WHEN DID THE PRESIDENTIAL INAUGURATION TURN INTO MARDI GRAS???

So is any- one else sick-to-death-already of hearing about the inauguration festivities, and how the cost could top the $150,000,000-mark?

I think it's totally, disgustingly, incomprehensibly inappropriate to be throwing a $150 million party while we're all simultaneously questioning what Barry-O will accomplish toward healing the economy in his first 100 days in office. Frankly, I can't believe anyone really cares... from the looks of all this ridiculous red carpet-style hootenanny, it's more about getting your swerve on with rock stars... parties... fashions... the limelight... celebrity. And a whole lot less about the gravity and responsibility of the office.

And all this absurd nonsense about emulating Lincoln? I saw on the news this morning where the inaugural dinner is a replica of the menu at Lincoln's dinner... uh, do we really think, for one split second, that President Lincoln would have approved of this horsecrap??? I'm sure he would have been stirred to his patriotic core by Hannah Montana. And excuse me for saying so, but I think what we have here are a bunch of mules in horse harness, shamelessly parading themselves around and congratulating each other on their achievements-- all the while, squandering precious taxpayer dollars...

I remember an article where GW was rebuked for spending $40 million on his inauguration four years ago... they told how many Hummers and tanks could have been purchased and sent to Iraq, along with a lot of other wartime necessities, for that price. It seemed a mite tacky to the press, because we were in a time of war. Guess what? We've still got war, people... plus an economy that, if you listen to the news hype, is hanging on by a thread... American industry in peril to the point that the domino-effect of its downfall could collapse our entire economy... and a financial framework in dire need of government handouts, for no other reason than the same brand of wantonness and indulgence that's running the show in DC tomorrow.

And if getting the new Pres sworn in is really about this kind of extravagance, I have but one suggestion: Let's just wait and do the deed down in New Orleans in a few weeks instead! Seriously. We'll kill two birds with one stone. A crowded sea of rowdy revelers... Check. An estimated ONE porta-potty per 6,000 attendees... Check. And more boobs on display than you could count. Check-Check.

Sounds like Mardi Gras to me!

INTRODUCING.... THE SNARKIES

To all of you needlessly rude peeps on the planet, I salute you. I “see” your snark-factor and I’m gonna raise you one now. I think it might be fun, playing your game for once. So I’m recognizing— nay, celebrating— your way of life. It’s high time someone honored your achievements in making the world a less happy place for the rest of us. Some of you are quite accomplished in your art, and you should be singled out for your inwavering commitment to various acts of discourtesy. So I present to you {drumroll, please…} The Snarky Award.

Television has the Emmy. Theater has the Tony. Movies pay tribute with the Oscar. Musicians receive Grammys. And for all you impolite losers who were raised in barns, I give you the Snarky.

The first Snarky recipient I would like to pay tribute to is the rude Sonic carhop. You know who you are... you pretend it's ten minutes 'til 2:00 so you don't have to give us "happy hour" prices on our drinks.

Let me first say that I adore Sonic. You can’t get a colder, more refreshing soft drink anywhere than you’ll consistently get at Sonic Drive-Ins. Not only do the Sonic mixologists always provide just the right fizzle-to-syrup ratio, there are dozens of add-ins to get just the flavor you’re craving. They also have the best ice in the world. And the ice stays nice and cool in the trusty Sonic styrofoam cup. The straws are even extra large for maximum intake. It’s thirst-quenching perfection. And during “happy hour”, from 2 to 4pm daily, this perfection is always half-price.

So yesterday it was nearing 2 o’clock as Brittnee and I were leaving Hobby Lobby, and we decided it would be a good idea to wet our whistles with a little carbonated refreshment from Sonic. We pulled up to the drive-thru, ordered our drinks and proceeded to the window where the carhop said, “That will be $3.58”. Ever-so-kindly, Brittnee replied, “So what time does happy hour start?” To which the carhop snapped, “It’s from 2 to 4.” And Brittnee and I, in unison, said “So what time is it now?” And the carhop retorted, “It’s like ten ‘til 2.” Ok.

Now, according to the clock in the car, it was already a few minutes past 2… but apparently in the blissful land of cherry syrup, lime wedges and fruity/fizzy drinks, the clock runs a few minutes behind the rest of the universe. And if you question her authority on the matter, the carhop will put you right in your place. She doesn't have a good humor about 50%-off drinks and wouldn’t dare discount them a nanosecond early… it's almost as if the other 50% was coming right out of her fanny pack coin-changer-thingie. Like Paul Masson will sell no wine before its time, the surly carhop will sell no half-off slushes before 2pm. I get it. Rules are rules, and our clock was probably a few minutes fast, I'll admit. But for the love of Oreo blasts, just be nice about enforcing them, please.

It’s not my fault your skates are laced up too tight and that most people are too cheap to tip you. I feel for you. Really. But anyone in a snappy little fast-food visor should dispense both fries-- and disappointing news-- with a smile. I’m just sayin’…

And so, surly Sonic Carhop, this Snarky’s for you!

TRAINER BOB LOSES IT!

When it comes to losing it-- your cool, that is-- no one lost more tonight than mild-mannered Bob Harper.

On the second episode of Biggest Loser Couples, Bob completely went off on Joelle for slacking during the Last Chance Workout. Now, maybe I just have my "I love Bob" goggles on, but I can't really fault the guy...

This season "boasts" the heaviest contestants in the show's history, and despite their size and obvious physical barriers, these guys have heart. You can tell they really feel it in their gut (no pun intended... well, ok maybe a little intended). They are puking. They are gasping. Their faces are red and dripping with sweat. They're here to kick some major beeeee-hind.

Oh, and then there's Joelle.

After the couples were split in the first ep-- sending one home, while the other remains at the ranch to "earn" the ousted one a chance to come back after 30 days-- the pressure is on. Not only are they fighting to maintain their own standing in the contest, they're also fighting for their teammates who are having to go-it alone at home. I have to admit... I understood Joelle's temptation to take host Allison Sweeney's $25,000 bribe to leave. Joelle knows her heart isn't in this... hence her declaration to "fake it 'til I make it". Come on. If you fake it, you don't make it. That's the whole premise of the show. It takes a lot of commitment to do the work, drop the weight and make lifestyle changes that stick. If you "fake it", you end up with a 2-lb loss for the week... which is what Joelle posted at the weigh-in. Personally, I think she should've said, "Thanks, Allison... Give me the cash, I'm gonna cut and run". Betcha she could've gone longer than 20 seconds at that point! It would've been easy money. And with that kind of cash, even after taxes, you could hire a personal trainer to beat you up every day-- plus, pay off all of your debt, put a down-payment on a home or realize any number of dreams. But that's not what The Biggest Loser is about. I think Joelle succumbed to the peer pressure-- which kind of is what the show is about. In a good way.

But I have to tell you, after seeing Joelle's BFF Carla in the first episode, I get the feeling that Bob's myriad F-bombs would have been a mere drop in the workout-barf-bucket compared to what Carla would've done if she had caught Joelle dragging around the gym like that. I wouldn't tangle with Miss Carla for anything... and I don't say that, because at 379 lbs she is the biggest female in the show's history. I say it because I don't think she'd hesitate to jack. you. up.

So I can't wait to see what happens next week! This is really inspiring stuff to me right now... how amazing that some of these people are able to lose this amount of weight in such a short period of time. Makes my little 12-lb loss since New Years look pretty namby-pamby... but I'll take it. I'm a little more than 20% of the way to my 55-lb goal. I know it's going to get a lot tougher from here... so I believe that, when the going gets tough, I'll just envision Bob getting all Jillian on MY Joelle butt!

PUTTING THE "G" IN GHETTO...

I should probably just apologize, up-front, for this post. Let the title serve as a warning... I am, in the words of the Doobie Brothers, "taking it to the streets". Or at least taping it to the bathroom mirror. I've had it, and it's time for decisive action.

Over the past two years, our department has gone from something like 436 people down to fewer than 200. And I'm not sure how you lose over 200 pooping, peeing, messy people and find that the restrooms were cleaner before... it just defies logic. But the ladies room has gone from Stellar to So-So and now has taken a dive to Third World Country. And I did a dozen years at the old CDP building, folks, so I'm certainly not uninitiated. Nope. I've been grossed out, like, 4,300 days in a row. The restrooms back then were just barely one rung above the "Job Johnny" you'll find at any outdoor festival and one rung below the Texaco station with the smelly outdoor restrooms and a key attached to a 2" x 4". So when I say it's bad, folks, it's pretty dang bad. Brittnee even coined an super-descriptive term that explains it to a tee... our ladies room smells like "poopy Crayons".

Now, I've already speculated in a previous blog that Little Latin Lupe has it in for me... I would put up my first car payment that she races me to the restroom, just when my bladder is sloshingly full of Diet Coke and on the verge of rupture, to place the yellow bar of doom across the doorway. I'm sure it's my imagination, but I detect a hint of smugness when she knows I'll have to sprint, cross-legged, into a lopsided gallop across the third floor to get to the other restroom. She's amazingly quick and agile for a gal with a giant yellow caca cart, that Lupe. So I don't wanna do anything to rile her up. But something's gotta give. I mean, the unmentionables are poking up out of the top of the trash receptacles in the stalls-- so it dawns on me: It's time for a friendly little note.

Maybe it's just a balls-out case of after-hours swagger... but as I sat there alone, with not another living soul in the office, it hit me. It was time to do it for myself and for my office peeps. I printed the note without hesitation, grabbed two pieces of tape, and headed for the lavatory at warp speed. Wish me luck. Tomorrow, either the bathrooms will be in better shape. Or I'll have the tread marks of the giant yellow caca cart across my back. Either way, I'll be a hero... In my own mind.

PS-- I'm hoping I'm not construed as a Passive-Aggressive Emoticon User... Hmm... didn't think of that. But no, I don't think there was any "passive" here. Ooooonly aggressive. Too many Tampax wrappers running amok in the stalls will do that.

"PUT THAT TONGUE IN YOUR MOUTH AND EAT..." ADVENTURES IN DINING: PART DEUX

After the popularity of our visit to the Star of India two weeks ago, we've all been patting ourselves on the back for our collective culinary bravado-- and having avoided any major health scares or ill effects from the meal, we've decided it should be a regular institution. From now on, our little luncheon group will dare to find a different "greasy spoon" each time we eat out! Mikey G even coined a term to describe our new lunchtime haunts: Riskaurants. Me likey.

So today, we gave the ol' wheel of death 'n diarrhea another spin... and this time, it fell on me to choose the venue. Now, every time I pass through Springdale, I notice a bunch of new Mexican joints along both sides of 71-B. Most are kind of nondescript, small and have names that I can barely pronounce. And only one really sticks in my memory-- partly, because it's a little larger than the others and partly because there are usually quite a few cars there. So I said, "Let's try the Tesoro Beach Bar & Grill" and away we went.

We pulled up and saw the lettering on the windows: "$3.99 Lunch Specials". I'm thinking, "Score!!!" I mean, you can't expect much for four bucks these days, right? When we walked in, our nostrils were immediately met with the pungent smell of cleaning solutions-- and following the former dirty mop bucket / incense tear-gas combo from the last riskaurant, we all concurred that we were off to a promising start. We might actually like this place. We were the first diners to hit the joint today, so we were able to have a nice, long, apprising look around. Everything appeared to be spotlessly clean. I just had to apologize to my friends. Here we were, trying to tempt our gastronomical fate, and I had to go and pick a perfectly safe and sanitary place to eat?Sheesh. To myself, I was thinking, "We'll probably get ice in our drinks and everything." And sure enough.

So the waitress arrives, plops down the obligatory chips and salsa and proceeds to take drink orders while we browse the menu. And when I say menu, I mean it was about a five-page spread, full of dozens of options: Mexican, Salvadorean, tex-mex, lunch specials, a la carte, etc... And despite the lack of apparent risk here, el Gran Jefe decides to take one anyway: Taco de Lengua. Now, in case that doesn't sound sufficiently gross to you, please allow me to translate. Tongue Tacos. I ain't making it up, folks. Seriously.

Take a look for yourself... those are radishes on top, by the way. I'm not sure if you can tell from the photo, but surprisingly, it looked quite palatable. I was comparing it to the grotesque lump that startles me when I accidentally look down and see a giant beef tongue in the meat case at the grocery store. This really just looked like any other cut of beef, grilled.

But a meal that can taste you back? Not for this chica. But Jefe actually found it quite yummy and said it just tasted like beef (makes sense, I guess). And he made a very happy plate, so who am I to quibble...

Mikey G opted for an almuerzo Salvadoreño and ordered the Tesoro Plate, which I would assume to be the house special for lunch. It certainly looked special, anyway (see photo at top of this post). He had a tamale, a couple of flautas, a really interesting-looking tostada with boiled egg and some feta-like cheese crumbles on top. He, too, made a plato feliz... clean as a whistle!

Brittnee chose to play it safe and ordered nachos-- which also looked very good and were almost completely consumed. This was a triumph over the four kidney beans she managed to gag down the last time we played this game. And since I'm firmly on point with my new year's diet, I'm low-carbing these days and ordered a plate of fajita meat. It's not very exciting, but a good choice without the tortillas and rice. I forgot to tell them to hold the sizzle, and despite that I somehow managed not to smell like Mexican food all day. I'm telling you, the gastro-gods smiled on us today.

Delicious food... reasonable prices... extremely friendly service... no peril. Ok, so that last part might have been a bit of a buzzkill at first-- but as Mikey G pointed out, that's part of the allure. When you try a new place, you take the good with the bad... and you just might find a fantastic new place to eat. Who knew? ¡Esto es loco!

Oh, I might also mention the assorted "specialty teas" that were on display by the register. There were three of them, but the one that really caught my attention was of the colon cleansing variety. I suppose that if we'd seen that as soon as we set foot on Tesoro sand, we would've had our first inkling that our brave pursuits were in vain. Everyone knows that any self-respecting riskaurant performs a good colon cleanse on its own terms, without the aid of herbal stimulants.

VINCE IS BACK WITH ANOTHER SHAM... WOW!

Our ol' pal Vince, the ShamWow pitch man, is back... this time, with a nifty new chopper called the Slap Chop-- plus a whole new shtick that's all but dripping with double entendre.

And the new tag line?? Wait for it...

"You're going to be in a great mood all day, because you'll be slappin' your troubles away..."

Seriously! That's how the ad starts. And all the while Vince demos the amazing abilities of this little kitchen gizmo, I think to myself, "He's messing with us. That Vince is a dirty rapscallion. He doesn't think we're listening closely enough to catch the innuendo..." Here are a few of his best lines...

- "If I can do it with one finger, you guys can do it with your whole hand... "

- "One chop, you add the pickle..."

- "You're gonna love my nuts..."

- "The reason you're gonna slap away everyday is because it's so easy to clean..." (I have to wonder, is clean-up easier with a ShamWow???)

- "You can do everything in the cover, alright..."

- "Guys, we're gonna make America skinny again, one slap at a time..."

- "Tacos, fettuccine, linguine, martini, bikini..."

And the best part?? Vince throws the rinky-dink wannabe Slap Chop into the sink behind him... Over his shoulder. Without. Missing. A. Beat. It is priceless!

So what do you think: Is Vince for real? Is all this filthy talk mere coincidence or is he a total perv? Will he parlay his raw huckster talent into a whole career of as-seen-on-tv products, just like Billy Mays? I still have to say that Vince is infinitely more entertaining than Billy... And after seeing this commercial for the first time, I am literally wiping the tears! Oh and PS, Vince-- it's not from your onions. Because like you state in the ad, "Life's hard as it is... you don't wanna cry anymore". But I know I will... next time they air this spot!

THINK I SHOULD STOP CARRYING ALL THIS CATNIP AROUND IN MY BRA?

Yes, it's a baby-kitty. And yes, it's drinking a saucer of milk... Ahem...in my kitchen. It showed up (ran into my garage and told Mark it wanted to come in out of the cold for a minute) a couple nights ago. He had pulled his car into my garage to wax and detail it, and had heard a cat crying for over an hour; despite his repeated attempts to follow the sound, he could never figure out where the distressed cat was-- until it bolted across the street, up the driveway and beelined into the garage. Poor little thing was so scrawny and hungry and pitifully unkempt. And once it got nourished and comfortable, it traded the crying and mewing for loud, loud purrs. My heart melted. And so apparently, you guys aren't the only ones who know I'm the Crazy-Cat-Lady... word has hit the feline grapevine, as well. It was only a matter of time.

He (and I use the term dubiously, because as you know I'm not the best kitten-sexer) appears to be about ten weeks old. Calico. Feisty. Friendly. Bullies the crap out of Smidgey, which I love. So you know what this means... if he's going to be sticking around a while, he'll need an S name. And a politically-correct belled collar that matches his coloring. Déjà vu, eh? Oh yeah, and you'll have to endure one or two (ok, a whole big-honkin'-bunch more) cat stories.

I'm going to canvass the neighborhood this weekend and see if anyone is short a cat. And if no one 'fesses up, I'm not sure what in the heck I'll do with four cats. Four. FOUR. F-O-U-R. I'm screwed, folks. Even if you explain that two are fat, decrepit, old, inside cats that have been with me since the Macarena was the schiz... and the other two are rescued-strays-turned-outside-cats, you still sound like a freak. In the same category with Trekkies, Bigfoot stalkers, Hare Krishnas, Dungeons & Dragons gamers, Amway salesmen, Bingo ladies with their own dobbers, and the like. Not pretty company to be in.

So how did this happen? Do you think it could be the catnip I've been carrying in my bra?? Maybe I should empty out... but then I'd have to buy a B-cup...

XMAS PAST AND PRESENT... TIME TO GET REAL

So I'm jumping on the resolution bandwagon. Again. And this time, I'm posting some brutally honest photos to show my progression from fit to fat. It only takes a few years to turn back into a lardo.

I vowed to never let myself get this heavy again, but somehow it happened... no, let's not say "somehow it happened" because that implies that circumstances caused it. And I'm the one who's responsible.

Time to get real. Time to get serious.

This weekend, I started the program. I picked up the book Never Say Diet by Chantal Hobbs-- who once weighed 350 lbs and is now a fitness expert, spinning instructor and accomplished marathon runner. And it's pretty inspiring. I have to think that if this mother of four can find the strength to turn herself around (first mentally, then physically) and start living a passion-filled life of energy and activity, then I can do it too. Heck, I've done it before-- I've just got to find the wherewithall and commitment to make it stick this time.

My goal for 2009: 55 lbs in 40 weeks. Wish me luck!

Oh, so you noticed that my hairstyle hasn't changed in five years?? I see it too, and it royally stinks. Yeah, I'll be changing that as well. "Out with the fat... in with the phat!"

COKE CLOTHES: C-C-C-CATCH THE WAVE

Ok, unless you're a total Eighties Lady (and proud of it!) like me, you probably won't remember the whole "Max Headroom" ad campaign for Coca-Cola... nor the clothing line that they came up with in the late 80's. But take my word for it: Cokewear paired beautifully with the Swatch in all it's Swatch-Guarded splendor, ultra tight-legged jeans and hightop tennis shoes back then. My all-time favorite was my Coca-Cola Rugby shirt... which I esteemed to be even cooler than the Coca-Cola sweatshirt my parents brought me back from Macy's in New York in 1987. And that's saying something, because I thought a shirt from Macy's was "way rad" at the time.

But what conjures all of these memories is that today Robert is celebrating his 22-year anniversary with J.B. Hunt... and Mikey G challenged everyone to think back to January 5, 1987, and tell what we were up to that day.

Hmmm... this date in 1987? Let me think back... Ah, yes, yes, I remember it now.

It started as any usual day for me. I was a junior in high school and woke up 30 minutes late, just like always... We lived in Witter (ten miles south of Huntsville) and so I was in a rush to get to dear ol' HHS by the eight o'clock bell. I hopped in the shower; lathered my hair in Apple Pectin shampoo and applied copious amounts of mousse in an attempt to get the David Coverdale look-- a hairstyle that completely eluded me all throughout the 80's, despite my unwavering devotion to AquaNet. I donned my Coca-Cola brand rugby shirt and cropped Guess jeans with ankle-zippers, grabbed a cherry Poptart, a can of Diet Coke, and a pair of thick "scrunch-socks" to run outside bare-footed and throw my books and shoes into the passenger seat of my '79 Monte Carlo. I hopped in, fired her up and punched the heat knob repeatedly in a desperate attempt to reach a respectable temp above freezing as I raced down highway 23-South. As I drove, I ate the poptart, put on my socks, Velcro'd on a gleaming-white new pair of Reebok high-tops, and applied pink L'Oreal lipstick and electric-blue mascara in the visor mirror--- all to the pounding bass of Def Leppard's Hysteria cassette. Finishing the make-up, I grabbed the can of AquaNet from under the front seat and gave the hair one last spray. By the time I got this close to school, my lacquered-into-place-side-wings had already fallen... *sigh*

I parked illegally, not wishing to risk another "tardy" mark in first period English, and rushed to my locker to grab my lit book and folder and engage in some quick chit-chat with friends. I shuffled to class, took my seat and proceeded to hone my own literary skills by writing notes to my girlfriends: "Brad Moppin is sooo fine. We went to see Mannequin Friday night at the Fiesta Square 6, ate at Pizza Hut and he held my hand the whooooole night. I hope he asks me to prom!!! JM + BM = TLA... blah-blah-blah. Oh, what did you do over the weekend?" Repeat six times (at least one 4-pg note for each class in the school day). Each of my girlfriends got roughly the same note, the only variable being the pictures I drew, making fun of a different social outcast from each class. In between, I laughed to loud and too much... was dared (and accepted) to jump in a trashcan in the middle of the courtyard on break... botched the apron I was sewing in Home Ec... and tried to avoid the Stoner Sisters--- who I was certain wanted to kick my butt, because I had mocked them in caricature when penning notes to my friends.

Before you knew it, it was 3:20.... time to head to the Dari-Hilite for cheese fries and more Def Leppard on the juke box. By the time I hung out there a couple hours, made a few loops down the one-way, turned around at the old hospital and waved to the guys at the DX station, it was time to go home--- I was late for dinner. Again. And would probably get grounded. Again. There would be a few stern words followed by a few tears, nothing too major. Then I would retire to the den with my folks and spend the rest of the evening watching McGuyver (via the gigantic satellite dish in the backyard). I would be "doing my Spanish homework" (read: writing notes about the incredible Brad Moppin) while spending QT with the parental unit. Shirley would be on the phone, talking to her sister and cleaning up the dinner dishes... my dad would be sitting on the hearth, blowing his cigarette smoke up the fireplace insert. And this domestic bliss would continue until 10:00 or so, until it was time to pick out my Coca-Cola shirt and acid-washed jeans for the next day...

Looking back, I guess my routine hasn't changed all that much. I don't spend as much time thinking about my hair... or thinking about Brad Moppin (who now has 8 children, incidentally). But I still write notes-- lots and lots of notes, just not on ruled paper ripped from a spiral notebook and folded intricately into Origami-like shapes. Nope. These days I type out my notes. On a flat-screen HP. And now it's called blogging.

INDIAN... OUTLAWED

Robert challenged our little luncheon club to a gastronomical adventure today: the little Indian restaurant at a nearby dilapidated motor inn. And despite his proclamations that the food isn't cooked on-site, but rather literally "motored in" and unloaded from the greasy trunk of a '79 Datsun, we accepted. I watch enough Anthony Bourdain, Andrew Zimmern and Alton Brown to hold these types in pretty high esteem, intestinally speaking... and if Bear Grylls can drink his own urine from a putrefying snakeskin, then surely we could handle one measly lunch at the old no-tell motel. Right?

Let me admit I've never had Indian cuisine... but I've been adventurous in the Caribbean and also tried "lamb fries" at the Old Ft. Worth Stockyards in October, so I fancy myself a budding Zimmern. I had visions of curried beetles and spice-glazed scorpions (like I said... too much Bizarre Foods). And Mikey G, the lone voice of reason, interrupted these musings, asserting that there is a difference between exotic fare and just plain living dangerously. I had to admit he was right. But I was still in. We all were. So at precisely 11 o'clock today, we downed our tools, loaded into two vehicles and set out on our wild culinary ride.

We stepped into the low-ceilinged, dimly-lit restaurant and were immediately assaulted by the scent of incense. Lots and lots of it, hanging heavily in the air. I recalled an episode of Top Chef in which the contestants competed in "restaurant wars" and one of the teams was chided for using lightly scented vanilla candles on their tables. Even neophyte home cooks know you don't use scented anything near food. And this was way more than a little vanilla... it was olfactory rape, the kind of smell that makes your eyes water and your throat close up.

We were immediately ushered to a large table near the buffet and the kitchen. And as luck would have it, we were just in time to watch one of the help mopping the tile in front of the swinging kitchen door. The mop bucket, once yellow, was a dingy brown; the mop itself, an unspeakable shade of grey. Fortunately, the door was held open long enough for all of us to catch a glimpse of an older gentleman conveying pieces of naan bread onto a serving dish. So at last we had proof that there was at least some cooking going on back there. Our interest was piqued!

There was no need for ordering. We were invited to sample the buffet. And by buffet, I mean seven stainless-steel chafing dishes of un-named contents, lined up on an oblong table. It started with white rice, naan bread, something that I will guess was Tandoori "chicken" (appeared to be drummies and thighs of some type of fowl, anyway), a dish that was labeled as chicken within some other ambiguous lumps in a yellowish sauce, a potato/mixed vegetable dish in a sauce that tasted of sweet potatoes, something unappetizingly green that resembled a thick spinachy pesto, and a tureen of soup-like kidney beans in a thin orange-colored base with onions and cilantro. Later, they also brought out an eighth offering-- something that looked like mashed yams. Or baby poo as Mike pointed out later.

In the meantime, the drinks we'd ordered had arrived. Robert had stumped our waiter by ordering "iced tea", and after a long, uncomfortable silence when the waiter finally nodded that they indeed served iced tea, we followed suit. Until Josh had the good sense to order a carbonated beverage, that is (great call, by the way... a beverage from a canister, dispensed by machine... no prep!) We all quickly chimed in at once, changing our orders in like fashion. We ended up with four Dr. Peppers and one Mountain Dew-- which all arrived sans-ice. Looking back, I think it was the "iced" in "iced tea" that stopped our waiter in his tracks. Either that or the fact that he'd been inhaling those incense fumes all day and had no cognitive ability left.

So here we were: Full plates of moderately spicy food and nothing but tepid, syrupy soft drinks to wash down these dishes of dubious origin. And Mikey G (correctly, I believe) outed our colas as Dr. Thunder. Maybe it was because they were hot, but they just didn't quite taste right... not even like Mr. Pibb. And our water glasses? Oh, forget that. They had been filled from a pitcher as soon as we were seated, but Robert and Josh immediately spied out their cleanliness and advised firmly against it. They were real glass, but layered with a suspicious white film... the kind that builds up over time. Lots and lots of time, with zero washing, much less sanitizing, in between. In fact, at one point, the heat of my kidney beans overpowered me and I seriously contemplated the water. I held the glass up to inspect both the vessel and its contents, sniffed the water inquisitively, then held it back for a second look-- when Josh exclaimed, "No!" and told me he would knock it out of my hands if I tried to drink it. He was dead serious, so I put it down and Brittnee shared her warm Dr. Thunder with me.

But all in all, we continued undaunted. Mikey G sopped sauces from his plate with his naan bread like a total pro-- as if he had been doing it all his life. I went back for seconds of the potato dish. And Brittnee?

Well, let's just say that Brittnee did a good job of forking her rice around on her plate. She actually did consume one piece of bread and a total of four kidney beans... plus a whole lot of incense. She said, in fact, that she could still taste the incense all afternoon. Notice her plate looks exactly the same in this "after" shot. The only real difference is her horrified "get me out of here" expression.

We stopped at Sonic on the way back to the office and got her some good ol' American fare-- via drive-thru window, in case anyone at Sonic burns incense.

So we lived dangerously on the first workday of the year. Mainly, we did it to prove our intestinal fortitude-- a pact among friends, securing our bond and proving we can all hang. Truthfully, we are totally in it for the bragging rights. And as much as we like to boast about our culinary conquests, I don't think we'll be going back to the Taj-Bismol. Especially Brittnee... twelve bucks for four beans is pretty steep.

Hello, old friend...
It's been a while since we've been in contact, but I haven't forgotten you. No, you cross my mind more often than you know. I've missed you every single day that we've been apart.
I know, the styles are a-changing... the slim-leg jean is at the peak of fashion right now, and I hear the high-rise waist will soon take its place. But you have nothing to worry about. Why? It doesn't matter to me. Styles come and styles go, but we have something special. Besides, what's a great jean for, really, if not to make you feel brand new? And wearing you again, my favorite 29-waist Citizens of Humanity Kelly bootcut jean, would feel better than...
Better than eating that piece of pumpkin pie... Better than sneaking an extra dollop of gravy... Yes, even better than Grandma's homemade rolls with real butter... Better than the best Thanksgiving meal any of us has ever clamped teeth on.
I have plans for us to reunite soon, my little denim muse. And I'll be moving you up to the front of the closet as a reminder to keep my resolve strong. For, in 12 short weeks, we'll be together again. And this time, I hope it's forever.
XOXO,
Julie