I'm too old for you.

I'm too old for you.

Look, when we started hanging out, I thought, no big deal. It's all in good fun! I like cheese, you like cheese, sounds like a perfect night out to me!

But now that we’re spending nearly EVERY DAY together I am starting to question whether this is really appropriate. It’s not that you’re not good enough, Mac n’ Cheese, it’s me. Really. I’m THIRTY TWO. I just don’t know if we have a viable relationship.

That said, I REALLY LIKE YOU. I’m willing to give it a shot. But I can’t keep pretending I’m still a kid. We’re going to have to do this grown up style. We may even need to get you out of the box and start making you from scratch. At the very least, I’m going to dress you in grown up clothes. I’m adding tomatoes, peas, maybe even butternut squash. Mmmm…..

Ok we may have a future. But if I start hankering for Flintstones vitamins, we’re done. I have to face facts that I’m an adult and need to eat grown-up food. And I’m pretty sure they’re not going to make me sit at the kiddy table at T-giving this year. Big stuff for me. I can’t have you holding me back. But for the moment, I do like you. Let’s eat! xo

I’m tired of being your booty call

I get it, fried food, I’m waaaay more into you than you are into me. But must you take advantage of me in this way? I'm not a piece of meat.

I’ve tried to quit you cold turkey. I haven’t eaten fast food since Morgan Spurlock brought to the big screen my single largest phobia.

But when it’s late and when there are cocktails, that’s when I’m weakest. I know this. You know this. And you take advantage.

My friends tell me I shouldn’t take your late night calls; that you’re only using me. And they remind me of every single time I woke up in a terrible state from too much nachos or too many fried mushrooms or god forbid, that one night at the Bosnian night club where the outside vendor’s burger WASN’T made of soy…

But I’m weak. I succumb. In the moment I think I really do mean something to you, and I listen to you when you whisper sweet nothings in my ear…. “cheese….. chips….. friiiiiiieeeeeeeedddddd ....... thiiiiiiiinnnnnnngggggggsssssss……”

And in the light of day I realize it was just a booty call.

Well, we’re drawing boundaries. I may take your call, but I am not going to put on that school girl outfit. Nope, only certain fried foods will I eat late at night.

Moonrise: your spinach raviolis are on the list. The marinara has hints of real tomato and not a trace of meat. Both tasty and not overly-laden with grease. Acceptable.

Nick’s pub: your nachos complete with stale chips and neon glow nacho cheese that comes out of a machine – out of the question. And don’t even think about asking me to try your fried provel cheese sticks again. I may have an open mind, and yes, I’m a girl that likes to have fun, but those are tasteless, heartburn inducing, full of enough sodium to make my face puff in seconds. Never again.

Sub Zero: your fried zucchini is great. I almost count this as a vegetable. I’ve even known to make two separate orders and eat both, and still walk away upright without too much limping. You know how to treat a lady. Real, fresh zucchini spears, house-made breading, not too greasy. Acceptable.

But Nick’s again: your fried zucchini is hideous. Frightful really. Lacking in flavor and artery-hardening. I’m starting to wonder if you add any value to my life at all. Unacceptable.

And Amsterdam. Good lord your undercooked provel cheese frozen pizza served on its own cardboard circle is just shameful. Don’t you have any self-respect? At least take your socks off; late night calls do leave in room for certain allowances nobody would make in the daylight. Beer goggles, if you will. But this is unacceptable. Though I dig that you bring your own roll of paper towels for post-consumption clean up. That's a nice touch.

Here’s the thing, fried food. I am a big girl, and I know you’re bad for me. I want something more. But I also know that sometimes, late at night, I might get lonely and I might make bad choices. I can live with this. There are limits, however. You can’t just steamroll me willy nilly anymore. Or else I’ll be unable to face my bloated, splotchy face the next day. Let’s keep this mutually beneficial, OK?

Talk to you this weekend.

The universe played a dirty trick on me.

With my last dollar I tried to purchase some peanut m&m's to get me through two hours of con law. The vending machine thought I meant this:




Not that, vendy! Not that. Not ever that.

Somebody kindly lent me another dollar though!