1. The fish sticks.
Okay, they weren’t real fish sticks. I was in the supermarket the other day, doing my ritual of walking through the frozen food section where they keep the “healthy dinners” crap, and trying to find something to inspire me. You know how it is with those tiny dinners that don’t really fill you up. In any given line of products, there’s really only one or two that you find remotely satisfying, so your radar is always up for anything new that they might came out with that doesn’t taste like cardboard soaked in watery baby powder.
Lo and behold, they had some low-fat fish sticks. Glory be! I love fish sticks, but I’m not supposed to eat them anymore because those little lard tubes block important pathways of my circulatory system. Granted, this product was marketed as “Healthy and Fun for Kids!”, but that didn’t stop me. I threw two of them in my basket and knocked over one of the apparently unhealthy rugrats on my way to the checkout lanes. Little Bobby can diet later, I don’t have as many years left as he does.
Anyway, I decided to treat myself with these questionable fish sticks for lunch today. I excitedly raced to the freezer, snagged one of the boxes out, ripped it open and studied the contents: About 12 cups of corn as the “side dish” and three miniscule fish sticks, each the size of my pinky.
Seriously?
Didn’t matter. I needed a fix. I threw the disappointing tray into the microwave and punched some buttons. Five minutes later, nearly in a swoon over the anticipation of getting to eat forbidden fruit and still feel good about it, I popped one of the lightly-breaded pinkies into my mouth, ready to relive childhood memories of eating 40,000 of these in one sitting along with two bottles of ketchup.
Suffice it to say that we won’t be getting any more of this product. Blech.
2. The handful of Oat Cluster Cheerios.
I actually really like these things. The sadness with this item lies in my disappointing motor skills during the attempted consumption process. Something went wrong with the hand-to-mouth maneuver, probably because I was just eating them out of the box, and only 3 Cheerios made it into my gaping maw. The rest of them went flying across the room in all directions, clattering and rolling into hard-to-reach places. The cat nearly wet himself he was so excited by the abundance of things to chase. I wept openly, then threw the stupid cereal box back in the pantry. I guess this serves me right for not using a bowl.
3. The fish oil suppository.
Okay, it’s not really that, but it is a supplement that I’m supposed to be taking. And I do. But sometimes there are issues with the ingestion of this oil. Let’s just say that we won’t need propane for the barbecue grill this weekend.
4. The bite-size chocolate bar.
I’m not supposed to be messing with these things, either. But they’re right there, sitting on the kitchen counter. (This might have something to do with the fact that I keep buying them in some sort of sadistic combination of defiance and self-torture, but let’s not point fingers.) I had a momentary loss of control, ripped one open, squealed at the sight of the velvety mocha, and then promptly lost control of the tidbit. It fell to the floor and was immediately whacked under the refrigerator by that always-around cat, who has apparently been possessed by Satan. Hate him a little bit.
5. The water.
I’m supposed to drink about 76 gallons of this on a daily basis. It didn’t happen today. Word.
Explanatory Note: The remaining items on this list were consumed on the patio at Agave Azul in Flower Mound, Texas. I shouldn’t have had any of these things, but once I partook of Item #6, all hell broke loose…
6. The margaritas.
For those of you in the DFW metroplex, here’s a tip: At Agave Azul (two locations), even the house margaritas are top shelf. Top. Shelf. Not kidding. These things do down like you wouldn’t believe. Before long, intriguing things happen, like realizing that the white object in that tree over there is probably your underwear.
7. The Queso Fundido.
Actual description on the menu: “Melted Chihuahua cheese topped with onions, poblano rajas, and chorizo.” Further details are not necessary. Order the bitch. Now.
8. The made-at-your-table guacamole.
My bestie, Apiphany, was convinced that she needed this, so she sent our little waitress scurrying to make preparations and then immediately got on her phone, a device which she can’t live without. Perhaps she didn’t understand that a dramatic presentation was forthcoming. Apiphany is not necessarily impressed with details.
So here comes a little man, shoving along a cart loaded with ingredients. I spy a few avocados among the wares, so I gently try to get Apiphany’s attention. This is your thing, dumplin’. Hang up the phone.
She gives me a look that makes it very clear that there will be no Christmas cards for the next ten years.
Okay, then. So I turn to the little man, smiling appreciatively and oohing and ahhing over his ministrations as he hacks away at the avocados and begins mashing them in a pleasing professional manner. Then he asks me which of the varied array of potential ingredients I would prefer in his concoction. Well, I know what I would like, but I didn’t order this damn thing. I reach across the table and slap Apiphany’s phone out of her hand. (Okay, I didn’t really. But I wanted to.)
Anyway, Apiphany finally slams her phone shut, and begins pointing at various ingredients. Then she’s mystified by a certain brown powder in a cute yellow bowl.
She turns to me: “What is THAT?”
Me, over it: “Cumin.”
She: “Why would I-
Me: “Just get it. It’ll be good, adds a nice smoky flavor.”
Little Man gets back to work, and a few minutes later he proffers his creation. The next part of the evening is hazy. All I know is that I eventually pulled my head out of the guacamole bowl, the sky was darker, and there were different people at the tables around us.
9. The spinach quesadillas.
I saw Jesus.
10. Back to that guacamole, because I can’t quit you.
I don’t need to have sex anymore. Ever.
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