Of Fries and Men

It’s a sad but true fact that many of us eat fast food even though the vast majority of it is unhealthy and relatively gross. Given the current “plandemic” shut down and subsequent stay home orders, many of us are itching to get out of the house and do something, anything besides sit at home cooking food and binge watching the Food Network. (Hey, I don’t criticize your obsession with The Walking Dead, Bates Motel, reruns of NFL Super Bowls past, or CSPAN.)

Where was I? Oh yeah, boredom and food; two things that go together like peanut butter and jelly, Penn and Teller, and donuts and diabetes. Anyway, it’s nice to get out once in a while and have a meal that you (or anyone to whom you’re related) didn’t cook. Given that virtually everything is closed except for takeout, we oftentimes succumb to the promise of “two all beef patties special sauce lettuce cheese pickles onions on a sesame seed bun” and the intoxicating smell of fresh McDonalds fries which you’re likely never going to want to eat after reading this.

Anyway, the point of this blog post is to illustrate an incident through which my boyfriend (who I will call Vincent* because I really like that name) recently went. Granted, the following is hearsay (but, of course, in true Irate Blogger fashion, embellished for humorous detail.) After finding a McDonalds that was actually open past 9:00 p.m. on a Saturday night in Las Vegas, Vinnie entered the drive-thru only to be met with their new limited menu during these tough coronavirus bullshit mass hysteria times.

When he reached the window, he was greeted by a manager (and I use that term loosely) who obviously LOVES his job who was wearing a mask and standing behind a bulletproof sneeze guard so the evil coronavirus that is floating around in the air waiting to pounce on everyone doesn’t infect and kill him like the brainwashed left would have you believe.

Anyway, apparently this clueless manager inadvertently handed Vincent’s order to the car in front of his. As any normal person would do, this person opened the bag, presumably looked, and then handed it back to the manager. When Vincent reached the window, this Einstein tried to hand Vincent the same bag. Are you fucking kidding me?! This moron is adorned in full hazmat PPE yet wants to give potentially contaminated food to a customer.

Needless to say, Vincent blew a gasket (he tends to do that a lot) and told the manager, “I’m not fucking taking this shit!” He had his order remade (if you could call it that) because the fries were cold, uncooked, and soggy, not unlike a … never mind, I’m not going there.)

Also needless to say, I will never be frequenting a McDonalds again. Now I need to find new fries.

*Name changed to protect the innocent.

Defining “Essential”

Throughout this whole coronavirus mass hysteria isolation “thing,” I’ve been going a little stir crazy (okay, a lot crazy) sitting at home. So much so, in fact, that my mind starting wandering (never a good thing) toward tidbits I wouldn’t have ordinarily thought.

One of them is what, exactly, constitutes an essential and/or non-essential business.

Here are my thoughts.

First of all, my tanning salon is an essential business. I haven’t been this white since I lived in snow country. Not only does sporting a nice bronze tan make me feel (and, undoubtedly, look) healthier, but the blast of rays boosts my Vitamin D levels and reduces my depression. Despite living in Las Vegas, I don’t have the privacy to tan outdoors in the manner to which I am accustomed while in a private bed, not to mention it’s already getting ridiculously hot and I don’t want to spend hours in the sun when a quick 12-minute session is all I need. Yes, I know I know it’s bad for me, but done responsibly with appropriate pre- and post-tan skincare, the potential dangers are mitigated. I’ve been tanning for YEARS and don’t look like some wrinkled, middle-aged, leather sofa. So there.

Secondly, even though there are DIY hair coloring options, I can’t trim my own hair. I’ve tried in the past and ended up resembling my fourth-grade school photo with a choppy, uneven, mom-used-craft-scissors ‘do. So, while I am able to cover my graying roots and maintain my lovely brunette hue, I desperately need a trim. The same goes for my boyfriend whose head is getting puffy from all the hair he desperately needs cut but won’t let me near with scissors. Hey, I can trim other people’s hair, just not my own. Chicken.

Next, why in the hell are city, state, and national parks, beaches, and other outdoor public recreation venues closed? Amidst the ad nauseum spate of bullshit social distancing “guidelines,” nobody is going to catch the virus outside. It’s not floating around waiting to invade (which is why I laugh hysterically at those sheep who insist on wearing masks and gloves while outside.) Good grief, we all need some fresh air and sunshine. Oh, and human contact with non-relatives would be nice.

By the way, I expect the National Parks Service to extend my annual parks pass for which I paid a pretty penny for a few months to compensate my loss.

Finally, of course, gun stores are essential because Second Amendment. ‘Nuff said.

As for non-essential businesses? Governors’ offices and Congress.

I’m Pooped

Whilst reading my email in the bathroom, I had an Archimedes Eureka! moment that gave me the perfect idea for a blog. Interestingly, most of my blog ideas stem from some sort of bathroom activity.

Anyway, I was changing my toilet paper roll, and while smashing the roll into the holder and subsequently (and unsuccessfully) wresting some paper from the now oblong roll, I wondered how we, as society, evolved from normal rolls of toilet paper to rolls that resemble Big Wheel tires that oftentimes don’t even fit into standard sized roll holders.

Granted, original rolls are, indeed, too small. My boyfriend refers to them as “single use” rolls because he tends to spend a lot of time in the little boys’ room. But I digress.

Then we were introduced to double rolls. Okay, that makes sense especially for those who tend to use more than their fair share of the product (cough-boyfriend-cough.)

But, wait! The paper industry powers that be rolled out (pun intended) jumbo rolls. Again, these were good because we, er most of us, didn’t have to change them as frequently, and they still fit on the roll holder.

Then, lo and behold, what’s this I see? Mega rolls which are four baby rolls packed into one. However, given the nature of human beings to always want more and bigger and better, introducing (drum roll please) jumbo mega rolls. These are approximately the equivalent of, what, ten regular rolls? All I know is that they don’t fit on my roll holders, and I’m certainly not going to invest in a decorative freestanding toilet paper rack when I have perfectly good rollers attached to the side of my cabinets. Besides, I’m a klutz, and invariably, the holder and I will be involved in some sort of collision. Repeatedly.

In fact, the last time I went toilet paper shopping, I couldn’t even find anything smaller than jumbo mega rolls. I always look for the best bargain in a cost-per-roll calculation. Did I want the nine-pack that is equivalent to 84 regular rolls or the 32-pack that was the equivalent of 812 regular rolls. I didn’t feel like doing math, so I just got the Charmin with the green label that I particularly like. And it was on sale to boot.

What’s next Procter & Gamble, Georgia-Pacific, and Kimberly Clark? Gigarolls? One enormous roll packaged like those giant five-pound Hershey Kisses or Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups? (I love Reese’s by the way.)

I can’t wait.

Bite Your Tongue

I hate being called “ma’am.” Yes, I know “hate” is a strong word and leaves a bad taste in some people’s mouths. So, I ask these folks, what would you prefer? Abhor? Detest? Loathe? Despise? Insert your preferred word, but I’m going to stick with “hate.” Because I do.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I understand that those who utter it (as well as “sir”) do so out of respect, and kudos to their parents for instilling within their children manners and respect because, Lord knows, there is a huge shortage of manners in today’s world (a topic best left for another rant.)

Anyway, back to “ma’am.”

What would I rather be called? Oh, how about ANYTHING else: “miss” or “mizz”, perhaps? “Madam”, maybe (even though I don’t own a brothel.) Even “sir”, “bro”, or “dude” is preferable to “ma’am”. As someone who is deep in the throes of a midlife crisis that has been ongoing for, oh, 13 years, anything that makes me uber cognizant of the fact that I am, despite my utter contempt for the word, middle-aged needn’t be said. Ever.

I’m doing a fantastic job of fighting this whole aging thing. Seriously, I am. Not only do I not look my age, I neither feel nor act it, thanks to a (mostly) healthy diet, regular exercise, no smoking, no drinking, no drugs, outstanding skin care, and good genes. I oftentimes pass for late 30’s-early 40’s, and this removes a bit of the sting from being called “ma’am” and my ever-increasing age.

Oh, by the way, I’m looking for a fake ID that makes me 34 again, so if anyone knows anyone in the “creative printing” business, please let me know.