Fuck the Pilgrims

We wanted to enjoy a nice “Fuck the Pilgrims” Thanksgiving this year, then our family decided they wanted to come here for the holiday, so we scrapped that idea and went all in with a regular old Thanksgiving. Then we decided that Covid has no chill and it was not a good idea to have a house full of guests this holiday, and probably any holiday until this shit is under control, so now we are back to a “Fuck the Pilgrims” Thanksgiving.

We aren’t really sure what a “Fuck the Pilgrims” Thanksgiving looks like, maybe we get pilgrim statues and hang them from their necks over the fireplace? Too gruesome? Or maybe we make a list of all the lands the pilgrims stole from the Indigenous People, and we donate five dollars for each land we come up with? Too expensive? Okay, maybe we just learn about the lands near us that were stolen from the Indigenous People, read about small box blankets and what not, and give thanks that the Native Americans are as resilient as they are? Perfect.

The point is Thanksgiving, like Christmas, is just an excuse for us to be with family, enjoy each other’s company, and eat a ton of good food. We don’t prescribe to the whole “Thank you” toward those first settlers who were monsters, and no, we aren’t grateful for them. I mean, I could be living in London right now, speaking with a British accent and going on about my business and not being led by one Donald Trump, so ehh.

Sure, I’m happy to be in America (sometimes) but I don’t really care either way because the truth of the matter is, you make the most of wherever you are, and that’s that. So yeah, fuck the pilgrims and their blooding and plundering, they didn’t do me any bloody favors.

Happy Fuck the Pilgrims Week, y’all.

M.

Dam Yam Hypothesis

We cancelled our Thanksgiving plans this year, more on that at a later time, but instead of having a houseful, it will just be the three of us (five of us if we count the dogs, some days I do, some days when I think I might kill one of them, I don’t). Still, even though there will only be three, maybe five, of us eating yams we bought the biggest can that Sam’s Club has. Why? They are yams, damn it.

The point of this is that the can of Bruce’s Yams is now sitting on our kitchen counter, because where does one fit a nine-pound can of yams? And Jackson has taken a liking to showing whomever he Facetimes with, his grandfather, his friends, his school study group, the can of yams sitting on our counter, while saying, “Look how crazy my parents are!”

Yesterday another sixth-grader yelled, “Oh my goodness, my parents have a six-pound can of strawberries on our counter!” And much to my hilarity I was sufficiently absolved of my yam guilt as Jackson said to his father, “Daddy, you and mommy are not the only crazy parents! Andrew’s parents have a six-pound can of strawberries!”

And just like that the world righted itself.

But by this time the question of how many yams are in the can had presented itself, leaving Jackson with a long division problem that he didn’t want to do, but one that Jerimiah made him do. Turns out, there are approximately 11 yams in the can. At least according to the “Dam Yam Hypothesis.”

Stay strong parents! And get those yams!

M.

Missed Connections

I was tasked with writing a Hermit Crab Essay in class this week. My professor suggested we don’t give it too much thought, don’t belabor it (we have a ton going on right now) so I didn’t. I sat on my front porch, felt the cool wind blow, and wrote for fifteen minutes on my phone, then copy and pasted this mess to the message boards. Then I thought you all might like it too. I hope you do. Remember, it’s not all terrible right now. We still have words, and art, and Craigslist Missed Connections, and funny Hermit Crab Essays about the things we cherish the most in this life.

M.

Craigslist Missed Connections

Atlanta Metro

Posted 10/21/20

Respond to: BasicBitch@basicbitch.com

I’d just left my therapist’s office, and decided I needed a kiwi. I was looking for any reason to be happy after crying for forty-five minutes. I decided on a kiwi. I drove to Kroger as the wind picked up and the small drops of rain started. This time of year isn’t my favorite. The cold, the rain. On top of what we’ve been through already. It’s all too much. 

I hurried inside the store while struggling to get my mask in place properly, and shielding my hair from the rain drops when I caught the first glimpse of you up ahead. I stopped dead in my tracks and the memories came rushing back. 

I’d been dreaming about you for months. In all my hopes for happiness, for normalcy, you were there, always just out of reach. This realization came to me quickly, brought me back to reality, forced my feet to slush faster through the puddles now forming. I sprinted past the pumpkins on display on the haystacks outside, grabbed the first cart I could find, not even bothering to sanitize it, and ran toward produce where I saw you again. 

You were there, right near the caramel-covered apples, but you weren’t alone. You never are. This time you were with a petite, blond woman. She seemed frail and cold, wrapped in a grey scarf, rubbing her hands together to warm them before wrapping her hands around you. The sight sent a shocking sensation through me, like when you get a lidocaine shot at the dentist and they accidentally hit a nerve. The sight of you hurt, but it was worth it.  

I’ve been a mess, honestly. I’ve been stretched to my mental, physical, and emotional limits this last year. My therapist says I need to look for positivity, wherever, whatever that is. She says I need to stay optimistic that the future will hold goodness, and I want it to hold goodness. But now, more urgently, I want to hold you.

I watched you walking with the blond woman, further away, back toward the deli, so I followed. I’m not sure why I did it, I just did it. Moved my body without thinking much. My therapist’s words echoing in my head, desire pumping through my veins, propelling me toward you, but for what? You were with her. And I didn’t dare get too close. I stayed well over six feet away.

And what did I expect to happen? Did I think I’d be able to snatch you away from her? Did I think I had some possession over you, some agency that she lacked? Was I more deserving, would I treat you better? No. I know I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. Plus, this damn mask. How would I…? And in a Kroger of all places. 

So there we were. So close, yet so far away. I’m sorry I wasn’t brave enough to make a move. I’m sure next time it will be different, but for now I sit and wait for word from you. I sure hope you’re the goodness I need.

If you were in that Kroger last week, if you were with the woman in the grey scarf. If you were that tall, piping hot pumpkin spice latte, please write back. You know who you are. The one in the white cup with PSL written in sharpie on the side. I’m waiting. 

Yours Forever, 

Kroger Woman in a Black Mask

I Miss Eating Out

We haven’t been to eat at a restaurant since March 11th. That’s seven months of cleaning up after we cook (or occasionally order delivery). Seven months. What I wouldn’t give to walk into a small road-side diner and nibble on some fries, the big, fat, greasy ones that only a roadside diner has. With the ketchup bottle you squeeze, and the endless Coke from a fountain. Ho hum.

What I really wish is not to go out to eat, but for other people to stop it. That would be nice wouldn’t it? I’d also wish other people would stop hosting parties, promoting gatherings, going to sporting events, clubbing then going to see their grandparents the next day.

In short, I wish people cared about complete strangers a little more. I wish they had the willpower to not put others at risk. I wish they could say, hmm, sitting in a small, badly ventilated place with my mask off for several hours seems like a bad idea. I don’t want to risk it.

Maybe if more people hadn’t been to a restaurant to eat in the last seven months, we wouldn’t be so much worse than we were back in April. Maybe there wouldn’t be 215,000 dead people. Man. I hope your date night, or your football tailgate, or your 25th wedding anniversary was worth it. Because if you’re doing or have done those things, you’re only adding to the problem. And we are all adding to the problem in one way or another.

Stay safe and sane, y’all. Wear a mask. I’ll be dreaming of diners…

M.

Read news and wear a mask and stay home. It’s not that hard.

Peaches

It’s Labor Day and I’m thinking about peaches. We have a peach tree in our yard. Maybe because they bring wildlife, probably because we live in Georgia. We’ve been here two seasons and have been unable to eat a peach off the tree. The squirrels beat us to them every year. No figs off the fig tree either, only roses from the bush and the occasional bud from a crape myrtle.

The garden they don’t bother. My husband has a tomato plant that is thriving, we have lettuce, and peppers, and plenty of baby cucumbers, but no peaches.

We add peaches to our Kroger order every week. We eat them standing at the kitchen counter, looking out over our fruit trees. We sigh. Wildlife. Nature. Georgia peaches. Some days it’s all so much.

Hope you had a safe and relaxing weekend. Hope you had some fruit.

M.

Taco Tuesday

Listen, I love me some tacos. In my baby book my mom wrote that my favorite thing was tacos when I was like six months old. There is a lot wrong with that, but let’s focus on the good, I was one cool baby. So the number one thing that I miss right now is getting down on some tacos at our favorite, local Mexican restaurant. I miss so much about it, that sometimes I wake up thinking that I can actually smell the sticky, vinyl seats. I’m sure I can’t. Or can I? I don’t know, it doesn’t matter, with Jackson’s help I took Jerimiah on a “Date Night” last night to our new favorite Mexican restaurant: Our back porch. And you know what? It wasn’t half bad.

Jackson took his role as our server very seriously, as he usually does pretend play. He never once broke character, even allowing us to take our masks off only after I convinced him we were the only patrons of the restaurant. This was the note taped to our front door when I loaded Jerimiah up in the car (with the dogs) and drove up the road and back while Jackson “prepared” (got into a suit and character).

When we got to “Saren Mexican Eatery” we were told that our table wasn’t ready and we were offered a spot at the bar, where we were lectured on the business of the restaurant business, and how it takes its toll on a person. Then we got drinks!

We ordered chips and queso, had to ask for the queso to be a little warmer since it was cold in the middle. We watched him “make” guacamole (dump it from a container into a bowl) and then we were told our table was ready. We took our drinks and appetizers to our sun porch, and well, hilarity ensued.

Eventually “Scott” came out (sans glasses) to take our order, and complained that “Dorian” wasn’t putting in the work and his section was slacking, but probably he’d be our server too. We did meet “Dorian” later, he really needed to get his shit together. Though his only real job was to come out onto the patio and announce parking problems every few minutes. Someone blocked the fire hydrant! Someone parked illegally! Someone needs to move their car! Things of that nature. Oh, Dorian. At least you’re cute.

Then there was the very loud, disruptive Spanish music blaring from Alexa while we ate. I’m sure it was very confusing to the neighbors, and the dogs didn’t seem to care for it so much. Eh, you can’t win ‘em all.

The main course came out quite late and not very hot, but I must say he was the only server/cook/manager on duty, and even though the food was precooked that day by the head chef (me) it could have used a tad more care. But we ate it without complaint, even when we were informed that the house was out of a few staples like tortilla chips and lettuce even the some of us knew we absolutely were not out of those items. Bizarre.

Dessert was not listed on the menu, it was a secret, and you kinda had to know how to ask for it. Also, the box of cheesecake bites was missing a couple when presented to us. Hmm…

All-in-all, we had a nice evening at Saren Restaurant and (Rebranded) Eatery, and even though our bill was absurdly wrong, the service lacked a certain, umm, finesse, and there were way too many dogs present, we still managed a hefty tip which was immediately pocketed by “Dorian” or maybe it was “Scott” while forgetting to actually clean up after us… Still I have it a 10 on Yelp.

M.

Rant About Iced Tea

This is absolutely a rant about iced tea. I can’t help you at any point after this, I have warned you. I know what you are thinking, Missy this certainly can’t be a whole blog post wherein you rant about iced tea. But you’d be wrong. Very wrong. Or maybe you are right. Because this first part isn’t about tea, it’s about how wrong you are about thinking that I am not able to rant about tea. But in the wisdom of T.I. least I remind you, “Public violations justify public demonstrations,” and what I witnessed today on the Kroger website was nothing short of a public violation.

I like Kroger. I do. I shop there because they are friendly and efficient. They generally have everything I need, they are usually the lowest price around (unless you count Walmart, but I do not), and most importantly they offer free pick-up, which we’ve been relying on since the start of the pandemic. But today, oooohhhh, today I got my feathers all in a tizzy when I tried to order a gallon of unsweetened iced tea.

It seems, on the surface, like a no-brainer. I love iced tea, but I do not enjoy the calories that come in sweet iced tea. Nor can my body tolerate the amount of sugar that one finds in “Southern Sweet Tea.” It’s too much, y’all. I can’t do it. Call me a “Yankee” all you want, I cannot sip on iced sugar with a smattering of tea on the top. I enjoy the flavor of a good store-brand, unsweetened, iced tea. Some things to know: I have a home iced tea brewing machine, however I have not found a tea that I like the taste of when I brew it at home. I also do not like most brands of iced tea. I do not like Lipton or Turkey Hill. I do not like Milo or Pure Leaf. I despise Arizona Tea. I like Red Diamond, but they do not sell it around these here parts. So I usually get a store-brand iced tea because they seem to all taste the same, but I have narrowed my flavor choices down to Publix iced tea and Kroger iced tea. Those are my two favorites if I cannot have Red Diamond. End of story. Periodt.

So, today while I was making my shopping order from Kroger I remembered that I needed a gallon of iced tea. Unsweetened, caffeinated, iced tea. Now you’re like, Missy come on, all tea if caffeinated, that’s nuts. You’re wrong again. Not all tea is caffeinated, and according to Kroger people who want unsweetened tea also want it to be caffeine-free. D’what? You read that correctly: The only kind of unsweetened iced tea that I could order from Kroger, made by Kroger, was also caffeine-free.

(Deep, long sigh).

When I want to sit on my sunporch and enjoy a crisp glass of iced tea with a lemon wedge, I also want to get a little jittery from the amount of caffeine in my glass. I want to find some motivation at the bottom of that glass, ya dig? I only drink two glasses of iced coffee a day, then I drink a can of seltzer water, then I want a damn glass of iced tea in the afternoon for a pick-me-up and WHY CAN I NOT HAVE THAT KROGER?!

(Deep breathing exercises along with some Kegels for good measure).

I don’t want to use the word “persecuted” here, but I feel like, as a person who does not want sweet tea, I am being made to “pay for it.” Am I overreacting? Yes, certainly. But to be honest I haven’t had my afternoon tea, and well, it seems I won’t anytime soon so this is just the new me I guess. I’m sorry, but this is all Kroger’s fault and now I will go write them a strongly-worded email to feel better.

I hope you have a wonderful day. Like really, really good. Like sipping on Kroger, unsweetened, caffeinated, iced tea on your back porch good.

M.

Crying Tacos

You know when you’re deciding what to order for dinner and you snap at your husband when he asks a simple question, so you just log onto the Del Taco app and order $50 worth of burritos then storm out the door, then get upset when you get there and text him to tell him you’re sorry and he’s all, it’s okay. I know you’re under a lot of stress right now, and I love you. And you realize you don’t deserve a guy who loves you so much and you start to wonder why he puts up with your particular brand of crazy and then the line isn’t moving and it’s been thirty minutes since you placed your order and a car three cars back starts to honk at no one in particular and it makes you so angry that you start crying then suddenly you realize you’re crying alone in your car on a Tuesday night at 8:30 in the Del Taco drive-thru and all you can think is how nuts you probably look, and that your therapist would be worried about you, and then you pull up and Kiona, the woman working the window, sees you and she’s all Girl, you look like you need some extra tacos, and you’re cry-smiling as you thank her and then you drive home and your husband greets you with a hug and your tacos are good and you go to bed early because life is rough and you know you’ll feel better in the morning? You know? Your know what I mean?

Yeah, you know what I mean.

Girl, you look like you need some extra tacos. And maybe a nap. Go take a nap. You’ll feel better when you wake up. Then call me. I’m around.

Love you.

M.

Whatha Devil?!

We had an 18 pack of eggs sitting in our refrigerator. Brand new. Not expired. Farm fresh, free range, college educated. We leave for vacation in three days. We looked at each other. At our smart eggs. Then back at each other. Quiche? I wondered aloud. Maybe, Jerimiah said. How else would we eat 18 eggs in three days? Boiled? Take them with us? He pondered, while he moved expired cottage cheese out of the way. Huh, I remarked, slinging rotten green peppers into the trash can. Give them to a neighbor, I questioned. He shook his head. Would that be weird? Maybe, plus we are the ones who raised them. They’re ours. Oh, I’ll make deviled eggs! I half screamed, half cried. Dear Recipe Goddess, you have reigned supreme again.

Two days later, as I stood over the sink and peeled the boiled eggs that I had let boil for too long the night before because I was also cooking dinner at the same time and it was a Hello Fresh meal and you have to follow the damn directions with those and the puppy ran in and peed on the floor and Jackson tried to tell me about this TikTok guy who does presidential impersonations and Jerimiah tried to help by standing next to me asking what he can do, I sorta, maybe, lost it a little bit and slammed the plates on the table and said, I CAN’T WITH THIS SHIT! And then went upstairs to sit on the fluffy ottoman at the end of my bed and contemplate how my damn life had come to this. About 20 minutes later, I remembered the boiling eggs.

Here’s the thing about deviled eggs, it’s a process, y’all. A long, arduous process, and it starts with the perfect boiled egg. Now sure, you can Google “How to Boil an Egg for Deviled Eggs” and you will get a million different opinions, but every Mommy, Grandma, Great Grandma, and even a couple Grandpa’s have their own way of doing it. My way is to heavily boil the eggs in salted water for three to five minutes, then turn the stove off and let them sit in the hot water for about 20 minutes, until I sink them into a cold bath, let them sit in fridge overnight, then crack them all over before peeling the next day as I listen to Adele sing about how life is not the way she imagined it when she was a child. I can relate. And usually what happens is that the eggs just slide right out. Unless one thing is not right. Then, you’re fucked.

That’s how I came to be screaming into a bowl of yellow yesterday morning.

That’s how I came to be teaching Jackson how to make deviled eggs, literally because I CAN’T WITH THIS SHIT!

That’s how we thought it would be a good idea to eat 18 eggs the days leading up to a 10-hour road trip.

Hope you CAN with this shit today, y’all.

M.

Ménage à Cheese

“You wanna do like a cheese-on-cheese situation?” I asked my husband the other day while I was standing with the refrigerator door opened, looking frantically from one plastic bin to another. I thought it was a rather straightforward question, but he looked at me with a mix of disgust and sadness, so I offered in a loud tone, “DO YOU WANT TO DOUBLE DOWN ON SOME CHEESE WIT ME?” Nothing. Silence. This MFer needs clarification on this? I proceeded to pull out three different types of cheese, slice them, stack them on top of each other, and eat the stack. Directly in front of him. As my lunch. Then I walked away.

I don’t know about you guys but I am not made for this type of living. I am not made for thinking up what to feed two adults, a child, two dogs, and the large family of nuisance ants that have taken up residence in my house (even though the exterminator has been here TWO TIMES.) I can’t do this. I can’t have all these beings relying on me to feed them all day and night.

Under normal conditions my husband fends for himself for both breakfast and lunch, having an eight-to-five-ish-type office job. My son would normally be eating whatever the hell I pulled together last minute at 7:15 am while he followed me around and said, We have to leave or I’ll be late for band practice. And if I forget, no problem, school would feed him. That just left me and up until two months ago, Sir Duke Barkington, my standard poodle, to nibble on this or that throughout the day. But now we have two dogs, one of which is a 16-week-old puppy who is OBSESSED with food, so she overeats her damn puppy chow then vomits, and then eats the vomit. And since March 15th, I’ve had my son and husband looking at me like, Hey Gir, what’s for lunch? Yeah, they call me Gir.

Early on my husband got the hint, and he just started cooking breakfast late, around 10:30, for all of us. That was our brunch. Everyday. The same thing. Everyday. Eggs. Wrapped in a carb-conscious tortilla. Everyday. I finally had to say, I can’t do this. I can’t live this way. I appreciate you trying to feed us, but I can’t eat another egg. That was almost a month ago and I had my first egg yesterday and it was, I mean, it was okay.

That was also the day I sort of just, umm, opted out of being part of my family’s cooking and eating life. Yes. I’m a horrible partner and mother. I just walked out of the kitchen and didn’t look back. Now my son comes to greet me in my office in the mornings with string cheese hanging out of his mouth, or a frozen waffle cause he’s too lazy to toast it in the oven, or maybe some cereal with no milk because, Mommy the milk shocked me a little, like when you stick a battery on your tongue.

That’s how I got to the ménage à cheese situation the other day. That’s how my husband and I came to a three week take-out bender. We are better now. Detoxed. Ordered HelloFresh.

That’s how things are going in my life. Hope yours is better.

M.

Sharpie Feet

You don’t really know how talented the world is, until you watch a man unroll three feet of paper, take his shoes off, stick Sharpies between his toes and draw a portrait of you and one of your best friends inside a Ruby Tuesday. Then, and only then, as you stand wide-eyed and wondering, do you realize you have witnessed the art of human nature. The art of imagination. The art of so many what-the-fucks that you have dreams, nay nightmares, for weeks about this particular man’s feet. And sweaty toes. And the courage, or is it madness, that some people possess inside their minds and bodies. Am I being a little over the top? Well, sure. But he could have warned me when he asked to borrow my Sharpies.

I worked in the restaurant business for years. Eventually I was in management, where I excelled at training people, making angry customers happy, and was the first line of defense in the interview process. We had this system at Ruby Tuesday. When someone would walk through the door with an application, an unsolicited one, a shift leader, or an assistant manager, or a trusted bartender, whomever was around, would be called to the front door to greet them. Then we’d do what we called a 60-second interview. Maybe it was 60 seconds. Maybe it was 90 seconds. I know there were people I spent less than 30 seconds with, people with sores around their mouths, itching their skin that appeared to be crawling with an unseen bug, while they asked about being paid in cash and whether or not we offered paid training.

Then there were people who caught my attention, who I invited to sit for a spell. I might even offer them a Coke or a Sweet Tea if they tickled my fancy. That’s what happened the day I met the man who would draw me with my own Sharpies. I was back in the kitchen, counting burger buns on the line, when the hostess caught my attention across the heat lamps. “You’re gonna wanna see this,” she said, then motioned to the front door. I gave her a quizzical look, and she mouthed, “I’m getting Erica too,” and headed to the manager’s office. I scrambled to take off my apron and beat them both up to the front. I always liked to get to crazy before Erica. Assess the situation, beat her to the punch, so that later when we laughed about the incident I could say I saw it first.

I jogged up through the restaurant like there was a salad bar emergency, which happened more than you’d feel comfortable knowing, while I smiled at customers who were shoving sliders and soup into their mouths. When I got to the front door there was a man at the hostess stand wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, holding a roll of white paper under his arms. An application was sitting on the hostess stand. I introduced myself, keenly aware that neither the hostess, nor Erica had made their way up to the front yet, which means they were sitting in the office watching me and this man on video to see what type of craziness was about to unfold.

I introduced myself. He handed me his application and asked me if I wanted to see something “cool as shit.” I looked up toward the camera and smiled. I did want to see something cool as shit, and I knew other people who did too. I escorted him to the larger dining room that was usually only opened for the dinner rush. It was quiet, empty, and a little dark since the lights were still turned down.

Erica and the hostess walked through the “Do Not Enter, Employees Only” door on the side of the dining room from the dry storage area. They were cautious, but smiling. We all knew something great was about to happen, but we had no idea what.

This man unrolled about three feet of paper from his roll, laid it flat on the ground. I moved some chairs out of his way so he would have more room. He stood up, looked at the three of us, and asked if someone had something to write with. I handed him the two Sharpies I had in my shirt pocket. Erica offered the pencil from her hair. He passed on the pencil, but took the Sharpies with appreciation. I hadn’t had a moment to look at his application since we walked over, so I took this opportunity to glance down at it. I don’t remember his name. I don’t remember his date of birth, his previous employer, I don’t even remember if he filled it out completely, all I remember is that while my eyes were looking down at the paper in my hand, Erica pushed her whole body into mine with such force I was inclined to say, “Ouch,” then I looked up at the man. He had suddenly taken his shoes off, stuck the Sharpies in between his toes, and started to work on the paper.

Twenty minutes later, as my best friend Erica (the General Manager of the restaurant) and I looked at caricatures of ourselves on this three foot wide piece of paper, drawn by this man’s feet (and my Sharpies) we didn’t know what to say. We wanted to ask when he could start work. We wanted to ask him to pick up his paper and leave. We were shocked and awed and I offered him a Sweet Tea. He accepted. Thirty minutes later we really just wanted him to pick up his paper and leave. Well, technically we wanted to keep the paper, it was a portrait of us after all, and have him put his shoes back on and leave. But it seemed like he was there for the long haul. He was asking about a burger.

Turns out the man had no experience in the restaurant business. He had no experience as a cook. He had a “slight” drug problem, that he was working on, and while he technically didn’t have an address, he was living in a tent by the lake, he planned on getting one soon enough. He had was a artist, which was plain to see. He was in Branson to be “discovered.” He wanted to be on America’s Got Talent. He wanted to be a Hollywood star, he wanted to know if we could foot him the money for a burger. Foot. Haha. We could not. We did not. He put his shoes back on. Called us assholes, I believe, grabbed his roll of paper, and walked out the front door. Erica shook her head, told me to bleach those Sharpies and went back to the office. This was not her first rodeo. But I was shook.

It would take a couple more years of meeting people like this, seeing people live like this, one job application to another. One choice of drug for another, before the plight of the human condition would start to sting my heart. A couple more interviews with people who said they were “working on getting a place to live,” a couple more transients who were addicted to meth, or crack, or just looking to steal from the bar. I always had a knack for picking the “good” people. I was trusted for my innate ability to read someone’s face, their actions. But the whole experience took a toll on me. Sure there were days where I saw a man draw my picture with his feet and I found it amusing, then frantic, then sad. But then there were really bad days. Days where a single mom, addicted to ice, would walk in with an application and her two-year-old daughter on her hip. And I desperately wanted to give her a chance, but there are just some things you can’t do. So you feed them. You notify child services. You go sit in you car and scream at the top of your lungs for a little while. Whatever it takes to make it all better.

I had a friend say to me one time, “Well you work in the restaurant business, you aren’t exactly working with the highest class of people.” I nodded, and moved on. I knew what he meant, but I didn’t have the energy to fight. To correct him. To explain to him that sometimes, in this midst of the shit, of the counting of burger buns, and of the standing for hours on your feet. In the midst of having ketchup spilled all over your white shirt, or having a man scream at you because there isn’t enough spinach in his spinach and artichoke dip, sometimes those “low-class” people teach you what it means to be human. You learn, then you grow. Or you don’t. Either way, we are all still there.

Miss you, Erica. And the fun that was scattered throughout.

M.

Cheese Caves, No Really

Here’s something that blew my mind today and I feel like I should share it with you all: Cheese Caves. Am I the only person in the world who lived on top of cheese caves in Southern Missouri and had no idea of their existence? That’s the real travesty here, that I was surrounded by cheese caves and never even knew it. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, give me a second to sort this out, because you are learning with me in real time. Like, I know y’all think I’ve lost my mind, I’ve finally gone over the deep end, but there are actually caves full of cheese deep underground in Missouri (and a couple other places) and why is this not common knowledge? Or maybe it is and I’m just really behind?

You guys remember all those times I told you about “Gov’ment Cheese” well it’s actually real. And they store it in giant caves underground in Missouri. Maybe that’s why it has that particular taste? I think I said if you take a brick of Velveeta and put it in your shower for a few days, you can get that gov’ment cheese taste. Shit, y’all have no idea how accurate that was.

They store cheese in caves because, well, they can. The temperature and yeast and mold, lends itself to keeping the cheese alive. Is cheese alive? Is it dead? Certainly not. Anyway, in the 1920s the dairy industry was dying so the government bought all the cheese, and has been buying all the cheese ever since and now, even with the gov’ment cheese programs, we still have a cheese surplus. So much in fact, that the government pays people to advertise cheese. That’s one of the reasons we LOVE cheese so fucking much! So first the cheese caves came from necessity, like where else were they gonna store all this cheese? Then they realized the caves were good for the cheese and bam! Now Velveeta owns a 400,000 square-foot cave full of cheese under Springfield, Missouri.

That’s it, y’all. I can’t take anymore today. It’s not so much the cheese caves in general terms that is freaking me out. I mean, I think I sort of knew that cheese was kept underground? Maybe, like I’d heard it before somewhere. It’s the fact that I lived on top of one that is really getting to me. And I didn’t even know it. And I keep thinking I’ll investigate more about these cheese caves, but I’m honestly afraid what I might find. I mean, I love me some Trader Joe’s Unexpected Cheddar, but what if I stumble across Trader Joe’s cheese cave? Or cheese basement? Or cheese socks? I dunno. I don’t have the capacity for that today.

But I guess if you want to do some of your own excavating, do it. Just Google “Cheese Caves” and let the internet astound you once again.

Stay safe and sane. That’s hard, I know.

M.

Meet Ya at The Waffle House

Soooo, how’s everyone doing? Me? Oh well, thanks for asking. I’m sitting here at my desk, staring out my window at the beautiful sunny skies, listening to the birds chirping and the cars whizzing by wondering why in the hell you would actually go eat INSIDE a Waffle House today?! Yep. Uh huh. Welcome to Georgia. Where everything is made up and the points don’t matter. But, to be fair, it’s more than just the Waffle House opening up, it’s also bowling alleys and theaters. And if you do have the emotional or mental capacity to leave your house for dinner and a movie (who are these people, and what kind of anti-depressants are they on?!) then you know you are safe because you they can only sit four deep at the Waffle House counter. Whew, glad someone is taking this all seriously.

Also, just so we are clear, the servers are wearing gloves and masks at the Waffle House, but can I be real for a minute? Shouldn’t the servers at the Waffle House ALWAYS be wearing masks and gloves? I mean, don’t get me wrong, there is nothing I like more than drinking so much gin that my inhibitions are way, way down, then getting turnt on some OJ and fried eggs at the Waffle House. In fact, 20-something Missy lived and died by WH. But, umm, I still always knew I ran the risk of picking up Hep-b in the bathroom while I was there, and I still used caution. Now you throw in a global pandemic and whaazzzzy, whaazzzzy, wha?!

I’m picking on the WH here but it’s because this is Georgia and people literally cried when the WH closed up shop last month, but truly this is the nuttiest thing I have seen in a while. People actually leaving their house, amid 23,500 cases in our state, with nearly 1,000 deaths, and hitting up the movies and going bowling. Like, I just don’t get it. And the beaches, please don’t get me started with the beaches. Y’all know we love to travel. In fact, I’m simultaneously planning three vacations in my mind right now (a trip “home,” a trip to Southern Cali, and a long weekend in Savannah) but you can bet your ass I haven’t actually booked any airfare, or started looking at hotels. Because shit, y’all. It’s gonna be awhile.

I know there are people who are just trying to get back to work. I know that. Small business owners, or you know, Shake Shack, are really trying to cash in on that money, but it isn’t coming. But to be fair, aren’t their employees making more money on unemployment right now, then if they were working? And don’t they have a “rainy day” fund? Like, certainly they don’t want the government to keep bailing them out, that’s, that’s, SOCIALISM!

I think I’m gonna stop. Take some deep breathes. Pour myself a glass of wine at three o’clock in the afternoon, and sit on the deck and listen to the birds. And the squeal of the tires in and out of the local Waffle House. Be safe, y’all. And STAY THE FUCK AT HOME.

M.

Missy’s Low-carb Way

Jerimiah and I have been eating low carb for about twelve weeks now. I’ve lost twelve pounds in twelve weeks, which is exactly what the doctor wants (even though it seems painfully slow) and Jerimiah has lost, well, a lot more than me. Because life is unfair. But, we lost weight over the holidays and on vacation, so I’m calling that a win. But I’m struggling daily to find low-carb dinner ideas and when I Google, “Quick, low-carb meals” I get recipes that are 25 ingredients long and have 18-syllable names, like:

  • Jamaican Jerk Chicken Lettuce Wraps on Garlic Zoodles
  • Pesto Chicken Roasted Red Pepper Stuffed Spaghetti Squash
  • Italian Tuna Green Bean Cauliflower Rice Fish Taco Bowls
  • Seared Salmon Watercress Potato Salad With Olive Dressing
  • Triple Cheese Cauliflower Crust Pizza w/ Blueberries & Fresh Greens

When all I really want is a recipe named, “Chicken and Broccoli” cause no one has time for this other shit. Well, I’m sure people have time for this other shit, but I don’t. And what I really lack is the patience for this other shit. I lack patience, y’all. Lack it a lot.

I also loathe grocery shopping. And gathering ingredients. And cooking the ingredients together to make a dinner. I loathe making dinner. I loathe cooking. I need a personal chef! Is that too much to ask?! According to my husband, yes. We don’t own a yacht with a private chef, so I’m screwed.

Now Jerimiah does enjoy cooking. More specifically, he enjoys finding the recipes, making the grocery list, doing the shopping, then coming home to the meals he picked out and created, fully cooked and assembled on his plate in a pleasing manner. It’s sort of like how he “doesn’t mind to do laundry” so on Saturday morning he will pile all the laundry into the laundry room, start a load, then on Monday morning I’ll walk in and be all, “What’s that smell?” Hint: It’s wet clothes that have been in the washer all weekend.

The point here is, he tries. He does. And I know he gets sick of the same old thing. I get sick of it too. Chicken and broccoli. Chicken and green beans. Chicken Caesar salad. Grilled chicken. Baked Chicken. You get my drift. We are stuck in a rut so I’ve been trying to find “Simple” or “Easy” or “Quick” low-carb meals for a while now, and have resorted to coming up with my own recipes and I’m sharing some now. No need to thank me, just use what you can, and leave what you aren’t willing to commit to.

  • Grilled Chicken, Just There, On a Plate: When your family looks at you with disgust turn the tables on them. Tell them this was your pet chicken that had been living in the backyard for several months. You’d kept her hidden so the dog wouldn’t eat her, and her name was Oprah Henfrey, and they should have a bit more respect for her because she was your best friend and actually once saved your life from a hawk attack. And now here she is, sacrificing her life so they may eat dinner. Now who’s disgusted?
  • Zucchini Pizza Bites: First you order a pizza from a really good, local pizza joint. Then you eat it yourself while everyone is gone that day. If you’re really trying to be good here, then give it to a neighbor, or just leave it out for the hawks that circle your backyard. But keep the box, that’s important. Then slice zucchini into bite-size pieces, put a blob of pizza sauce on it, add some small pepperoni, then a bit of cheese. Bake them at 325 for about however long it takes for you to be able to bite through the zucchini. Put them in the pizza box you wrestled away from the hawk. Put the pizza box on the table and when your family comes into the dining room for dinner yell, “Surpise! It’s pizza night!” They will be so excited! They will all rush over, sit down, flip the lid open and then sit in silence while they try to figure out what is happening. That’s when you remind those assholes you’re eating low carb and there’s no such thing as low-carb pizza. Then relay the hawk story to illustrate how you sacrificed for them. If you can work the ghost of Oprah Henfrey into the story, do it.
  • Stuffed Philly Cheesesteak Peppers: This one takes a bit of planning, but it’s cool cause you’re not busy on account of all the time you’ve saved cooking “Missy’s Low-carb Way.” First you buy tickets to a baseball game. Doesn’t have to be a major league game. We live in Atlanta so we can always snag some Braves tickets, but if you’re in say, Charlotte, going to a Knights’ game is just as fun. Secure the tickets. Tell the family. They will be stoked, they love baseball. The day of the game cook up skirt steak in Italian seasoning with onions and mushrooms. Jam the mixture into the peppers that you’ve already cut in half and lined on a pan. Is there music on? Say, “Hey Siri!” Say, “Hey Siri, play my Mumford and Such Playlist.” Make sure you have a “Mumford and Such” playlist. If not, 80s country music will work. Now cover each pepper with provolone, mozzarella, whatever white cheese you like. Bake the peppers at 325, for however long it takes you to bite through a pepper. When they are done let them cool, then wrap them in wax paper, then wrap that in that leftover Christmas-themed plastic wrap, then wrap that in tape. Stick them in the fridge. Now right before you head to the game, take all the peppers out and tape them to your body like you’re a cocaine mule crossing the border from Mexico. This is both as a means to get them into the stadium, and to warm them up for eating. Then head on over to the ball park. If your family asks why you’re walking funny, or why you smell like Italian seasoning, tell them there was a “hawk incident,” they won’t push. Really hype them up for the game! Be all like, “Oh man! I can’t wait for this game! You guys wanna eat some Philly Cheesesteak for dinner?!” They’ll be all, “Oh my goodness, yes! Great idea, Mommy!” You’re golden. A couple hours later into the game, the home team is winning, your husband is a couple beers in, your kid caught a fly ball, all is so cool, go ahead and tell them you’re gonna go grab those Philly Cheesesteaks. They are pumped! Go into the bathroom, rip those sumbitches off your body, oh man, they’re warm now, then grab a tray someone left sitting on top of a trash can and march those peppers back down to your family. You know what? Buy a Diet Coke for everyone to share. It’s a fun day! When you get back to the seats hand them the peppers, but don’t say a word. Don’t worry, they won’t either. Woooo, go team!

M.

Three Hundred Posts Later

Yesterday was my 300th blog post and I had planned to do something awesome to celebrate that fact with you guys, then I had a busy week and got one day behind and when I wrote my post yesterday I didn’t realize it was number 300 and then I was actually like, “DAMN IT! I messed up my 300th post.” So this is actually post 301, but if you don’t tell anyone, I won’t tell anyone. Ahem, happy 300th post day! 300 posts seems like a lot to me, especially since I really just started blogging to ensure that I write something, anything with regularity. I guess I can call that a win. I have been writing everyday. In fact I have written everyday for the last eight weeks, some of it made it to this here blog, some of it hasn’t made it anywhere. Yet. Unofficially I want to write every, single day this year. Unofficially I want to do a lot of things. Unofficially I have big plans. Unofficially a lot of those plans involve Cheetos.

But alas, I’m here today celebrating a small victory. Looking for a bigger one out there looming, somewhere. But my 300th post seems something to celebrate. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe 500 or 1000 is more appropriate. But who really cares? I want to celebrate damn it! So to show my apprecation to you all, to those of you who are still around I’m going to share some pics with you that I have not shared before. The sort of pics that never “make the cut” when I’m writing one of my fun, exciting blogs. And hey, I might share an old “Mornings with Missy” video too, because I love you all and you deserve it. Hopefully you can use these “extras” to piece together some idea of who I am. Or, you can screenshot them and use them as ammunition against me when I run for office one day. Or become a famous model, whichever comes first.

But for real. Thanks for hanging with me for 300 (301) posts, and I hope you’ll stick around for my next 300, cause it’s about to get more interesting. I promise.

Thanks, friends!

M.

That time the Marines came to Charlotte and fourth grade Jackson made us make this video…

The above video was filmed in my closet in Charlotte, North Carolina a month or so before we moved to Atlanta. Enjoy!