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The Journey to Prime Rib
I rushed to wipe the remainder of the face paint from my cheeks. Time was ticking and I only had twenty minutes until I was supposed to be to Kelsier’s house. At length I gave up and resolved to just love the raccoon eyes that remained. At least all the white and black had washed off. Perhaps I could just play it off like I intended to look like Batman before he dons his mask.
In a whirlwind I jumped into the car. I threw it into reverse while I hastily buckled the seat belt. Safety first. I was always the pinnacle of safety. I continued to feed myself lies as I touched up my makeup at sixty miles per hour on the dusty country road. Glancing down at the pavement, I realized a pair of baby animals were milling about in the middle of the road.
My heart skipped a beat as I drew an extra line across my face while yanking the steering wheel in the opposite direction. I could see the individual hairs on their heads while they innocently watched me nearly flatten them.
Okay, I thought. Lay off the en route touchups.
I pulled up to Kelsier’s house to find his sister Xena waiting outside. She was standing in the front yard bathed in sunlight like some kind of blonde goddess, as usual. A look of impatience was pasted across her perfect face. The others had been already loaded into their vehicle.
As I walked around my little red racer just as Kelsier emerged from the house, wiping potato chip crumbs from his shirt. He waved to me as we headed toward the idling car. He had obviously been snacking despite the fact that we were meeting for dinner.
As we drew nearer I could see Xena’s husband Hercules in the driver’s seat. His eyes were hidden behind a thick pair of gold aviator sunglasses. His dark cheeks lifted into a pleasant smile of greeting as he saw us. Beside him Keslier’s sister Richard Marx (she likes him… don’t ask) was waving happily. Her autism lent her a positivity most of us often lacked; she was a breath of fresh air on any given day.
I piled into the back seat between Kelsier and Xena. We shifted until we were comfortably seated in a row like an irregular carton of eggs. Heat radiated off of Xena, a side effect of pregnancy. Anticipating the sauna she was creating, Kelsier rolled down the window.
“HI!” Richard exclaimed from the front.
“Hey Richard,” I replied with a warm nod.
“Okay enough of dat. Where we goin’?” Hercules asked as he watched us in the rear view mirror.
“I’m starving!” Kelsier exclaimed. “Let’s go somewhere fast!”
“I do not want Mc Dooonalds,” Hercules replied, his exotic Ghanaian accent lacing through every word.
“Me neither,” Xena sighed. “What about that place?”
“What place?” Kelsier asked in annoyance.
“That one over by…you know… that one,” she tried.
“Oh the new one where the buffet place used to be?” I guessed, used to being the connective tissue in our group of friends.
“Yeah!” Xena said with enthusiasm. “That place!”
Hercules did not wait for a response but rather stomped on the gas pedal. The car lurched into motion as the three of us were pressed into the rear upholstery.
“Weee!!” Richard cried happily as she scanned the radio for 80’s music.
We pulled up to the restaurant in a matter of minutes. All of us were more than prepared to jump from the vehicle as Hercules tended to be an adventurous chauffer. He had little use for stop signs and opposing traffic.
The group of us over tromped to the sticky glass door. Little handprints could be seen lining the cloudy surface. Our stomachs grumbled as we beheld a wonder land of happy patrons inside, heartily enjoying their moderately bland American food. Kelsier braved the handle as he gingerly took hold of it and wrenched the door open.
We were greeted by a chipper hostess who bade us to wait a moment while they readied seating large enough to accommodate us. At last we were taken to a table. We dropped into our seats and busily looked through the menus. A waitress joined us a second later.
She was nineteen years old at best and had an attitude to match. As a child screamed bloody murder in the distance she propped up her hand on her hip and regarded our group.
“Drinks?” she asked.
Kelsier and I gave each other an undetectable glance. The attitude would certainly be reflected in her gratuity. We systematically gave her our drink order as if in a military lineup. It ran with efficiency until she came to Richard.
“Brian Adams is fifty one,” Richard commented as she looked at the beverage section.
“What would you like to drink ma’am?” the waitress asked.
“He’s a good singer,” Richard continued as if she had not heard the impatient woman. “He sang in that Robin Hood movie.”
“Richard, tell the girl what you want to drink!” Kelsier barked, hunger dissolving his composure.
“Did you know that Cindi Lauper is in her sixties?” Richard went on. Sometimes it was difficult to tell if she was truly oblivious or if we were all simply a product of her well constructed amusement.
“What drink would you like!” the waitress tried again only this time louder as if autism were synonymous for hard of hearing.
The slightest of smiles crossed Richard’s lips confirmed my suspicious. She knew exactly what she was doing.
“Diet Pepsi,” she remarked at last almost casually. What one had to realize about Richard was that she did things at her own pace with no care as to whether other people liked it or not.
The waitress disappeared in a huff at not being able to actually show her annoyance lest she be accused of mistreating someone who was handicapped. We stifled giggles as we looked through the entrees. Richard was smiling wickedly.
“What are you getting?” I asked Kelsier.
“I was thinking Gyros,” he replied.
“Me too. What are the specials?” I agreed.
“Prime rib,” he told me.
“Oh dear god. This is my one cheat day this week from the diet. I think we need prime rib,” I nodded in excitement.
“But it’s only eight ounces,” he sulked. “I’m really hungry!”
“So get the twelve ounce,” I countered.
“I don’t know if I’m that hungry though,” he argued. “I don’t want to take any home.”
“Just get the darn twelve ounce!” Xena cried, tired of listening to the exchange and clearly beginning to starve in ways only the pregnant can relate to.
“Pregnancy is making her a bit anxious,” I whispered.
“Totally,” Kelsier agreed.
“WHAT?” she challenged.
“Nothing!” we replied simultaneously.
We placed our orders with less hassle than the previous exchange. In a short amount of time the bread and soups were brought out. The aroma of freshly microwaved food caused Kelsier’s stomach to loudly cry out. I turned to him with a quizzical look but he failed to notice as he was chin deep in his bowl.
“Why do dey only geeeve us two leeetle breads?” Hercules asked in annoyance. “It’s a whole table of people. What are dey theeenking?”
“So get more,” Xena hissed. She was only recently able to keep food down as morning sickness was finally letting up.
“Bread is free here,” I commented as we looked at the tiny hoagie rolls we were expected to share.
Hercules’ face lit up. He was a bargain hunter through and through, his favorite word was free. He came from a long line of hagglers and it showed in most of our activities. He was the Special Forces man we sent in when we needed more of something or felt we were being short changed.
“We need more bread,” he told the waitress when she came to retrieve our soup dishes.
She gave him a look that would peel paint from the walls. She seemed to be wondering how someone could possibly have the audacity to request more of their treasured loaves. We watched in silent anticipation as she stared Hercules down. His dark brow raised, challenging her to decline. An argument was brewing behind his lips.
“Fine,” she said at last and spun on her heel. Hercules sat back in triumph, white teeth a stark contrast to coffee colored skin.
By the time the food came we were ready to eat our own shoes. The waitress approached with an enormous wide tray while we engaged in idle conversation.
“This stupid deaf guy,” Xena was saying. “Keeps asking me questions but he’s just staring at my chest. Right there at work.”
“Corey Feldman is the one who is still alive,” Richard informed us, a background noise in an otherwise sane conversation.
“Well did you report it?” Kelsier asked.
“But that guy from Mili Vinili is dead. He died from drugs,” Richard continued.
“What was I going to do, it’s a deaf guy!” Xena scowled.
“I didn’t like the Nightmare on Elm Street movies, too scary.”
“You should still say something,” I contributed.
“Vin Diesel used to be a bouncer.”
“I don’t think it works that way,” Xena sighed.
“That kid is gonna knock over the food.”
We all looked up, startled by the coherent comment that had come from Richard. We jerked our heads to the right just in time to see the child who had been screaming vehemently from across the restaurant. He was making a bee line for the tray of food.
The kid was a short little ham roll. His beady brown eyes were set upon legs of the stand the waitress had rested the tray atop. He seemed to be about to throw the mother of all temper tantrums by hurdling himself into the first thing that caught his attention. A pair little legs were pumping as he toddled with all of his might. Somewhere along the way he had obviously lost his shirt as his miniature bare tummy hung out over his shorts.
We watched in seeming slow motion as he made his way toward the tray. The waitress finally noticed him but the world knew it was too late. He was on a collision course. He knew a good time was being had and was hell bent on ruining it.
“No!!” Kelsier yelled in the deep tones of one who has been slowed down mechanically.
Kelsier moved forward, centimeters at a time, in a futile attempt to somehow leap over me and stop the wayward child. The kid tucked his head and vaulted into the air, his small body becoming a chubby little projectile.
He was about to undo the entire purpose of our evening. We were starving to death. The five of us had been looking forward to this dinner all day, purposely not eating anything else. I had come off my diet for it and this little chub was going to negate the entire occasion with one fell swoop.
The waitress tried to latch onto the tray as the crying, screaming kid flew with the agility of Superman. Our breaths caught in our throats. We could not guarantee the child’s safety once the deed was finished. I imagined myself and Kelsier tearing into his tender flesh after carefully cooking him in the proprietary rotisserie oven.
At the last second a large Hispanic arm shot out and caught the pudgy shoulders, seizing the kid into a protective bear hug. A man stared down at us angrily as if he knew the murder plot that had been going through our collective heads. He shook his head and stole away back to their family, with the child protectively nestled in his embrace.
The waitress sighed in relief as she grumpily passed out our food. We set to chewing, a look of knowing passing through the group. Prime rib tasted much better than fat kid anyway.
“Paul Walker died,” Richard said. “If that guy hadn’t grabbed that kid, I’d have snapped his neck.”
Kelsier and I looked at each other and nodded. Well said, Richard.
Runway Red- A Lament
I normally dye my hair a very specific shade of red. It’s called Runway Red and it’s a cross between Jessica Rabbit and Akuma from Street Fighter. It is THE perfect shade of red. It is a delicious crimson suited to a vixen with my vibrant personality (for approximately three days until it fades but I digress).
I had just gotten done with work and was dog tired but the thick black line from my scalp to the faded pasta sauce color of my current locks begged I press on. As my stomach growled like an angry lion I clicked my aching stilettoed feet to the magical treasure trove that is the hair dye aisle. I was reminded of the ‘no carbs til Comic-con’ diet I had just started on which I will not eat another carb…until…Comic-con in three weeks (I suppose that was self explanatory).
Regardless of your views on dieting the fact is this: SPANDEX. So yeah, I knew I was going to be pretty doggone mean for the next few weeks. But with any luck I wouldn’t be a colorful lumpy and bumpy fan girl.
So anyway, where was I? Lack of carbs shuts down the brain or some dizzy thing but I haven’t seen any proof…
What? Oh yeah, sorry was chewing on my iPad idly. I was tromping to the hair dye aisle. In order to dye my hair Runway Red, I must first dye it Bombshell Blonde as God originally gave me Defecation Brown. This means every dye job is a complicated process involving a sticky tango of poisonous chemicals.
I arrived before the hair dye at last, my poor feet howling (but damn did they look good in those metal heeled torture chambers). Several other customers were milling about, an unavoidable irritation. I feel that people should have the common decency to vacate the premises whenever I am shopping. I dislike their constant motion and breathing. They always positioned themselves right in between me and the one thing I came to the store to buy.
I ran a finger through the tangled mess on my scalp as I weaved over to the blonde section. I surveyed the boxes with meticulous care. To go from Forgotten Spaghetti to Runway Red, some serious bleach needed to be drizzled throughout the hair. It warranted the kind of product that could double as paint thinner. It had to be the sort of thing that the hardware store decided against because it was too strong to be used on a John Deer.
Finally I came across Bombshell blonde. The platinum wigged lady on the box promised it would be “Sthuper Cute!” and of course a lady with synthetic blonde hair selling me dye wouldn’t lie. I was just about to snatch it up when I was hip checked by an overweight soccer mom.
She didn’t even notice me as she shuffled past in her ripped sweat pants and stained Garfield shirt. The rank odor of Fritos on her breath alluded to what she did all day (watch Maury on the couch) and I began to hate her even more, simply because my daily beef jerky had long since burned off. There I was watching every little thing that went into my mouth while Scruffy Der Frito did as she pleased. What gave her the right? The injustice!
Scruffy didn’t look back as she crammed herself between me and the bargain section. No big deal. It wasn’t like there was an entire aisle to stand in. I loved smelling after-Frito on another person’s stale breath. I loved it so much that I wanted to jam her stupid head into her squeaky cart…repeatedly.
Annoyed, I clicked around Scruffy to the Promised Land. There was the Vidal Sassoon area. 4 feet of colorful goodness. One of the small joys in life was when a woman could be all like “You know what God? This was nice but let’s try this!” and God was all like “Yo, that’s cool. Get down wit yo’ bad self.” (In my head God talks like the Fresh Prince of Bellaire…don’t judge me).
As I looked at the carefully arranged products, my smile began to fade. Beachy Blonde, Boudoir Brown, Crave-able Copper, Breathtaking Black…where was Runway Red? Panicked, I reviewed the selection again. I had probably just missed it. It was most likely hiding behind another box.
Frantically I started to tear through the cardboard containers covered with sneering women. It wasn’t there. It was gone. I yanked down a different box of the same brand, spinning it around madly. There wasn’t even a picture of it on the back anymore. My heart sank.
The company had discontinued Runway Red.
Now what? What was left in the world, in life? I was empty, soulless. I was doomed to remain Forgotten Spaghetti for the rest of my days. Forever I would be known as that girl who had the really cool hair. HAD. Past tense.
My eyes fell upon the next brand over. A similar shade of red was waggling its devilish eyebrows at me. It shook its box ever so slightly, tempting me to pick it up. I wasn’t sure; I’d been burned once already. Then I noticed Scruffy had finished choosing her outdated 1980’s style Scrunchie and was making her way back over to me. Time was running out. Do it or don’t? Do it or don’t? What if it went wrong? Scruffy was nearly upon me. Making up my mind, I grabbed the box and stole away toward the checkouts.
Once at home the process began innocently enough. Bombshell Blonde went off without a hitch, leaving my hair feeling like delicate hay as usual. Hahaha *sob* Once the toxic mess was sufficiently washed from my head, I donned the gloves for Not-Runway-Red and removed the contents.
I was stricken with horror as I realized it was not simply a bottle of goo but a pump of junk. This was the same stuff that scarred the bathroom wall during the great We’ll-Never-See-Our-Security-Deposit slip up of 2012.
I knew this stuff well. I used it once before Runway Red. The pump of junk claimed to be mess free. What it didn’t tell the user was once the cheap plastic gloves were coated in noxious chemicals, their grip became compromised. It is at this point that the Easy to Use Pump would transform into a Difficult to Aim Projectile.
I set my doubts aside and with much trepidation assembled the ominous device. I looked over at the directions which had begun to conveniently roll up now that my hands were busy. I checked to see the next step.
It said to pour the contents together and delicately rotate, warning me in enormous bold letters not to shake. Delicately rotate should have been my first clue. Delicately rotate is NOT a unit of measure. What the heck was in there so as to make it so volatile it could not be shaken? Not even ‘please swirl instead of shake’ but more like ‘DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT SHAKING THIS, IT WILL EXPLODE LEAVING A CRATER WHERE YOUR HOUSE ONCE STOOD.’
I figured it would be best to comply and swirled the combustible contents, watching as bright blue goop turned to orangey reddish muck. It was looking promising. Perhaps my hair would be okay after all. Maybe I would be a new type of me, a brighter red starlet, a ginger goddess.
After setting the container on the sink I started to tenderly pump the contents into my eager hand. I was mildly surprised to find the dye was not a thick gel but instead a runny liquid abomination reminiscent of Taco Tuesday gone awry. I could work with it though; I had been altering my hair color for over 15 years. This was nothing.
The liquid trickled onto my scalp in shocking tingles. It fizzled as it began to eat away at the existing strands. Excited to see the results I started to smear it over all of my head. It was exhilarating to be in total control of my appearance (or perhaps the feeling was a side effect from the combination of malnourishment mixed with harsh chemicals in an enclosed area).
The wait seemed to take forever. In the meantime I dreamed of what foods I would be eating if I weren’t on a god awful diet. Rice. Bread. Cherries. Cake…oh cake, I missed you the most. Your velvety frosting was as comforting as rain on a warm summer night.
With an aching stomach and a slight case of vertigo, I rushed to the bath tub when it was time to rinse. I began to dunk my head beneath the gushing faucet. I watched as crimson tears seemed to wash over my face like that nurse from the first Silent Hill game (Anybody? No? Nobody played it? Aw…).
The anticipation was at an all time high as I quickly toweled off. It was going to be amazing, it had to be. I would be reinvented, rejuvenated. It was sure to bring back the youthful snap I felt I’d been missing for some time. I threw the towel off with a flourish and was confronted with a burst of….
With a burst of Meh brownish auburn. Sigh. Auburn. How boring. Perhaps I can go to Comic-con as a fastidious librarian.
And so I lament my long lost Runway Red.
The Quest for Food
Sometimes all you want is Taco Bell. Such was the case for my dear friend; let’s call her Rhonda just to protect the guilty. Anyway she came home on Saturday night to not only her whole family but all of us as well. Now this is typical for a weekend. We tend to dork out to some pretty hard core D&D every Saturday evening. There’s no shame in that.
Anyway the poor girl worked all day long and all she asked for was a couple of burritos with sour cream and no onions. Not my type of order but I can get behind it. The stomach wants what it wants.
For all of my overseas friends who aren’t misfortunate enough to have Taco Bell in your country, let me give you a brief explanation. Taco Bell is what us happily married folk use in lieu of an abusive lover. It sweet talks you into buying it with promises of warmth and fulfillment. Then as you’re sinking your teeth into its soft outer layer you realize something isn’t quite right. Before you know what’s happened you’re hiding in the bathroom sobbing and swearing you’ll never be such a fool again. But I digress…
Since I love Rhonda with all my heart I volunteered to make the pilgrimage to Taco Bell for her. I turned to her husband, let’s call him Kelsier (a few people are chuckling right now, those who are all the way down the rabbit hole with me already, the rest of you, don’t worry, you’ll be down here with us soon), and I raised a quizzical eyebrow.
Kelsier doesn’t really like to do much once he’s home and the flip flops have come off. But we’ve been friends for the majority of my life and I know exactly what buttons I need to push to get results.
“C’mon, don’t make me go alone!” I cried.
“No,” Kelsier shook his head.
“Please?” I pleaded.
“Absolutely not!” he was adamant.
“You’ve left me no choice,” I replied, bringing out the big guns. “What if I promised a grocery store stop? Cookies?”
“Cookies you say?” he asked, ears perking up.
“Cookies. And chips.”
“Chips too? Well maybe…”
“Fine. And Snapple.”
He rose and slipped his feet into the rotting brown knock off Birkenstocks we’ve all come to love (hate). He was in. The man was ruthless when it came to bargaining but once he’s in, he’s good to his word and sticks it out until the end.
We trudged toward the front door when a little voice piped up, “Me too!”
Kelsier’s son, let’s call him Mini-me, raced out the door and jumped into the back seat of my little four cylinder Aveo. I turned to Kelsier who shrugged and shuffled to the passenger seat. I took my place behind the wheel.
I turned the key and we were suddenly barraged by “Whole Lotta Love” turned up to a pleasing eardrum annihilating volume. I quickly reached over and twisted the dial down. Kelsier gave me look that would peel paint off a wall. It was my turn to shrug.
We set off in the direction of the grocery store like a boat full of hungry Vikings. Kelsier and I began to gossip as usual.
“You know that friend of Rhonda’s? She got dumped because she cheated,” he was saying. “With three different people in two nights.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “What a little slu-.”
My response died as I looked in the review mirror and saw two very clear, very innocent cerulean blue eyes peering back. Right. Kid in the vehicle. Stop talking like a truck driver, got it.
“S-s-scallywag,” I corrected lamely, earning me an eye roll from Kelsier.
We made it to the grocery store with minimal issues. Mini-me was occupied with his tablet, thankfully, and therefore less prone to bring home any of Auntie’s foul language. I know, I know…but take me as I am.
Once inside we were faced with a myriad of difficult decisions. Plain potato chips or flavored? Pretzels or Chex Mix? It was enough to make our heads spin. There we stood, on the precipice of starvation, attempting to select the perfect snack.
We were awakened from our revelry by the sound of nonchalant crinkling. Kelsier and I stared at each other for a moment in confusion. Neither of us was holding anything plastic. The crumpling continued.
Suddenly we spun around to find Mini-me casually loading heaps of fruity candy into the cart.
“What are you doing?” Kelsier demanded, staring down at the cellophane covered bits of promised tooth decay.
“I want gummy worms,” Mini-me replied sheepishly.
I watched as a battle of wills ensued. Two sets of blue eyes narrowed. Sweat beaded along their brows. Mini-me was good. He’d learned from the best, his father. He switched tactics in an instant and opened his lids as far as possible, exposing a pair of irresistible big black pupils.
“Fine!” Kelsier yelled as he threw his hands in the air. Mini-me smugly lowered the gummy bears into the cart.
Once back in the vehicle we set off through the fading evening light toward Taco Bell. The drive thru line was uncharacteristically empty for a weekend. We quickly sped around to the speaker. Kelsier produced the sacred Post-It Note on which Rhonda had entrusted him with her order.
“El-come oooo aaaco Ell,” a voice rumbled over the flawed technology.
Kelsier and I looked at each other. I shook my head. Kelsier replied with an impatient shrug. He tried to hand me the Post-It but I pushed it back. I was the getaway driver; I would not be accountable for a mistaken order as well. Rhonda did not receive botched orders well and I had a dog to go home to.
“Elllloooo?” an annoyed voice cackled from the speaker.
“Uh…two burritos with sour cream and no green onions,” Kelsier said, flustered.
“It already oms ith our cream,” the voice replied.
“Wha-,” Kelsier began but realized the futility of it. “Then just forget it. No green onions.”
“Extra eeen onions?” the voice tried.
“No I said not to put the green onions,” the man beside me rebuked.
“So no extra eeen onions and no sour eam,” the speaker summed up.
“Wrong again!” Kelsier shouted, getting annoyed. “No green onions! None. If I should find one on there, I’ll bring down a pox upon your entire household and bloodline, do you hear me!”
“We’re orry sir, we didn’t ear that ast past,” the voice apologized.
Kelsier sighed.
“You got cheesy potatoes?” he attempted.
“Ooo want a potato urrito?” the speaker asked.
“No, cheesy potatoes,” he clarified. “As in tubers with cheese byproduct haphazardly spread over the top!”
“Daddy, I have to go potty,” Mini-me interjected.
“Ooo want a party box?” the speaker supplemented.
“No, my kid has to go POTTY not PARTY,” he corrected. “And did you get the cheesy potatoes?”
“Athroom is inside sir,” the speaker complained.
“No, its fine, he’ll pee when we get home. Did you hear me about the damn potatos?” he cried.
“Eeeeze pull ahead.”
The exchange had pushed us to the point of exhaustion. How to proceed was questionable. Did we risk taking a wrong order back to Rhonda? Or should we lie and say the line was too long, brining home McDonald’s instead?
The decision was made up fearfully and quickly. We could tell by the earnest bouncing from the backseat that time was a limited resource for the young man’s bladder. I eased the car forward.
A teenage girl with hair styled far too fancy for a fast food job and wearing enough make up to pass for Dee Snyder rolled open the window. She leaned on her elbow, completely bored.
“Ten ninety five,” she recited. “You want sauce?”
I looked at Kelsier. He shook his head.
“No sauce,” I answered.
Hootie Von Taco gave me her most disgusted look as if I’d just insulted her favorite family member. Apparently they took their sauce very seriously at that particular establishment.
“Fine,” Hootie said snidely. “Be just a minute.”
She slammed the window shut. We were left to silently wonder what faux pas we had committed. A moment later a cheap plastic bag with searing hot contents was thrust through the window onto my lap.
“Have a terrific night,” Hootie said dryly and again banged her window shut.
I volleyed the scalding sack at Kelsier who caught it with his lap and a yelp. He wasn’t planning on having more kids anyway, it’s okay. I threw the car into drive and we sped out of the drive thru.
We made it back to the house just in time for Mini-me to race through the door, with flames on his trail, to the bathroom. The poor kid had been a trooper. He knew soiling the backseat would have resulted in immediate high speed ejection from the vehicle.
It was judgment time. The bag was placed before Rhonda. She stared up at us and time stood still. The woman was tired and hungry and not all in the mood for green onions. Kelsier and I eased into our seats around the dining room table. It was reminiscent of sitting across from Darth Vader in that scene from Empire…
Rhonda lifted the tin foiled burrito from the package as we held our breath. It seemed to shine with holy light like an artifact discovered during the Crusades. She unrolled the metallic paper. The burrito’s soggy shell was revealed to us like a nymph on her wedding night. I heard Kelsier swallow in anticipation.
The matriarch began to gently pull apart the carefully constructed entrée. A puff of mystery steam burped out while she did. Our knuckles clenched on the table, turning white. Was that onion? Did it smell like onions? Rhonda’s face betrayed no emotion as she examined her treasure. Somewhere in the background a clock ticked idly.
Suddenly Rhonda’s face lit up in satisfaction.
“Perfect, no green onions!” she said musically. “Thanks guys!”
We relaxed into a sigh of relief. They had gotten the order correct. We would live to see another day. Kelsier joyfully opened his container of potatoes.
There was no cheese.
Our hearts skipped a beat as we realized how close we had come to disaster. Some divine deity had stopped Rhonda from getting the incorrect order. Lady luck was playing in our favor that evening.
“That was close,” I whispered.
“Too close, we won’t be as lucky next time,” Kelsier replied, exhausted as he began to eat his rubbery potatoes.
The Reckoning
The smell had been silently working its way into our living room. We stared at each other with solemn resolve. It was time to clean out the refrigerator.
I approached the rectangular stink machine with trepidation. Pulling my Castlevania T-shirt up over my nose, I placed shaking fingers on the curved handle. Suddenly I realized I was alone in this endeavor.
Turning slowly I regarded my husband. His unwashed brown hair poked up haphazardly from behind the computer chair signaling he was still engaged in grave combat with the Sith.
“Ahem,” I called.
The man in front of the glowing screen sighed; secretly wishing the force was really with him. He pushed himself out from the desk and trudged to my side. I peeked at him while gauging his readiness. He replied with a steely nod. It was now or never.
I pulled on the handle. What opened before us was a world of scientific chaos. Dingy yellow spilled out while we gaped in fear. Three shelves filled with the rotting ghosts of meals past awaited.
The shockwave hit us a second later. We were not prepared. The two of us felt our knees quake as the aroma of decay slapped our faces. I staggered backward, sagging against the man behind me. He was succumbing to the odorous attack and flailed into the wind. At the last second he steadied himself against the rickety kitchen table.
On instinct I kicked the door shut. The cloud receded. We stood, gasping and trying to figure out what had just happened. Our hearts pounded wildly in our chests. At last we summoned the courage for a second attempt.
Again I griped the cool plastic handle. It seemed so inviting as if begging us to enjoy the rectangle’s delicious contents. What foul trickery, nothing awaited us but the sick taste of despair.
My husband placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder as if willing me the strength to carry on. Ensuring my makeshift faceguard was in place I wrenched the door open. This time the aroma passed harmlessly over us. We had properly prepared for the engagement.
Finally we could see the army of foes amidst the ooze filled surfaces. Aged Tupperware filled with mossy contents taunted me at eye level. Baggies of liquid that had once been proud vegetables winked in malice. An acorn squash rolled menacingly somewhere close to the rear wall.
We turned to the inner door. Years of strategic training had told us we needed to start with the weakest enemy first. Ignoring my anxiety I heroically clasped a hand around an unnamed jar. I lifted it watching the poisonous contents shift. Gingerly I dropped the offending vessel into the dark garbage bag held by my ally. It landed with a solid thud.
A small victory but it was enough to fuel our morale. I yanked out another bottle reading “Idden Alley Anch Ressing”. It was covered in some manner of grease. Gritting my teeth in disgust I tossed it over my shoulder and turned back to the depleting lineup.
We continued in such a fashion for several minutes. Then, blinded by our overconfidence, we were taken by surprise. The Yogurt container…the final bastion in the door’s defense…waited calmly in the bottom left corner. I took hold of it carelessly.
The cheap plastic had been compromised by weeks of steady steeping in acidic dairy substance. It caved slightly as it was torn from the compartment. The lid lifted ever so slightly, spewing noxious vapors directly into our unsuspecting faces.
I tripped backwards, gagging. My eyes burned as though I had been sprayed with mace. Wildly I teetered while attempting to maintain consciousness. Thinking quickly, my comrade slapped the still leaking container from my hands. It splattered inside the garbage can safely enclosed within the bag.
We shared a silent look of thanks. There was no room for conversation while on the battlefield. It would have to wait. We turned back to the sneering shelves.
I knew there was no time for delay. The act would have to be completed swiftly or we would lose our nerve. With a deep breath we headed straight into the fray. We began to claw barbarically at decomposing food. We tried our best not to notice as it crunched beneath our fingers.
We were making progress. Item after gooey item was whipped into the awaiting abyss. Green pineapple whirled into the chasm followed by its friend, blackening kabob. Crusty cheese howled in rage while attempting to save itself, reaching for a decaying carton of soy milk.
“You’re welcome to take it with you!” I yelled in a voice borrowed from Conan the Barbarian.
I pushed both items into the bag triumphantly. Liquefied salad was next. It was festering quietly in the crisper. We pried it from the glass while carefully dodging its venomous drippings. The task was nearly complete.
Finally the acorn squash rolled forward. Like a fuming guardian of filth it smugly loomed, blocking out the timid light bulb. The fiend’s shadow spread across our terrified faces.
It was an ancient beast, most likely whispered of in folk and lore for generations. It had been making its den since before the winter snow had melted. It was knit purely from nightmares.
We squared our shoulders. I quickly snatched at the rapscallion gourd. It struggled, aggressively attempting to break free. The beast let out a screech of protest while it bit at my skin with its scaly green ridges. Sweat beaded across my forehead as I reached in the other arm. This was a two hand job.
Firmly I brought the shriveled undead monster forth. It was not about to go down without a fight. The demon gourd’s structural integrity needed little motivation to be compromised. Without warning the sides caved revealing a sticky inner trove of mushy mold. I felt myself retch. The morning’s coffee was about to be forfeited from my stomach.
I called up all of my will power. I have faced down zombies in distant lands, aliens swarming forgotten moons, and colander wearing green pigs. I was a charismatic warrior. I would not be defeated this day.
The squash was vomiting its entrails across my fingers. With the force of a thousand avenging angels I lobbed it into the vast cavity marked Hefty. It clattered angrily atop its fellow fallen soldiers in the vanquished army.
My ally was waiting; he planted a firm toe on the now empty refrigerator. Like a brave wartime hero he hauled it shut. Simultaneously I tugged the garbage bag’s ties. At quickly as my fingers would allow I created a knot. The enemy was contained.
We panted and each took a handful of plastic. At a united team we dragged the bag that held the bodies toward the front door. The corpses would be laid to rest in the Waste Management catacombs.
The Battle of Light and Dark
It all began with a 32 ounce diet Coke from the fountain. I enjoy fountain soda, a LOT. So of course when I have one I tend to drink all of it right away. This in turn leads to a pretty hasty trip to the bathroom soon after. There is no shame in that.
As I made my swift journey to the facilities, I carelessly switched on the light, threw down my wedding ring, and made the mistake of turning around. There resting deviously on the wall was a monster of mammoth proportions. Its hairy legs were splayed out in all directions; the joints lazily relaxed as it basked in the glory of the bathroom wall. Its eyes followed me, filled with malice.
A centipede. The biggest one I have seen in all my life. This fellow trumped the ones at my family’s house which was built in the 1920’s and still has a dirt room in the basement. Sweet mother of God.
I froze with terror. The centipede rubbed its front feet together while planning its next torturous move. It was too much. I screamed sharply to alert my dog. He valiantly ran to my aid…but thought better of it and stopped short. Oh why did he have to equate the bathroom with baths! He knew his mommy was in trouble but the fear of another sudsy affair was too great. He could not pass the threshold.
I was on my own. I looked all around for the can of RAID I kept in near the tub. (Fiends always attack when one is most powerless to defend oneself). It had been moved. I must have left it in the kitchen during the Great Arachnid War. Drat.
I mustered up all the courage I could and vaulted through the doorway. The centipede laughed at my fright, holding its ground. It knew it had claimed the bathroom. No more would anyone be relieving themselves without paying it homage.
The battle was not yet lost. I raced to the living room, desperately searching for the can and my only salvation. I threw bills on the floor, whipped paper towels into the air, shoved the D&D dice aside. But it was all for naught, the RAID was missing. I looked at the grill lighter and contemplated burning the house down.
A light in the corner caught my eye. What was this but another can of RAID! The flying insect version was waiting gloriously on the computer desk. I cried out in elation as I snatched it and held it over my head triumphantly. It was mostly empty. I knew I would have to make every blast count.
Swallowing hard I leapt back through the doorway. The centipede had not moved, it was too confident in its victory. I summoned the courage of all my ancestors. Their heritage was culminated in that one important moment. Make them proud, I told myself. Overthrow the beast.
Pointing the can at the monster, I knelt as close as my sanity would allow. I could see the individual follicles on its back. Earthy brown with moss colored zigzags covered its pokey surface. The centipede smirked. It could smell my fear.
With a battle cry borrowed from the angel Gabriel I depressed the button. A clear misting of poison sprang forth. The beast reared up in rage. It hissed violently and dashed toward the cupboard.
“DIE! DIE!! DIE!!!” I called out, fury lacing every word.
The centipede hissed again. It had flames in its eyes. I continued to spray as I felt tears prickle my eyelids. It was me or it this day. The beast was now covered in sticky white paste but the fight was still in it. The centipede trotted across the cupboard door, blind with outrage.
The can went dry.
I clicked it again. This could not be! The monster was not yet slain! I clicked it once more and still nothing spewed out. I threw it in annoyance. I would have to dirty my hands, something I loathe to do.
Jogging back into the living room I surveyed my arsenal. Paper? No too close of range, too high an opportunity for error. Remote? No, have to extract the body, too messy. There in the corner. A size 10 Sketcher belonging to the man in my life.
I seized the weapon of mass squishing and returned to the battlefield. The centipede had made it to the lower edge of the door. It was leaving a ivory trail now but its will was strong. I hefted the shoe over my head as the beast hissed again and reared on its hind legs. It would be a courageous blow; the two of us were locked in mortal combat.
The Sketched sliced through the air and slammed down onto the back of the monster. I heard a crunch while I continued to shriek like a Valkyrie. I surveyed the damage with trepidation as I drew back the shoe. Horror dawned as the beast surged forward, still alive.
It cursed my name, speaking in tongues like a vile demon from the abyss. I beat the shoe down upon it again and again until I could lift it no more. The legs went still. Panting, I crawled from the bathroom. Wiping sweat from my brow I breathed a sigh of relief as the battle was won. The monster had been successfully exterminated.
I rushed to wipe the remainder of the face paint from my cheeks. Time was ticking and I only had twenty minutes until I was supposed to be to Kelsier’s house. At length I gave up and resolved to just love the raccoon eyes that remained. At least all the white and black had washed off. Perhaps I could just play it off like I intended to look like Batman before he dons his mask.
In a whirlwind I jumped into the car. I threw it into reverse while I hastily buckled the seat belt. Safety first. I was always the pinnacle of safety. I continued to feed myself lies as I touched up my makeup at sixty miles per hour on the dusty country road. Glancing down at the pavement, I realized a pair of baby animals were milling about in the middle of the road.
My heart skipped a beat as I drew an extra line across my face while yanking the steering wheel in the opposite direction. I could see the individual hairs on their heads while they innocently watched me nearly flatten them.
Okay, I thought. Lay off the en route touchups.
I pulled up to Kelsier’s house to find his sister Xena waiting outside. She was standing in the front yard bathed in sunlight like some kind of blonde goddess, as usual. A look of impatience was pasted across her perfect face. The others had been already loaded into their vehicle.
As I walked around my little red racer just as Kelsier emerged from the house, wiping potato chip crumbs from his shirt. He waved to me as we headed toward the idling car. He had obviously been snacking despite the fact that we were meeting for dinner.
As we drew nearer I could see Xena’s husband Hercules in the driver’s seat. His eyes were hidden behind a thick pair of gold aviator sunglasses. His dark cheeks lifted into a pleasant smile of greeting as he saw us. Beside him Keslier’s sister Richard Marx (she likes him… don’t ask) was waving happily. Her autism lent her a positivity most of us often lacked; she was a breath of fresh air on any given day.
I piled into the back seat between Kelsier and Xena. We shifted until we were comfortably seated in a row like an irregular carton of eggs. Heat radiated off of Xena, a side effect of pregnancy. Anticipating the sauna she was creating, Kelsier rolled down the window.
“HI!” Richard exclaimed from the front.
“Hey Richard,” I replied with a warm nod.
“Okay enough of dat. Where we goin’?” Hercules asked as he watched us in the rear view mirror.
“I’m starving!” Kelsier exclaimed. “Let’s go somewhere fast!”
“I do not want Mc Dooonalds,” Hercules replied, his exotic Ghanaian accent lacing through every word.
“Me neither,” Xena sighed. “What about that place?”
“What place?” Kelsier asked in annoyance.
“That one over by…you know… that one,” she tried.
“Oh the new one where the buffet place used to be?” I guessed, used to being the connective tissue in our group of friends.
“Yeah!” Xena said with enthusiasm. “That place!”
Hercules did not wait for a response but rather stomped on the gas pedal. The car lurched into motion as the three of us were pressed into the rear upholstery.
“Weee!!” Richard cried happily as she scanned the radio for 80’s music.
We pulled up to the restaurant in a matter of minutes. All of us were more than prepared to jump from the vehicle as Hercules tended to be an adventurous chauffer. He had little use for stop signs and opposing traffic.
The group of us over tromped to the sticky glass door. Little handprints could be seen lining the cloudy surface. Our stomachs grumbled as we beheld a wonder land of happy patrons inside, heartily enjoying their moderately bland American food. Kelsier braved the handle as he gingerly took hold of it and wrenched the door open.
We were greeted by a chipper hostess who bade us to wait a moment while they readied seating large enough to accommodate us. At last we were taken to a table. We dropped into our seats and busily looked through the menus. A waitress joined us a second later.
She was nineteen years old at best and had an attitude to match. As a child screamed bloody murder in the distance she propped up her hand on her hip and regarded our group.
“Drinks?” she asked.
Kelsier and I gave each other an undetectable glance. The attitude would certainly be reflected in her gratuity. We systematically gave her our drink order as if in a military lineup. It ran with efficiency until she came to Richard.
“Brian Adams is fifty one,” Richard commented as she looked at the beverage section.
“What would you like to drink ma’am?” the waitress asked.
“He’s a good singer,” Richard continued as if she had not heard the impatient woman. “He sang in that Robin Hood movie.”
“Richard, tell the girl what you want to drink!” Kelsier barked, hunger dissolving his composure.
“Did you know that Cindi Lauper is in her sixties?” Richard went on. Sometimes it was difficult to tell if she was truly oblivious or if we were all simply a product of her well constructed amusement.
“What drink would you like!” the waitress tried again only this time louder as if autism were synonymous for hard of hearing.
The slightest of smiles crossed Richard’s lips confirmed my suspicious. She knew exactly what she was doing.
“Diet Pepsi,” she remarked at last almost casually. What one had to realize about Richard was that she did things at her own pace with no care as to whether other people liked it or not.
The waitress disappeared in a huff at not being able to actually show her annoyance lest she be accused of mistreating someone who was handicapped. We stifled giggles as we looked through the entrees. Richard was smiling wickedly.
“What are you getting?” I asked Kelsier.
“I was thinking Gyros,” he replied.
“Me too. What are the specials?” I agreed.
“Prime rib,” he told me.
“Oh dear god. This is my one cheat day this week from the diet. I think we need prime rib,” I nodded in excitement.
“But it’s only eight ounces,” he sulked. “I’m really hungry!”
“So get the twelve ounce,” I countered.
“I don’t know if I’m that hungry though,” he argued. “I don’t want to take any home.”
“Just get the darn twelve ounce!” Xena cried, tired of listening to the exchange and clearly beginning to starve in ways only the pregnant can relate to.
“Pregnancy is making her a bit anxious,” I whispered.
“Totally,” Kelsier agreed.
“WHAT?” she challenged.
“Nothing!” we replied simultaneously.
We placed our orders with less hassle than the previous exchange. In a short amount of time the bread and soups were brought out. The aroma of freshly microwaved food caused Kelsier’s stomach to loudly cry out. I turned to him with a quizzical look but he failed to notice as he was chin deep in his bowl.
“Why do dey only geeeve us two leeetle breads?” Hercules asked in annoyance. “It’s a whole table of people. What are dey theeenking?”
“So get more,” Xena hissed. She was only recently able to keep food down as morning sickness was finally letting up.
“Bread is free here,” I commented as we looked at the tiny hoagie rolls we were expected to share.
Hercules’ face lit up. He was a bargain hunter through and through, his favorite word was free. He came from a long line of hagglers and it showed in most of our activities. He was the Special Forces man we sent in when we needed more of something or felt we were being short changed.
“We need more bread,” he told the waitress when she came to retrieve our soup dishes.
She gave him a look that would peel paint from the walls. She seemed to be wondering how someone could possibly have the audacity to request more of their treasured loaves. We watched in silent anticipation as she stared Hercules down. His dark brow raised, challenging her to decline. An argument was brewing behind his lips.
“Fine,” she said at last and spun on her heel. Hercules sat back in triumph, white teeth a stark contrast to coffee colored skin.
By the time the food came we were ready to eat our own shoes. The waitress approached with an enormous wide tray while we engaged in idle conversation.
“This stupid deaf guy,” Xena was saying. “Keeps asking me questions but he’s just staring at my chest. Right there at work.”
“Corey Feldman is the one who is still alive,” Richard informed us, a background noise in an otherwise sane conversation.
“Well did you report it?” Kelsier asked.
“But that guy from Mili Vinili is dead. He died from drugs,” Richard continued.
“What was I going to do, it’s a deaf guy!” Xena scowled.
“I didn’t like the Nightmare on Elm Street movies, too scary.”
“You should still say something,” I contributed.
“Vin Diesel used to be a bouncer.”
“I don’t think it works that way,” Xena sighed.
“That kid is gonna knock over the food.”
We all looked up, startled by the coherent comment that had come from Richard. We jerked our heads to the right just in time to see the child who had been screaming vehemently from across the restaurant. He was making a bee line for the tray of food.
The kid was a short little ham roll. His beady brown eyes were set upon legs of the stand the waitress had rested the tray atop. He seemed to be about to throw the mother of all temper tantrums by hurdling himself into the first thing that caught his attention. A pair little legs were pumping as he toddled with all of his might. Somewhere along the way he had obviously lost his shirt as his miniature bare tummy hung out over his shorts.
We watched in seeming slow motion as he made his way toward the tray. The waitress finally noticed him but the world knew it was too late. He was on a collision course. He knew a good time was being had and was hell bent on ruining it.
“No!!” Kelsier yelled in the deep tones of one who has been slowed down mechanically.
Kelsier moved forward, centimeters at a time, in a futile attempt to somehow leap over me and stop the wayward child. The kid tucked his head and vaulted into the air, his small body becoming a chubby little projectile.
He was about to undo the entire purpose of our evening. We were starving to death. The five of us had been looking forward to this dinner all day, purposely not eating anything else. I had come off my diet for it and this little chub was going to negate the entire occasion with one fell swoop.
The waitress tried to latch onto the tray as the crying, screaming kid flew with the agility of Superman. Our breaths caught in our throats. We could not guarantee the child’s safety once the deed was finished. I imagined myself and Kelsier tearing into his tender flesh after carefully cooking him in the proprietary rotisserie oven.
At the last second a large Hispanic arm shot out and caught the pudgy shoulders, seizing the kid into a protective bear hug. A man stared down at us angrily as if he knew the murder plot that had been going through our collective heads. He shook his head and stole away back to their family, with the child protectively nestled in his embrace.
The waitress sighed in relief as she grumpily passed out our food. We set to chewing, a look of knowing passing through the group. Prime rib tasted much better than fat kid anyway.
“Paul Walker died,” Richard said. “If that guy hadn’t grabbed that kid, I’d have snapped his neck.”
Kelsier and I looked at each other and nodded. Well said, Richard.
Runway Red- A Lament
I normally dye my hair a very specific shade of red. It’s called Runway Red and it’s a cross between Jessica Rabbit and Akuma from Street Fighter. It is THE perfect shade of red. It is a delicious crimson suited to a vixen with my vibrant personality (for approximately three days until it fades but I digress).
I had just gotten done with work and was dog tired but the thick black line from my scalp to the faded pasta sauce color of my current locks begged I press on. As my stomach growled like an angry lion I clicked my aching stilettoed feet to the magical treasure trove that is the hair dye aisle. I was reminded of the ‘no carbs til Comic-con’ diet I had just started on which I will not eat another carb…until…Comic-con in three weeks (I suppose that was self explanatory).
Regardless of your views on dieting the fact is this: SPANDEX. So yeah, I knew I was going to be pretty doggone mean for the next few weeks. But with any luck I wouldn’t be a colorful lumpy and bumpy fan girl.
So anyway, where was I? Lack of carbs shuts down the brain or some dizzy thing but I haven’t seen any proof…
What? Oh yeah, sorry was chewing on my iPad idly. I was tromping to the hair dye aisle. In order to dye my hair Runway Red, I must first dye it Bombshell Blonde as God originally gave me Defecation Brown. This means every dye job is a complicated process involving a sticky tango of poisonous chemicals.
I arrived before the hair dye at last, my poor feet howling (but damn did they look good in those metal heeled torture chambers). Several other customers were milling about, an unavoidable irritation. I feel that people should have the common decency to vacate the premises whenever I am shopping. I dislike their constant motion and breathing. They always positioned themselves right in between me and the one thing I came to the store to buy.
I ran a finger through the tangled mess on my scalp as I weaved over to the blonde section. I surveyed the boxes with meticulous care. To go from Forgotten Spaghetti to Runway Red, some serious bleach needed to be drizzled throughout the hair. It warranted the kind of product that could double as paint thinner. It had to be the sort of thing that the hardware store decided against because it was too strong to be used on a John Deer.
Finally I came across Bombshell blonde. The platinum wigged lady on the box promised it would be “Sthuper Cute!” and of course a lady with synthetic blonde hair selling me dye wouldn’t lie. I was just about to snatch it up when I was hip checked by an overweight soccer mom.
She didn’t even notice me as she shuffled past in her ripped sweat pants and stained Garfield shirt. The rank odor of Fritos on her breath alluded to what she did all day (watch Maury on the couch) and I began to hate her even more, simply because my daily beef jerky had long since burned off. There I was watching every little thing that went into my mouth while Scruffy Der Frito did as she pleased. What gave her the right? The injustice!
Scruffy didn’t look back as she crammed herself between me and the bargain section. No big deal. It wasn’t like there was an entire aisle to stand in. I loved smelling after-Frito on another person’s stale breath. I loved it so much that I wanted to jam her stupid head into her squeaky cart…repeatedly.
Annoyed, I clicked around Scruffy to the Promised Land. There was the Vidal Sassoon area. 4 feet of colorful goodness. One of the small joys in life was when a woman could be all like “You know what God? This was nice but let’s try this!” and God was all like “Yo, that’s cool. Get down wit yo’ bad self.” (In my head God talks like the Fresh Prince of Bellaire…don’t judge me).
As I looked at the carefully arranged products, my smile began to fade. Beachy Blonde, Boudoir Brown, Crave-able Copper, Breathtaking Black…where was Runway Red? Panicked, I reviewed the selection again. I had probably just missed it. It was most likely hiding behind another box.
Frantically I started to tear through the cardboard containers covered with sneering women. It wasn’t there. It was gone. I yanked down a different box of the same brand, spinning it around madly. There wasn’t even a picture of it on the back anymore. My heart sank.
The company had discontinued Runway Red.
Now what? What was left in the world, in life? I was empty, soulless. I was doomed to remain Forgotten Spaghetti for the rest of my days. Forever I would be known as that girl who had the really cool hair. HAD. Past tense.
My eyes fell upon the next brand over. A similar shade of red was waggling its devilish eyebrows at me. It shook its box ever so slightly, tempting me to pick it up. I wasn’t sure; I’d been burned once already. Then I noticed Scruffy had finished choosing her outdated 1980’s style Scrunchie and was making her way back over to me. Time was running out. Do it or don’t? Do it or don’t? What if it went wrong? Scruffy was nearly upon me. Making up my mind, I grabbed the box and stole away toward the checkouts.
Once at home the process began innocently enough. Bombshell Blonde went off without a hitch, leaving my hair feeling like delicate hay as usual. Hahaha *sob* Once the toxic mess was sufficiently washed from my head, I donned the gloves for Not-Runway-Red and removed the contents.
I was stricken with horror as I realized it was not simply a bottle of goo but a pump of junk. This was the same stuff that scarred the bathroom wall during the great We’ll-Never-See-Our-Security-Deposit slip up of 2012.
I knew this stuff well. I used it once before Runway Red. The pump of junk claimed to be mess free. What it didn’t tell the user was once the cheap plastic gloves were coated in noxious chemicals, their grip became compromised. It is at this point that the Easy to Use Pump would transform into a Difficult to Aim Projectile.
I set my doubts aside and with much trepidation assembled the ominous device. I looked over at the directions which had begun to conveniently roll up now that my hands were busy. I checked to see the next step.
It said to pour the contents together and delicately rotate, warning me in enormous bold letters not to shake. Delicately rotate should have been my first clue. Delicately rotate is NOT a unit of measure. What the heck was in there so as to make it so volatile it could not be shaken? Not even ‘please swirl instead of shake’ but more like ‘DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT SHAKING THIS, IT WILL EXPLODE LEAVING A CRATER WHERE YOUR HOUSE ONCE STOOD.’
I figured it would be best to comply and swirled the combustible contents, watching as bright blue goop turned to orangey reddish muck. It was looking promising. Perhaps my hair would be okay after all. Maybe I would be a new type of me, a brighter red starlet, a ginger goddess.
After setting the container on the sink I started to tenderly pump the contents into my eager hand. I was mildly surprised to find the dye was not a thick gel but instead a runny liquid abomination reminiscent of Taco Tuesday gone awry. I could work with it though; I had been altering my hair color for over 15 years. This was nothing.
The liquid trickled onto my scalp in shocking tingles. It fizzled as it began to eat away at the existing strands. Excited to see the results I started to smear it over all of my head. It was exhilarating to be in total control of my appearance (or perhaps the feeling was a side effect from the combination of malnourishment mixed with harsh chemicals in an enclosed area).
The wait seemed to take forever. In the meantime I dreamed of what foods I would be eating if I weren’t on a god awful diet. Rice. Bread. Cherries. Cake…oh cake, I missed you the most. Your velvety frosting was as comforting as rain on a warm summer night.
With an aching stomach and a slight case of vertigo, I rushed to the bath tub when it was time to rinse. I began to dunk my head beneath the gushing faucet. I watched as crimson tears seemed to wash over my face like that nurse from the first Silent Hill game (Anybody? No? Nobody played it? Aw…).
The anticipation was at an all time high as I quickly toweled off. It was going to be amazing, it had to be. I would be reinvented, rejuvenated. It was sure to bring back the youthful snap I felt I’d been missing for some time. I threw the towel off with a flourish and was confronted with a burst of….
With a burst of Meh brownish auburn. Sigh. Auburn. How boring. Perhaps I can go to Comic-con as a fastidious librarian.
And so I lament my long lost Runway Red.
The Quest for Food
Sometimes all you want is Taco Bell. Such was the case for my dear friend; let’s call her Rhonda just to protect the guilty. Anyway she came home on Saturday night to not only her whole family but all of us as well. Now this is typical for a weekend. We tend to dork out to some pretty hard core D&D every Saturday evening. There’s no shame in that.
Anyway the poor girl worked all day long and all she asked for was a couple of burritos with sour cream and no onions. Not my type of order but I can get behind it. The stomach wants what it wants.
For all of my overseas friends who aren’t misfortunate enough to have Taco Bell in your country, let me give you a brief explanation. Taco Bell is what us happily married folk use in lieu of an abusive lover. It sweet talks you into buying it with promises of warmth and fulfillment. Then as you’re sinking your teeth into its soft outer layer you realize something isn’t quite right. Before you know what’s happened you’re hiding in the bathroom sobbing and swearing you’ll never be such a fool again. But I digress…
Since I love Rhonda with all my heart I volunteered to make the pilgrimage to Taco Bell for her. I turned to her husband, let’s call him Kelsier (a few people are chuckling right now, those who are all the way down the rabbit hole with me already, the rest of you, don’t worry, you’ll be down here with us soon), and I raised a quizzical eyebrow.
Kelsier doesn’t really like to do much once he’s home and the flip flops have come off. But we’ve been friends for the majority of my life and I know exactly what buttons I need to push to get results.
“C’mon, don’t make me go alone!” I cried.
“No,” Kelsier shook his head.
“Please?” I pleaded.
“Absolutely not!” he was adamant.
“You’ve left me no choice,” I replied, bringing out the big guns. “What if I promised a grocery store stop? Cookies?”
“Cookies you say?” he asked, ears perking up.
“Cookies. And chips.”
“Chips too? Well maybe…”
“Fine. And Snapple.”
He rose and slipped his feet into the rotting brown knock off Birkenstocks we’ve all come to love (hate). He was in. The man was ruthless when it came to bargaining but once he’s in, he’s good to his word and sticks it out until the end.
We trudged toward the front door when a little voice piped up, “Me too!”
Kelsier’s son, let’s call him Mini-me, raced out the door and jumped into the back seat of my little four cylinder Aveo. I turned to Kelsier who shrugged and shuffled to the passenger seat. I took my place behind the wheel.
I turned the key and we were suddenly barraged by “Whole Lotta Love” turned up to a pleasing eardrum annihilating volume. I quickly reached over and twisted the dial down. Kelsier gave me look that would peel paint off a wall. It was my turn to shrug.
We set off in the direction of the grocery store like a boat full of hungry Vikings. Kelsier and I began to gossip as usual.
“You know that friend of Rhonda’s? She got dumped because she cheated,” he was saying. “With three different people in two nights.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “What a little slu-.”
My response died as I looked in the review mirror and saw two very clear, very innocent cerulean blue eyes peering back. Right. Kid in the vehicle. Stop talking like a truck driver, got it.
“S-s-scallywag,” I corrected lamely, earning me an eye roll from Kelsier.
We made it to the grocery store with minimal issues. Mini-me was occupied with his tablet, thankfully, and therefore less prone to bring home any of Auntie’s foul language. I know, I know…but take me as I am.
Once inside we were faced with a myriad of difficult decisions. Plain potato chips or flavored? Pretzels or Chex Mix? It was enough to make our heads spin. There we stood, on the precipice of starvation, attempting to select the perfect snack.
We were awakened from our revelry by the sound of nonchalant crinkling. Kelsier and I stared at each other for a moment in confusion. Neither of us was holding anything plastic. The crumpling continued.
Suddenly we spun around to find Mini-me casually loading heaps of fruity candy into the cart.
“What are you doing?” Kelsier demanded, staring down at the cellophane covered bits of promised tooth decay.
“I want gummy worms,” Mini-me replied sheepishly.
I watched as a battle of wills ensued. Two sets of blue eyes narrowed. Sweat beaded along their brows. Mini-me was good. He’d learned from the best, his father. He switched tactics in an instant and opened his lids as far as possible, exposing a pair of irresistible big black pupils.
“Fine!” Kelsier yelled as he threw his hands in the air. Mini-me smugly lowered the gummy bears into the cart.
Once back in the vehicle we set off through the fading evening light toward Taco Bell. The drive thru line was uncharacteristically empty for a weekend. We quickly sped around to the speaker. Kelsier produced the sacred Post-It Note on which Rhonda had entrusted him with her order.
“El-come oooo aaaco Ell,” a voice rumbled over the flawed technology.
Kelsier and I looked at each other. I shook my head. Kelsier replied with an impatient shrug. He tried to hand me the Post-It but I pushed it back. I was the getaway driver; I would not be accountable for a mistaken order as well. Rhonda did not receive botched orders well and I had a dog to go home to.
“Elllloooo?” an annoyed voice cackled from the speaker.
“Uh…two burritos with sour cream and no green onions,” Kelsier said, flustered.
“It already oms ith our cream,” the voice replied.
“Wha-,” Kelsier began but realized the futility of it. “Then just forget it. No green onions.”
“Extra eeen onions?” the voice tried.
“No I said not to put the green onions,” the man beside me rebuked.
“So no extra eeen onions and no sour eam,” the speaker summed up.
“Wrong again!” Kelsier shouted, getting annoyed. “No green onions! None. If I should find one on there, I’ll bring down a pox upon your entire household and bloodline, do you hear me!”
“We’re orry sir, we didn’t ear that ast past,” the voice apologized.
Kelsier sighed.
“You got cheesy potatoes?” he attempted.
“Ooo want a potato urrito?” the speaker asked.
“No, cheesy potatoes,” he clarified. “As in tubers with cheese byproduct haphazardly spread over the top!”
“Daddy, I have to go potty,” Mini-me interjected.
“Ooo want a party box?” the speaker supplemented.
“No, my kid has to go POTTY not PARTY,” he corrected. “And did you get the cheesy potatoes?”
“Athroom is inside sir,” the speaker complained.
“No, its fine, he’ll pee when we get home. Did you hear me about the damn potatos?” he cried.
“Eeeeze pull ahead.”
The exchange had pushed us to the point of exhaustion. How to proceed was questionable. Did we risk taking a wrong order back to Rhonda? Or should we lie and say the line was too long, brining home McDonald’s instead?
The decision was made up fearfully and quickly. We could tell by the earnest bouncing from the backseat that time was a limited resource for the young man’s bladder. I eased the car forward.
A teenage girl with hair styled far too fancy for a fast food job and wearing enough make up to pass for Dee Snyder rolled open the window. She leaned on her elbow, completely bored.
“Ten ninety five,” she recited. “You want sauce?”
I looked at Kelsier. He shook his head.
“No sauce,” I answered.
Hootie Von Taco gave me her most disgusted look as if I’d just insulted her favorite family member. Apparently they took their sauce very seriously at that particular establishment.
“Fine,” Hootie said snidely. “Be just a minute.”
She slammed the window shut. We were left to silently wonder what faux pas we had committed. A moment later a cheap plastic bag with searing hot contents was thrust through the window onto my lap.
“Have a terrific night,” Hootie said dryly and again banged her window shut.
I volleyed the scalding sack at Kelsier who caught it with his lap and a yelp. He wasn’t planning on having more kids anyway, it’s okay. I threw the car into drive and we sped out of the drive thru.
We made it back to the house just in time for Mini-me to race through the door, with flames on his trail, to the bathroom. The poor kid had been a trooper. He knew soiling the backseat would have resulted in immediate high speed ejection from the vehicle.
It was judgment time. The bag was placed before Rhonda. She stared up at us and time stood still. The woman was tired and hungry and not all in the mood for green onions. Kelsier and I eased into our seats around the dining room table. It was reminiscent of sitting across from Darth Vader in that scene from Empire…
Rhonda lifted the tin foiled burrito from the package as we held our breath. It seemed to shine with holy light like an artifact discovered during the Crusades. She unrolled the metallic paper. The burrito’s soggy shell was revealed to us like a nymph on her wedding night. I heard Kelsier swallow in anticipation.
The matriarch began to gently pull apart the carefully constructed entrée. A puff of mystery steam burped out while she did. Our knuckles clenched on the table, turning white. Was that onion? Did it smell like onions? Rhonda’s face betrayed no emotion as she examined her treasure. Somewhere in the background a clock ticked idly.
Suddenly Rhonda’s face lit up in satisfaction.
“Perfect, no green onions!” she said musically. “Thanks guys!”
We relaxed into a sigh of relief. They had gotten the order correct. We would live to see another day. Kelsier joyfully opened his container of potatoes.
There was no cheese.
Our hearts skipped a beat as we realized how close we had come to disaster. Some divine deity had stopped Rhonda from getting the incorrect order. Lady luck was playing in our favor that evening.
“That was close,” I whispered.
“Too close, we won’t be as lucky next time,” Kelsier replied, exhausted as he began to eat his rubbery potatoes.
The Reckoning
The smell had been silently working its way into our living room. We stared at each other with solemn resolve. It was time to clean out the refrigerator.
I approached the rectangular stink machine with trepidation. Pulling my Castlevania T-shirt up over my nose, I placed shaking fingers on the curved handle. Suddenly I realized I was alone in this endeavor.
Turning slowly I regarded my husband. His unwashed brown hair poked up haphazardly from behind the computer chair signaling he was still engaged in grave combat with the Sith.
“Ahem,” I called.
The man in front of the glowing screen sighed; secretly wishing the force was really with him. He pushed himself out from the desk and trudged to my side. I peeked at him while gauging his readiness. He replied with a steely nod. It was now or never.
I pulled on the handle. What opened before us was a world of scientific chaos. Dingy yellow spilled out while we gaped in fear. Three shelves filled with the rotting ghosts of meals past awaited.
The shockwave hit us a second later. We were not prepared. The two of us felt our knees quake as the aroma of decay slapped our faces. I staggered backward, sagging against the man behind me. He was succumbing to the odorous attack and flailed into the wind. At the last second he steadied himself against the rickety kitchen table.
On instinct I kicked the door shut. The cloud receded. We stood, gasping and trying to figure out what had just happened. Our hearts pounded wildly in our chests. At last we summoned the courage for a second attempt.
Again I griped the cool plastic handle. It seemed so inviting as if begging us to enjoy the rectangle’s delicious contents. What foul trickery, nothing awaited us but the sick taste of despair.
My husband placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder as if willing me the strength to carry on. Ensuring my makeshift faceguard was in place I wrenched the door open. This time the aroma passed harmlessly over us. We had properly prepared for the engagement.
Finally we could see the army of foes amidst the ooze filled surfaces. Aged Tupperware filled with mossy contents taunted me at eye level. Baggies of liquid that had once been proud vegetables winked in malice. An acorn squash rolled menacingly somewhere close to the rear wall.
We turned to the inner door. Years of strategic training had told us we needed to start with the weakest enemy first. Ignoring my anxiety I heroically clasped a hand around an unnamed jar. I lifted it watching the poisonous contents shift. Gingerly I dropped the offending vessel into the dark garbage bag held by my ally. It landed with a solid thud.
A small victory but it was enough to fuel our morale. I yanked out another bottle reading “Idden Alley Anch Ressing”. It was covered in some manner of grease. Gritting my teeth in disgust I tossed it over my shoulder and turned back to the depleting lineup.
We continued in such a fashion for several minutes. Then, blinded by our overconfidence, we were taken by surprise. The Yogurt container…the final bastion in the door’s defense…waited calmly in the bottom left corner. I took hold of it carelessly.
The cheap plastic had been compromised by weeks of steady steeping in acidic dairy substance. It caved slightly as it was torn from the compartment. The lid lifted ever so slightly, spewing noxious vapors directly into our unsuspecting faces.
I tripped backwards, gagging. My eyes burned as though I had been sprayed with mace. Wildly I teetered while attempting to maintain consciousness. Thinking quickly, my comrade slapped the still leaking container from my hands. It splattered inside the garbage can safely enclosed within the bag.
We shared a silent look of thanks. There was no room for conversation while on the battlefield. It would have to wait. We turned back to the sneering shelves.
I knew there was no time for delay. The act would have to be completed swiftly or we would lose our nerve. With a deep breath we headed straight into the fray. We began to claw barbarically at decomposing food. We tried our best not to notice as it crunched beneath our fingers.
We were making progress. Item after gooey item was whipped into the awaiting abyss. Green pineapple whirled into the chasm followed by its friend, blackening kabob. Crusty cheese howled in rage while attempting to save itself, reaching for a decaying carton of soy milk.
“You’re welcome to take it with you!” I yelled in a voice borrowed from Conan the Barbarian.
I pushed both items into the bag triumphantly. Liquefied salad was next. It was festering quietly in the crisper. We pried it from the glass while carefully dodging its venomous drippings. The task was nearly complete.
Finally the acorn squash rolled forward. Like a fuming guardian of filth it smugly loomed, blocking out the timid light bulb. The fiend’s shadow spread across our terrified faces.
It was an ancient beast, most likely whispered of in folk and lore for generations. It had been making its den since before the winter snow had melted. It was knit purely from nightmares.
We squared our shoulders. I quickly snatched at the rapscallion gourd. It struggled, aggressively attempting to break free. The beast let out a screech of protest while it bit at my skin with its scaly green ridges. Sweat beaded across my forehead as I reached in the other arm. This was a two hand job.
Firmly I brought the shriveled undead monster forth. It was not about to go down without a fight. The demon gourd’s structural integrity needed little motivation to be compromised. Without warning the sides caved revealing a sticky inner trove of mushy mold. I felt myself retch. The morning’s coffee was about to be forfeited from my stomach.
I called up all of my will power. I have faced down zombies in distant lands, aliens swarming forgotten moons, and colander wearing green pigs. I was a charismatic warrior. I would not be defeated this day.
The squash was vomiting its entrails across my fingers. With the force of a thousand avenging angels I lobbed it into the vast cavity marked Hefty. It clattered angrily atop its fellow fallen soldiers in the vanquished army.
My ally was waiting; he planted a firm toe on the now empty refrigerator. Like a brave wartime hero he hauled it shut. Simultaneously I tugged the garbage bag’s ties. At quickly as my fingers would allow I created a knot. The enemy was contained.
We panted and each took a handful of plastic. At a united team we dragged the bag that held the bodies toward the front door. The corpses would be laid to rest in the Waste Management catacombs.
The Battle of Light and Dark
It all began with a 32 ounce diet Coke from the fountain. I enjoy fountain soda, a LOT. So of course when I have one I tend to drink all of it right away. This in turn leads to a pretty hasty trip to the bathroom soon after. There is no shame in that.
As I made my swift journey to the facilities, I carelessly switched on the light, threw down my wedding ring, and made the mistake of turning around. There resting deviously on the wall was a monster of mammoth proportions. Its hairy legs were splayed out in all directions; the joints lazily relaxed as it basked in the glory of the bathroom wall. Its eyes followed me, filled with malice.
A centipede. The biggest one I have seen in all my life. This fellow trumped the ones at my family’s house which was built in the 1920’s and still has a dirt room in the basement. Sweet mother of God.
I froze with terror. The centipede rubbed its front feet together while planning its next torturous move. It was too much. I screamed sharply to alert my dog. He valiantly ran to my aid…but thought better of it and stopped short. Oh why did he have to equate the bathroom with baths! He knew his mommy was in trouble but the fear of another sudsy affair was too great. He could not pass the threshold.
I was on my own. I looked all around for the can of RAID I kept in near the tub. (Fiends always attack when one is most powerless to defend oneself). It had been moved. I must have left it in the kitchen during the Great Arachnid War. Drat.
I mustered up all the courage I could and vaulted through the doorway. The centipede laughed at my fright, holding its ground. It knew it had claimed the bathroom. No more would anyone be relieving themselves without paying it homage.
The battle was not yet lost. I raced to the living room, desperately searching for the can and my only salvation. I threw bills on the floor, whipped paper towels into the air, shoved the D&D dice aside. But it was all for naught, the RAID was missing. I looked at the grill lighter and contemplated burning the house down.
A light in the corner caught my eye. What was this but another can of RAID! The flying insect version was waiting gloriously on the computer desk. I cried out in elation as I snatched it and held it over my head triumphantly. It was mostly empty. I knew I would have to make every blast count.
Swallowing hard I leapt back through the doorway. The centipede had not moved, it was too confident in its victory. I summoned the courage of all my ancestors. Their heritage was culminated in that one important moment. Make them proud, I told myself. Overthrow the beast.
Pointing the can at the monster, I knelt as close as my sanity would allow. I could see the individual follicles on its back. Earthy brown with moss colored zigzags covered its pokey surface. The centipede smirked. It could smell my fear.
With a battle cry borrowed from the angel Gabriel I depressed the button. A clear misting of poison sprang forth. The beast reared up in rage. It hissed violently and dashed toward the cupboard.
“DIE! DIE!! DIE!!!” I called out, fury lacing every word.
The centipede hissed again. It had flames in its eyes. I continued to spray as I felt tears prickle my eyelids. It was me or it this day. The beast was now covered in sticky white paste but the fight was still in it. The centipede trotted across the cupboard door, blind with outrage.
The can went dry.
I clicked it again. This could not be! The monster was not yet slain! I clicked it once more and still nothing spewed out. I threw it in annoyance. I would have to dirty my hands, something I loathe to do.
Jogging back into the living room I surveyed my arsenal. Paper? No too close of range, too high an opportunity for error. Remote? No, have to extract the body, too messy. There in the corner. A size 10 Sketcher belonging to the man in my life.
I seized the weapon of mass squishing and returned to the battlefield. The centipede had made it to the lower edge of the door. It was leaving a ivory trail now but its will was strong. I hefted the shoe over my head as the beast hissed again and reared on its hind legs. It would be a courageous blow; the two of us were locked in mortal combat.
The Sketched sliced through the air and slammed down onto the back of the monster. I heard a crunch while I continued to shriek like a Valkyrie. I surveyed the damage with trepidation as I drew back the shoe. Horror dawned as the beast surged forward, still alive.
It cursed my name, speaking in tongues like a vile demon from the abyss. I beat the shoe down upon it again and again until I could lift it no more. The legs went still. Panting, I crawled from the bathroom. Wiping sweat from my brow I breathed a sigh of relief as the battle was won. The monster had been successfully exterminated.
More funny short stories. (Previously journal entries)
© 2014 - 2024 Pchoppy
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