mound of grass in Washington Square Park.*
I quickly scanned my surroundings for a vacant bench with enough space on either side so that I wouldn’t have to make human contact. Next I uncovered my salmon soup. It smelled like my five year-old sister’s wet swimsuit, but as it was my only available sustenance, I dove in.
Apart from the sloshing mixture beneath it, it really wasn’t that bad. I started snacking on the accompanying container of white rice, alternating bites and was having a pretty good time with it.
Soon a homeless gentleman man pulled up next to me and spread some cardboard down for a nap. Things were looking up.
Then it happened: I turned, grabbing my purse and the plastic container holding my salmon soup crashed to the ground, splashing oily fish water all over my pants.
"Raaaaah!" I yelled, to the surrounding people’s blank stares.
F**k the park.
JUST EAT THE FOOD
Have you ever spilled s**t on your pants? Done something embarassing in a public setting? Email me at: firstname.lastname@example.org. Let’s talk about it.
* As my mother often suggests to me with anxious eyes in a tone usually reserved for mental patients on the verge of breakdown.
* May or may not have lingered a little too long looking at them. I’m a creep. It’s my cross to bear.
So, I ordered massage oil candles online last week.*
(I may or may not have been laying face down on my bed eating macaroni and cheese out of a cup at the time of this purchase.)
What is unusual about this situation, is that I made the mistake of joining the store’s mailing list.*
Now those of you that know me know that I am a working professional*
You know what doesn’t look professional??
Having emails with subjects like “STRAP-ON SALE! LIMITED TIME ONLY!” at the top of your inbox when your supervisor walks by your desk…
What am I? Some thrifty, sexual creep who can’t resist a bargain?*
But honestly, if there’s anything more humbling than buying sensual massage items alone at 1am with macaroni and cheese on your face, it’s hoarding coupons with names like “Treat URself 2 Pleasure” and “Bondage Kit 25% OFF” in order to buy said items.
You may have noticed that I haven’t posted for a while.
Perhaps you assumed that I had finally contracted Type II Diabetes and had died face down in a child’s birthday cake somewhere.
But guess what?
I’m back, baby
And I just put some delicious nachos in the microwave…
Let’s do this
So, the reason for my departure isn’t that I’ve been busy, or overwhelmed with success, or lost my sh*t like that KONY 2012 guy who ran around screaming and masturbating on the streets of San Diego.*
I’ve just been lazy
Eating for me has recently become less of a source of humor, than a crippling and systematic assault on my metabolism and well-being.
Right now I’m hunched over my computer in a dirty bathrobe simultaneously ordering delivery from two different Chinese food restaurants.*
I haven’t gone grocery shopping for four months, and have recently taken to ordering double lunches and double dinners so that my refrigerator now resembles the bomb shelter of a neurotic, indecisive, salt addict.
In order to feed the monster, I’ve perfected a way to cheat the delivery.com system so that I get 25% off each time.
Surprisingly, people aren’t as impressed with this as I thought they would be…
THE SCENE: House party, two twenty-something girls standing at the table next to the chips and dip
Me: Mmm… Love these Naked chips, right?
Cute Girl in Jumper: Oh my god! Obsessed! They’re the best.
Me: (quietly) So I like to eat alone in my bed off of my stomach sometimes…
Cute Girl in Jumper: Sorry, what?
Me: (hyperventilating) Like just after work! Ha! It’s not weird! Ha! Like I’m not spending all day alone in my apartment!!! I love daylight!! Anyway, Delivery.com. You know them right?? So, they have all these points, I’ve redeemed a lot of them and gotten mugs and stuff! But the other day I found this great way to save money on…. Wait, where are you going?
So maybe I’m not eating it right, but in all of my yogurt-consuming experiences I have never:
had an orgasm
forgotten my own name
had an out-of-body experience*
Commercials make yogurt seem like a party drug for women:
The scene: two women are sitting on a couch in their apartment
Cheryl: Becky have you tried this new Xtra Fantasy Cream yogurt from Yoplait?
Becky: No girl! Tell me about it!
Cheryl: Well, this kind is xtra luxurious and xtra decadent. It’s like you’re eating a cheesecake at a fancy restaurant, but then you wake up and you’re really just sitting in your cubicle eating low-cal yogurt out of a plastic container!
Becky: Ooh that’s just what I need girl!
They both laugh and stare at each other. The camera pans out while they spoon yogurt into each others mouths and the voice over goes, “Xtra Fantasy Cream yogurt from Yoplait, for bi-curious women everywhere.”
When I eat yogurt, the process goes something like this:
Step 1: I’m at the grocery store and decide to round out my purchases with some “health food” so I pick up a container of YoCrunch, the kind with the chocolate candies in packet on the top. (Baby steps)
Step 2: The next day at work I proudly brandish it on my desk saying, “Yep. Eating healthy today, guys. Watchin’ my figure, you know,” to no one in particular.
Step 3: At lunchtime I lunge at the container with my nails attempting to pierce the foil cover but it does not move.
Step 4: I claw at it for five minutes to no avail, rage slowly building inside of me.
Step 5: Panic mode sets in and I lose it, stabbing the foil with a fork.
Step 6: A final stab sends a mix of chocolate candies and yogurt flying all over my desk.
Step 7: I drink down the yogurt greedily and am done in two seconds feeling unsatisfied.
Step 8: My co-worker walks by and stares at the pools of yogurt on my desk, “Oh it’s… I just.. It’s not what you think…” I say before they turn away.
Step 9: I am alone, feeling like a pervert and I’m still hungry.
But there are a few things I don’t understand about commercials geared towards women.
You know the ones, I’m talking about:
The scene: A white mom wearing a matching sweater set and sensible slacks sits at the kitchen table drinking tea when a stampede of teenagers roll in carrying hockey sticks, soccer balls and a crow-bar screaming and lunging on the carpet.
“Kids! Can you just…” she calls after them.
"Oh well,” she chuckles, shaking her head cheerfully while reaching down to procure a swiffer.
In an instant she cleans up the mess they’ve made, wipes her brow and high-fives a cartoon character while the kids run behind her in the background and f**k up the carpet again.
In reality, that situation would go like this:
The scene: A tired, frazzled, bloated middle-aged woman with no bra and sweatpants is lying on the couch watching QVC and eating Little Debbies, when a team of filthy teenagers run in front of her on the carpet,
“Oh HELL no!” she yells, launching up off the sofa, Little Debbie wrappers flying everywhere, “Tommy! Get your ass back here! I WILL F**KING END YOU!”
The camera pans out with her chasing after them with the swiffer screaming, “Not on my watch motherf**ker!”
That’s real life for you.
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*I did a quick-check in the shower the other day, and I’m pretty sure.
Editor’s Note: Since I posted this, multiple people have informed me that it is “platanos” not “plantanos.” I’m leaving this in as a prime example of my whiteness. Maybe this was why the waitress smiled at me when I asked for more…
My boyfriend, James, lives in Harlem and every night he eats at a little chicken and rice restaurant down the street from his apartment.
It’s $5 for a whole plate of food, and he speaks about it with the reverence that devout Catholics have for Jesus or the excitement that Kristen Bell feels when a “sloth is near”*
I went there with him the other day, and it went something like this:
(We walk in, greeted by a smiling Dominican woman behind the counter)
Woman: (to James) Hola papi! Lookin’ good! How are you?
James: I’m great, darlin! Got that ill mondongo today?
(they both break out in a chorus of laughter)
Woman: (laughing) Oh you!
Me: (hovering in the background in my puffy coat, laughing loudly, clearly confused) HA! HA! Right??
Both: (stop laughing and look at me as if I had just farted)
James: (pause) So anyway… Can I get the lunch special?
At this point, I feel like I should mention something to you.
Alright, borderline translucent…
And I don’t just mean skin color. I’m talking country-club going, khaki-wearing, socks with sandals white.
If I was a genre of music I would be smooth jazz.
I used to try to pretend I wasn’t as white. I went tanning, dyed my hair dark brown, and wore hoop earrings. But it just felt weird, like that time Christina Aguilera was brunette and did a music video with Lil’ Kim*
I wish my life was like one of those Old Navy commercials with the black dad and Asian mom and Native American children all dancing in the sunlight, throwing snowballs and wearing knit hats.
But alas, I am sorely, painfully, Caucasian.
James is white too. But I don’t think anyone has ever told him this, and sometimes I literally have no idea what he is saying.
The other day we were walking down the street and he pulled me aside whispering, “Yo, everyone be sleepin’ on Harlem son.”
“Yeah, son…” I whispered back, “They mad tired!”
Judging by the sad look on his face, I feel like this wasn’t the correct response.
Back to restaurant: at that point I wanted to yell, “Hey! I can dig it! Chicken is the ill na na!” but I restrained myself and instead climbed onto one of high stools on the counter with my hands in my lap, like a five year-old waiting for din din.
James quickly ordered two lunch specials. As the waitresses were dancing to the radio, flirting with the regular customers and dipping ladles into different spicy sauces, I sat there tapping my foot to the beat in my J. Crew turtleneck.
Then it came: a heaping plate of morro rice, kidney beans, plantanos and roasted chicken breast with crispy skin glistening.
It was over. I dove in, forsaking all cutlery, face in the plate, eating bite after bite of delicious chicken with rice, kidney beans, and plantanos.
I alternated between James’s plate and my own, stealing his chicken skin, to which he promptly responded, “What the f**k son??”
"Sorry daughter!", I joked. He didn’t laugh, but I know he liked it.
Then with crazy eyes and chicken grease on my face, I grunted to the woman with maroon hair behind the counter, “More plantanos please!” She gave me a nod and spooned six extra fried plantains on my plate and smiled. We finally understood each other.
"Food is colorblind", I thought, downing a 22 of Budweiser.
Then a second thought came to mind, “This beer tastes like sh*t.”
You’re excited to eat a real meal because let’s face it, you can only order delivery from Zen Palate so many times before the delivery man just laughs in your face when you open the door.
"HAHA! Oh miss! You again!”, he smiles.
"Yes, ‘me again,’" you growl, hastily pulling the bag of Chinese food back into your lair.
The exchange is quick and filled with guilt, like a crackhead getting his next fix.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You got those good dumplings tonight?”, you whisper, scratching your neck furiously. “Give ‘em to me! Here’s $5! Now scram!”
This is troubling.
But back to the scenario:
You sit down to a lovely white tablecloth setting with your friend Tammy/Holly/Krystal and look at the menu. “Pork belly! Duck confit! Perfect!” you think. You like this place. You commend yourself for having chosen such an excellent restaurant and feel proud of yourself for 3.2 seconds before the waiter comes over and asks,
"Would you ladies like bottled water or tap?’”
Now this bothers you for a few reasons:
A.) You know he can just look at your stained shirt, crumpled jeans and H&M shoes and deduce the answer to that question himself.
B.) When you do finally mutter, “Tap works,” the waiter looks at you as if you’d just said: “Oh boy! You be fancy folk! I kin just go an’ suck on the faucet behin the barn, like I do at Pa’s house!”*
He quickly brings you your “poor people” water, and begins to take your order.
It is at this moment that Tammy/Holly/Krystal f**king does the unthinkable,
"And what would you like, Miss?"
“Oh! Me?”, she says, as if surprised he would even ask. “I’ll just have a side salad! I’m not that hungry.” and then turns to look at you.
"WHAT??!!! Who the f**k are you?", you’re screaming in your head, a frozen smile cast over your face.
Now when you order a “real person” meal*, you look like an obese monster. Like, “Hide your kids! I might eat them too!”
You know she’s just going to stare at you while you eat three full courses. And you’re a gross eater. No one wants to see that.
The waiter turns to you and asks you the same question, to which you mumble sheepishly, “Stkerrrtwo.”
"Sorry what was that ma’am?", he repeats.
"Stakrtoooo," you mutter, a little louder this time.
"Ma’am I can’t understand…"
"STEAK FOR TWO! I’M HAVING THE MOTHERF**KING STEAK FOR TWO!", you shout at the top of your lungs, a wild look in your eyes, your hair sticking out in every direction.
The waiter runs off and you turn back to your friend who is now looking at you like you’re some kind of zoo animal.
"What?" you say, "I’m hungry."
JUST EAT THE FOOD
* Honestly who actually orders bottled water at dinner? I just imagine some old British lady in a fur pantsuit like, “Daaahling! I only drink Evian made from ice-cubes hand-melted by orphans in Latvia. But do make sure they’re real orphans! I want to taste their tears!”
*Like two whole chickens, extra fixin’s, drizzled with butter
Editor’s Note: If you’re related to me or hold me in high esteem please do not continue on, as there are things I will share here with you that will make you clutch your turtlenecks and cardigans in horror.
Now that two of you are out of the way, let’s go!
It was a warm summer afternoon and I was passed out in a bra and underwear on top of my comforter with makeup smudged on my face from the past night, and empty applesauce containers scattered on the floor.
It was like any other Tuesday.
But this time was a little different. This time I sensed that I was not alone…
Now, we’ve all been there: the dreaded “Morning After.”
Maybe you had a few too many Malibu Woo-Woos at the bar last night and you don’t remember how you got home
Maybe you met up with some girlfriends from college and got “cRaZyyyy” like Spring Break ‘08
or maybe, just maybe, you were drinking alone in your apartment after a particularly intense Toddlers and Tiaras marathon
Who can really say?
It was at that very moment that I began to sense a presence in the bed next to me, like someone was watching my every move.
“F**k!” I whispered, grabbing my phone quickly to see who I was last talking to. The last text I sent was, “Hayyy, wat r u doin. I’m drunzzzzks.”
It was to my grandma.
I don’t even think she gets text messages.
"Whew, dodged that bullet", I thought with shmide*
Still sensing someone next to me, I immediately went over possible escape plans in my head:
“I can pretend to be dead”
“I can say that I have an appointment to run to!”
No, I don’t look like the type of person who has appointments.
"I can just leave!”
No, it’s my apartment.
After twenty minutes of debating to how to exit, I decided to face my fears.
I attempted a seductive yawn like I imagine a sleepy Playboy Bunny would do and rolled over, instead I sounded like I was having a small stroke.
My eyes closed, fearing the worst, I reached out next to me and touched something firm and cardboard-like. Then I opened my eyes and saw it: an extra-large Papa John’s pizza box ripped down the middle like an animal had gotten into it. Pieces of crust were scattered all over the bed and remnants of marina sauce were on my face and body.
“Wow”, I thought and then said the only thing I could think to ask,
“Well was it good for you?”
JUST EAT THE FOOD
* Check out my “How To Eat A Bag of Tostitos Hint Of Lime Doritos In One Sitting” post for more on this word.
My best friend Jessica was staring at me with a look of disgust usually reserved for roadkill and vomit as I panted excitedly, balling up a grilled cheese sandwich in my hands and shoving it in my face, “Romggg. You gotta try this!”
“You’re such a gross eater,” she snorted, as I stared at her blankly, half of a grilled cheese sandwich hanging out of my mouth.
“Warrever…” I slurred, continuing to eat my sandwich.
It was grilled cheese day and no one was going to ruin it for me. No one.
I am a gross eater. It is my cross to bear.
I eat with my hands, nose and sometimes forehead, tossing morsel upon morsel of delicious food down my gullet. This is an especially great tactic on dates if you want someone to like “you for you.”:
GUY: “Um. You have food in your hair.”
ME: “Ohhhh, haha. Weirddd…”, I would say with feigned embarrassment, frantically eying the table for scraps.
I eat sourdough bread by scooping out the doughy middle, rolling it into a ball and slowly chewing on the yeasty goodness* leaving the carcass of hollowed out crust on whatever surface is closest to me, before raiding the fridge for cheese.
It’s an addiction.
While some little girls want dresses or Barbies, I wanted Burger King.
There’s a home video of me when I was three years-old, wearing tiger print velour overalls standing on top of a wooden fence near our house with my dad shouting,
“Come on Peachie! Who wants Burger King??”, goading me in the same tone of voice one would use when asking a dog if they want a treat.
At the mention of “Burger King” my eyes widened to twice their normal size and I started yelling wild jibberish and scooting my butt at record speed along the wooden railing to meet him until my mom came out yelling,
“Paul! What are you making her do?! Peach! Get down from there!”
But I just keep motoring on towards glory and that glorious BK paper crown.*
So gross eaters of the world, embrace it. Who cares if you always seem to get milkshake in your beard? Or your hands always smell like garlic? Or the sight of you eating lunch makes people physically sick?
You’re enjoying one of the best parts of life! Delicious, terribly unhealthy food.
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*Realizing that “yeasty” and “goodness” should never be used next to each other in a sentence. Keeping it in.
*Just spoke to my dad on the phone this morning and confirmed this story saying, “That explains a lot” and breaking in a fit of laughter. Five minutes later, he stopped laughing and ended the conversation with, “Alright kiddo! Well hope you’re going to the gym!” Thanks, Dad.
“A good companion to ‘My Drunk Kitchen’.” – Seana Wilkerson
“Stop asking me to follow your f**king blog.” - Everyone Else
“Peach, how do I open the link?”– My Mom
I smell success!
Or I might just be smelling my own body as I haven’t showered since I started this blog and I’m running on pure adrenaline!*
But seriously, thank you for the support and the nice comments. I really do appreciate it. Otherwise all this snarkiness would just bottle up inside me and I’d end up a bitter, weathered alcoholic in a robe eating two-day old lo-mein out of the carton. (too late!)
But for real, I love you. I am IN love with you.
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*This may or may not be true. I actually can’t remember the last time I showered. Get over it.
I live in New York City and see weird sh*t everyday.
An old Russian woman with no teeth tongue kissing her dog
A black man with rainbow dreadlocks wearing a pink tutu, drinking from a can of tuna
It takes a lot to shock me. But on my way to work, this ad did just that:
It’s Tropicana’s new NYC ad campaign. In case you couldn’t see, the arrow is pointing to a bottle of orange juice.
So here’s the thing, Tropicana. I have never seen two ex-boyfriends on the subway train at the same time. EVER. I ride the subway at least four times a day. And I’ve dated at least 7 million people in this city.
(I know. The numbers don’t add up. It’s weird.)
But seriously, what are they trying to say with this ad? “Hey ladies! Thirsty? Drink this OJ and forget about those mistakes you made your sophomore year of college!”
I just imagine some guy named Jeb at Tropicana Corporate like, “Now if there’s one thing I know about promiscuous women, it’s that they LOVE juice. Right? Right?” And everyone around the conference table nodding in agreement, “Sluts sure do love citrus, Sir!”
If you ever DID see two of your ex-boyfriends on the same train, in what scenario would a carton of orange juice make it better?
I can picture it now:
Jenny enters the train.
Things are going well until she notices Bill, and Dan! Oh no! Not one, but two of her ex-boyfriends!
Jenny reaches in her purse, struggling to find her savior: that smushed up carton of orange juice she bought at the bodega yesterday. She attacks the little papery envelope with her nails but can’t tear it apart. People on the train start to stare. “Got it!” she yells triumphantly holding the carton above her head like a golden chalice.
At that moment Bill notices her and comes over, “Hey Jenny! How have you been?” he says.
Terror washes over here face. “Nuh uh!” she blurts, guzzling from the carton, eyes closed tight, shaking her head from side to side. Little beads of perspiration forming on her brow.
“Ummm… Ok?”, Bill mutters and backs away, instantly reminded of why they broke up in the first place.*
Just then ex-boyfriend #2 Dan saunters over. “Yo Jen!” he says. “Crazy to bump into you! What’s going on?” But Jenny just closes her eyes even tighter and starts humming to herself “Narrrrr, narrrr”, sucking down that tiny carton of orange juice like her life depends on it.
“Jen WTF is wrong with you? Is there even any juice left? The carton is empty!” he blurts.
“Narrrr narr” she mumbles frantically, tipping back what is now an empty carton.
“23rd street!” the conductor calls out and Jenny walks off of the train.
“Thanks Tropicana!” she beams giving the thumbs up to a non-existent camera behind the garbage can.
If I saw two of my ex-boyfriends on the train I would introduce them to each other and then sit in awkward silence, waiting to see who cracks first.
I have no problem with uncomfortable situations. In fact, I thrive on them as vampires thrive on blood.*
So come at me, ex-boyfriends of the world. I’ll bring my OJ. It’s gonna go down.
How to Eat a Bag of Tostitos® “Hint of Lime” Chips in One Sitting:
Wake up sweaty and disoriented, ten minutes before you have to leave for work wearing a Soroptimist Women’s Organization shirt your grandma gave you and those stained dELiA*s sweatpants you bought in the 7th grade (when JLo’s velour sweat-suit was a “thing”)
Grab a pair of jeans crumpled up in the corner of your apartment.
Do the sniff test. If they pass, throw them on. If not, Febreze® them and then throw them on. Same goes for socks. It’s quick, easy and saves tons of money on laundry! Also prevents you from having meaningful romantic relationships.
Grab a bag of Tostitos® “Hint of Lime” chips located in the “nacho supplies” section of your kitchen. If you do not have a “nacho supplies” section in your kitchen, stop reading this immediately and kill yourself*
Throw on that magenta puffy coat your mom got you on sale from L.L. Bean. Yes, you look like an overgrown toddler with a disability but it’s f**king cold and your self-respect is a gone anyway.
Jog down your hallway cradling the bag of chips in your arms as if it were a small child. Drop the bag: lose 12 points. Nobody likes crumbled up chips*
Jump on the subway. Push past the finance bros in Grand Central with their ill-fitting Dockers and “Super Cuts” haircuts. Start to laugh at them. Realize you are wearing a puffy L.L. Bean coat your mom bought you. Stop laughing.
Breeze into the office, mingle, check email, stare at that puppy desk-calendar you bought at Staples last week. Note that your desk resembles less of a “professional work-space” than the bomb-shelter of a confused tween girl.
Engage in an awkward run-in at the coffee machine with that guy whose name you can’t remember (Elijah? Enrique? Jamiroquai?).
Your conversation will go something like this:
You: “So what do you do?”
Jamiroquai: “I’m a headhunter.”
You: “Ooh headhunting!! Scary!”
Jamiroquai: “Umm… It means we recruit talent for companies.”
You: (blank expression) “Ah hah! Well… This coffee is really coffee today! Bye!
(Run into glass door, realize it’s a “pull.” Laugh uncomfortably, then swing it open and bolt down the hallway. Do not look back).
Lunchtime! Your co-worker is eating Tomato Cheddar soup from Hale & Hearty again (your favorite). It smells delicious, but unfortunately you spent all of your money at (insert name)’s birthday/holiday party/bar mitzvah last week, so instead you are going to eat this bag of lime-flavored tortilla chips.
Rip open the plastic bag with your teeth and put your dignity aside, (probably next to the puppy desk-calendar.)
Eat the entire bag of chips.
At some point you won’t feel hungry anymore. Power through this. It is an illusion. You are always hungry. This is who you are.
Soon your co-worker will ask if you’ve “done that spreadsheet yet.” Just act like you can’t hear them and point to the bag of chips mouthing the word “lunch.”
The bag is done. You’re filled with a mixture of shame and pride. You decide to call this “shmide.”
Write down “do yoga! :)” on a sticky-note.
Never do yoga.
That’s all folks!
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*OK, don’t actually kill yourself. It’s not good press for the blog. But do take a moment to look at your life and your choices and then do the opposite of everything you’ve been doing. Now proceed to Step 5.
* Unless you mix them with sour cream (but I digress.)
Have you ever loved someone so much you would do anything just to spend one moment together? You would give them everything you have, because you know that you will never find another person who satisfies your needs in the way he does? And every morning you wake up and thank God you found him?
Well, that’s how I feel about sour cream.
“What?” I hear you saying, “That’s not a person. That’s a topping.”
You raise an interesting point.
Sour cream and I, while not a conventional couple, have a very intense relationship. Sometimes if I can’t find something to dip in it, I’ll just eat it right out of the container. A week ago my roommate walked in to find me crouching behind the refrigerator door, wide-eyed, frantically spooning sour cream into my mouth. I’ve never seen that kind of disappointment in someone’s eyes before.
That was a wake up call.
That afternoon I decided that I needed an excuse to rationalize my disgusting behavior, and what better way than to start a blog!
That very day I began a year-long journey of indulgence, where I will eat whatever the f**k I want and document my progress, as well as my inevitable weight gain and crippling depression.
It’s kind of like Eat, Pray, Love. Only minus the pray and the love part.
It’s kind of like Super Size Me, only there’s no political message behind it. Just me, straight up, eating my brains out, until I become the size of a giant bean bag.
It’s like Mardi Gras! If your idea of Mardi Gras is eating alone in your apartment while watching Top Chef and crying.
So here we go!
I woke up around at 3:30 PM today.
I say “woke up”, but I didn’t actually leave bed until 4:30 when I rolled my fat ass out of bed, ripped open a packet of ramen noodles with my teeth and followed it with lemonade out of the carton.
It is now 5 PM and I am comfortably back in bed. At this point I’m considering getting a catheter so I don’t have to get up ever again.
“What are you doing?” you ask,
This is my Valhalla, my heaven, my paradise.
So throw on your robe and grab a family-size bucket of Ben and Jerry’s.
My name is Caroline and I have an intense relationship with good food.
Whether I’m eating at home, at a restaurant or hunched over take-out in the back of a movie theater, I have been known to attack a plate of food with a ferocity that scares small children.
Lunging, I dive my fork into whatever is in front of me, shoveling it wild-eyed into my mouth while greedily sucking in breath through my nose to avoid suffocation. (This is especially sexy on dates!)
Honestly, you could tell me that you’re going to hike Mt. Kilimanjaro, naked, with no oxygen, but mention the possibility of a snack and I am on board*
To prove my devotion to the culinary arts (and the greater art of being a fat-ass), here is a sad but true story from my life: one time I was making Spaghetti Carbonara, a classic Italian dish that I learnedfrom my Italian grandmother (aka Mark Bittman’s “How To Cook Everything”) on a hot plate in my tiny studio apartment.
I transferred the pot of boiling water to the strainer in the sink when the pot slipped out of my grasp and spilled a cascade of boiling hot water onto my sock foot. “MOTHERF**KER!” I screamed, gritting my teeth and wincing from the pain.
Hobbling, I opened the refrigerator door, cracked an egg and beat it together with parmesan, crumbled the pancetta, set the table, salted and peppered my meal and ate it.
Twenty minutes later I remembered that I had severely burned my foot. I removed my sock to find that entire top layer of skin on my foot had melted off*
My foot now resembled something out of Michael Jackson’s Thriller music video, but all I could think was, “At least that pasta was good!”
So that’s a little bit about me. Now I want to know about you!
What do you like to cook? What are some of your stories with food? Thongs or granny panties? Let’s get personal!
I’ll also be posting weekly stories, recipes and inspiration and restaurant reviews.
Thanks for stopping by :)
And remember, JUST EAT THE FOOD
*As long as it’s not f**king Cheese Nips. Seriously. Cheese Nips are the bastard, redneck brother of Cheez-Its. They taste like a cheesy cracker dipped in sh*t. Please stop eating them, America. Send Nabisco the message it needs to hear!
* Here’s the damage in case any of you are freaky like that: