So, it's come to my attention that "Foodies" are sadists.
Wait, wait, wait, hold on, wait. Don't leave! I have empirical evidence to hold this theory up. And I'm not just talking about Gordon Ramsay ripping into some poor novice chef, either.
Okay, it's bad enough that Foodies are food snobs, turning their noses up at *sniff* tacos or whatever. But they also have created different uses of language just to drive people crazy.
I mean, honestly, is "Foodie" even a real word?
But it doesn't stop there, nosireebobcattail! Let's take the carrot for example. To me, a carrot's a carrot no matter what you do with it. You can cook it, boil it, shave it, or just go full-on Bugs Bunny and gnaw away, but it's merely a carrot. But Foodies insist "au contraire (pinky finger extended)!"
There are carrots called Thumbelina, Little Fingers, Purple Dragon, and my favorite, Solar Yellow. Do they taste different? Probably not, at least from this guy's Taco Bell-raised taste buds.
Here's where things get really interesting... We all know there're "baby carrots." Why aren't there "adult carrots?" Furthermore, can anyone explain to me what a "fancy carrot" is? Is it a carrot in a top hat? And here's where my theory of foodie sadists really comes into play. Some time ago, we were at a restaurant and the menu proudly proclaimed they were offering "tortured carrots." Yep. Poor lil' orange sticks.
What'd I tell you? Sadistic.
Furthermore, you can crack, beat, whip, boil, scramble, slice, dice, dredge, slash, punch down, knock down, peel, trim, mince, dice, scrape, scald, grate, chop, debone, grind, pierce, pound, prick, shred, skewer, sliver, strip, sweat, and hang various food items! Notice there's not a whole lot caressing going on in the kitchen. Buncha sadists.
Then things really get sick and twisted when talking about Olive Oil. Okay, sure there's "virgin" olive oil. But...how can olive oil be "extra virgin?" It boggles my mind. It's kinda like a doctor proclaiming a patient "extra dead." You either are or you aren't.
On occasion, I've attempted to be a "Foodie" and beat up some food in the kitchen just to feel what it's like. Once I thought I'd make chicken cordon bleu for my wife. The recipe called for "whipping cream." I thought, great, I've already got "Cool Whip" in the frig, no need to whip it senseless since it's been pre-whipped for me.
That night, disaster struck our palates. I'd made a big mistake. Cool Whip apparently wasn't the same as whipping cream. Chick cordon bleu shouldn't have tasted sweet and marshmellowy.
So, I ask you, foodie sadists of the world, why can't you quit beating on your food, stop with the confusing and violent language, and give food a chance? Some of it used to have faces, after all.
Don't make me tell you this again.
Speaking of sadism, something's just not quite right at the Dandy Drop Inn, where folks check in, but don't check out, if you know what I mean. See for yourself. This Winter, cozy up with Dread and Breakfast.
Okay, now that I have your attention via my unashamedly titled post, I'm in a quandary...
Not too long ago, my daughter moved into her first house. I'd asked her if she'd had any trick or treaters during Halloween.
"No, I don't think they come down my street," she answered.
As a parent, that didn't set too well with me, just add that to my worry-list, but that's not for now. I said, "Wait until you get your first Christmas carolers."
Ah, I remember mine, lo, forty-one years ago, and how awful it was.
I shouldn't have answered the door. I really shouldn't have. But I did. Before me stood a fully dressed, Dickensian group of carolers. I recognized the head singer, all teethy smiles and glazed eyes, the God-Squadder who lived caddy-corner from me, the guy who wouldn't quit pushing The Word to me.
Absolutely, inevitably quicksand-stuck, I wanted to slowly close the door, tell them they'd made a big mistake. However...even though I'm a bit of a curmudgeon and a hermit, I still have a heart.
They proceeded to sing. It was the longest Christmas song in history. My forced rictus grin stretched, ached, began to tremor, my upper lip twitching and forcing my tell. I felt like the Joker while constipated, not a lot to smile about, but you kinda have to muscle through it.
Finally, the song finished. I wondered what I should do. Should I tip them? Give 'em a ten-spot, tell them to call an Uber and get the hell outta here? Invite them in (never a serious option)? Offer them cookies? I had no cookies. But I had cigarettes and chips and beer and NyQuil, the important ingredients to a young and dumb bachelor's lifestyle.
While I was pondering the proper response, they launched into yet ANOTHER song.
I felt like a turtle on his back, legs slowly flailing, a car hurtling down the highway toward me.
At long last, they completed their epic three-hour (at least it felt like it) performance. All smiles on their end. My face twitched, unused smiling muscles taxed, craziness taking over.
I hollered, "YAYYYY! Thank you, thank you very much. Happy holidays."
After shutting the door, I nearly passed out.
I like Christmas. I'm not a Scrooge. I just kinda have invasion of privacy issues. Especially when people want to sing at me. One of the roughest work-outs I've ever been through. It's truly weird.
Happy holidays, everyone, no matter what you celebrate. But, please, don't sing on my doorstep!
While I'm talking about cold, wintery work-outs, why not--during the holidays--check into the Dandy Drop Inn. I understand there's a huge winter-storm brewing and if you're caught out in the midwest, the Dandy Drop is a fine, fine place to warm your toes. Maybe lose your head, too, but not every place is perfect. Make a reservation with Dread and Breakfast, the perfect winter holiday thriller.
To supplement my income as an author--and since we'd just had a very expensive year--the time had come to get some sort of part-time job.
But there was a huge, honkin' obstacle. No way would I ever go back to the Big Business world. Also, I had no real desire to work for The Man ever, EVER again. Basically, I wanted a job where I didn't have to interact with people, where I could sleep in, one where I didn't answer to anyone. And one that wouldn't require me to do any work.
I'm still looking for that dream job. (If you guys have any ideas, hit me up; I've already tried writing).
Then, a good friend dropped (what I took as a joke at first) a bomb on me. Via text, he said, "Go get your real estate license so you can become my partner and open up houses for me."
The more we discussed it, my wife and I became convinced it was a really good idea. I could work on my own terms, set my own hours, have plenty of time to write. Sure, I had to deal with people, and put on a happy face (and, maybe if I'm lucky, one of those stylin' gold jackets!), but I could do it. Probably.
Two problems, though: 1) The more I got into it, the more I found out it wasn't really gonna be an easy part-time job; and 2) It meant going back to school.
Gulp.
I hadn't entered a classroom in over 35 years. For that matter (outside of the use of the right side of my brain in writing), I hadn't utilized my brain in years. Even back in the corporate sector, I was on auto-pilot, just going through the motions. I feared that I'd lost my mojo for studying, that my gray matter had devolved into a slushie. Yet I couldn't become a realtor without passing the notorious real estate exam.
I took these fears with me right into the classroom. Glad to see I wasn't the only oldster in the classroom, I found a seat, fairly confident. However, that confidence quickly blew away like an untied balloon. For the first time, I felt like the dumbest guy in the classroom.
This was a crash course in real estate. One thousand new terms were lobbed at us over four days, plus we were expected to be able to do complex math equations. What little brain I had left felt like it would explode. The hot-shot, young whippersnappers ("Get offa my lawn!") rattled off answers as I tried to sink into my seat. I'd also made a huge mistake sitting at the front table where the old guy teaching the class learned my name, kept winking at me, and couldn't keep his tongue in his mouth. For four solid days, he yelled and berated us, doing his best drill instructor routine. And that's exactly what it felt like: boot camp for realtors.
Finally, class ended. It was time to take the real estate exam. So, I studied. Damn, did I study. For four days and three nights, I studied. Or at least made a good effort at it.
Exam day! Nervous, I stumbled into the top-secret testing compound. I was searched, asked to pull my pockets out, pirouette for the bored security woman, poked, prodded, studied, had my picture taken, identified three times, and escorted into a quiet room.
Three hours later, I emerged exhausted and terrified. I hadn't done anything that grueling since my first (and only) prostate exam. The woman handed me several sheets of paper as I looked them over. Finally, near the bottom, in teeny-tiny print (much too teeny-tiny for my beady lil' ol' man eyes), it said "PASSED."
Whew.
Um...now what?
Speaking of crappy corporate jobs--and if you've ever worked in the white collar sector--check out my novel, Corporate Wolf. It's a satire about big business. But, um, you know...with werewolves and murder.
My wife's driving and even though I should know better, I direct her to change lanes.
She shoots me a glare and says, "Don't teach your grandmother how to suck eggs!"
Silence. Morgue-like silence. Silence so intense that even the crickets are stunned quiet.
Finally... "What?"
"Don't teach your grandmother how to suck eggs," she repeats.
"What are you talking about?"
She rolls her eyes and rolls into the next lane. "Oh, come on, like you haven't heard that a thousand times."
"No. I haven't. Not once! First of all...ew. Second...what the hell's it mean anyway?"
My wife, always an educator and not an enabler, says, "Look it up."
Well, I'm always lazy and not a researcher. Besides, a smart phone may be smart, but my wife's smarter, not to mention a lot quicker.
Exasperated, I say, "C'mon, just tell me!"
She won't. "Look it up."
Okay, this went on for a while and I still didn't know what the phrase meant. I mean...is sucking eggs even a thing? Again, I reiterate...ewww. THIS I looked up. Apparently it's a different method of eating eggs by putting a small hole in the shell and sucking at it. Raw. *Choke* Gasp!
Secondly, ever since my wife said this horrendous phrase, I can't erase the image of my grandma sucking away at an egg, her whiskers fringing around the shell. The horror!
Thirdly, I've given this way too much thought.
Finally, yes, I did break down and look the phrase up. It means don't tell someone how to do something they have more knowledge about. Huh. So...all grandmothers are expert egg-suckers is the take-away from this lesson in semantics. Now I'm seeing vivid imagery of a line of lil' ol' ladies sucking on their eggs. I'm scarred for life.
Don't even get me going on "You can't have your cake and eat it, too." (Why, actually, yes, yes you can have cake and eat it, too. In fact, I'm willing to wager that when you offer someone a piece of cake, 99% of the people will consume said cake. Unless, of course, "having" means possession, so if you eat the cake, you no longer possess it, not really, and then we're getting into the nebulous world of philosophy, which never helped anyone out, and ARGGGGH, I'm thinking wayyyyy too much about all of this...).
While on the topic of obsession, you'll find a host of obsessed characters in my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. There's the man whose wife may (or may not) be cheating on him; the guy who proclaims much too loudly he's not a racist; the young woman obsessed with finding her missing brother even if it takes her into the bowels of Hell; and many, many more. (Now you can kinda see why I like writing about obsessed characters!) Go read the book. Perfect for Christmas gifts (especially if you don't like the person)!
