rhymes with engine
I have a drinking problem. Okay, really it is more of a sipping problem. For the third time today I have tried to bring my bottle of bottled water to my lips and ended up getting water on my chin, neck, or shirt. Which is refreshing, but not hydrating, since humans are mostly waterproof. (Wait, is that true? Or can you absorb tiny amounts of water through the skin?) (Here we are: skin is water-resistant, but not waterproof.) Skin is also not flame-retardant, and it can wrinkle, and it needs hand-washing. However, it is the only choice right now for keeping the insides in, so I guess it will have to do.
I have to tell you something here, even though it will not be interesting or revelatory. A BIG DISCOVERY was made recently. The BIG DISCOVERY is that making a bunch of sandwiches plunges me into a pit of blackest despair.
Sunday my parents came over to help finish the aforementioned Pistachio Bedroom Painting. This was scheduled to take pretty much all day, so I e-mailed my mom and said, “Should I make us some lunch?” Something you should know is that my mom Does Everything Right. If she gives you a gift, it is not only perfectly wrapped but is probably also tied with raffia and has a cute homemade tag. If she makes you lunch, it has several delicious items and cloth napkins and a special dessert. She has always worked, and she is not some crazy uptight Martha Stewart person, but she sure does like to Do Everything Right and firmly believes in the philosophy of Making Things Nice. As you know, your correspondent Mimi Smartypants likes to Do Everything While Just A Little Tipsy and firmly believes in the philosophy of Good Enough. So on one level I was kind of hoping that my mom would write back and say, “oh, don't worry about it, I'll bring lunch” or “let's just order a pizza in between coats of paint.” Instead she said, “Sounds good!”
I tried to think of things I could make that were nice enough to feed my mom but that also allowed for as little preparation as possible, and I ended up with a spinach-feta pasta salad and roasted vegetable sandwiches. I got the vegetables done early in the morning; mixed together some pesto, mayonnaise, and garlic; split open the hoagie rolls, and then started assembling sandwiches, with the thought that they could hang out in the refrigerator while we painted. Boy howdy! I thought. What an excellent little lunch-making girl I am!
By the time I had assembled sandwich #2, it was as if the serotonin plughole had been yanked out of my brain bathtub, and every happy moment I had ever experienced was spiraling away along with a bunch of soap scum and wet leg hair. MAKING SANDWICHES IS VERY DEPRESSING TO ME, FOR SOME REASON. I was thinking dark thoughts and nearly weeping onto the hoagie rolls. (Here is your sandwich, sir. I moistened it with my tears.) Now I know I should never have a large brood of children or work in a deli. Also, now I know why people who do work at delis look like that. I would not be surprised if Franz Kafka, Woody Allen, or Morrissey had worked at a deli. Hey, maybe they all worked together! At the same deli! Forget that Kafka died in 1924 and just go with me on this!
Morrissey: I have an appointment tomorrow to get my hair heightened. Can someone switch with me and work noon to six?
Woody Allen: Ah, oh, eeh, oh, um, this is pretty short notice, really…
Franz Kafka: Guys, I just saw a big cockroach in the storeroom. Really big.
And then maybe they could start a mariachi band! But I digress.
The other reason I should not work in a deli, besides the crushing depression, is that people are jerks. Particularly hungry people. I waitressed exactly once, for exactly two weeks, at a slack-ass cafÉ where the customers were mostly too high to speak or eat, and only smiled crookedly and beatifically and dry-mouthedly when you refilled their water glasses or bottomless cups of coffee. Even that drove me nuts. And there was no sandwich-making involved.
I, too, look at these in the Sunday paper. I, too, have no idea why. The wedding-announcement photos that particularly creep me out are the ones that feature only the woman. Hi, I'm marrying myself.
Since it's the New York Times, though, the wedding announcements can often read like Saturday Night Live spoofs, which is fun. The announcement that Mitzi and Blaine have been married at an Episcopal church in Westport. Blaine works in his father's firm and Mitzi is a party planner with IdleRich Inc. Whenever I meet people like this I feel like I should be wearing a babushka, casting the evil eye, stomping grapes with my feet. And I kind of am, on the inside.
Pen up the nose suicide attempt.
I like this word farinaceous.
—mimi smartypants teaches rockstars how to rock.