I wrote this blog called "French Fried" last year when I was thinking about someone and wondering how they were. I thought I would share some of my past with you.
French Fried - December 17, 2005
See, I really needed to go to bed, since I am around 10 hours past my bedtime. However, I just laid there and my brain decided to drag me along to it's little field trip into my past. And of course, I had the nagging, blogoholic urge to made sure I make an entry. So here she be:
About 10 years ago or so (too tired to do the actual math), I needed to bum a ride from my roommate Sean, to my fast food(ya shoulda listened to ya Ma and gone to college) job, since my car was...well, being a 20 year old car and wouldn't start. Sean had the habit of smoking weed in the car while he drives; and he hated to smoke alone, so when I would refuse to partake in said 'toking,' he would roll up the electric windows in his car and lock them, therefore forcing anyone in the passenger seat to choose between kissing Mary Jane-full on the mouth OR a Saturday morning, Wile E. Coyote styled tumbling death.
Well, this day was no different to Sir Tokes-A-Lot, because he took the long way to get to my work and I was 'crispy' by the time I got there. I was so pissed at him! I tried to keep it together and I took a very deep breath of smoke-free air when I got out of the car, hoping that the clean would evict the dirty. When I opened the doors to the restaurant dining room, I realized that I was totally f***ed! It took me, what seemed like 5 minutes, to stop being amazed at the pattern and colors of the bricks on the floor, and that was replaced by my nose picking up the smell of old ketchup, cigarette butts, and burger wrappers from the trash can. The beeping from the french-fry timer was the only thing that broke my trace. Just long enough for me to shuttle my wobbling, unsteady a** into the bathroom. There I attempted a MacGuyverish like Visine trick to lessen the red pumping veins in my peepers, by pouring ice cold water right on my eyeballs. Since I'm not MacGuyver, but MissGuyver, this only caused them to poof up and squeeze out a tear fest reminiscent of the time that I witnessed Timmy's realization that Lassie might not be coming home.
Now in full panic, I began to vigorously scrub my available body parts with the pink syrup-like soap, that I was now thankful that I refilled the day before. Exasperated, with the knowledge, that there was simply no way to hide this, I took a deep breath and walked into the kitchen, careful to avoid contact. Knowing that if anyone saw my tear filled face they would question if it was romance problems again. I silently cursed myself for being friendly at all, if I had only been like the trash guy or that manager that everyone hates, nobody would bother to look at me, let alone talk to me.
So anyway, I spent the next several hours reeking like Tommy Chong's most comfortable Grateful Dead t-shirt and trying to build little stacks in the right order: bun, meat, cheese, pickles....wait...bun, meat, cheese, pickles, onions...no, ketchup first, then onions....it was awful! I would stumble into a tunnel haze and only return when I heard the french-fry timer going off. OMG! You have no idea how many times I had to re-convince myself that putting my hand into the french-fry, hot-oil cooker was a BAD IDEA. Pretty...golden....ooooohhh
It was an interesting day to say the least! Thank you Sean, wherever you are.
