Yesterday you sat spellbound or, barring that golden adjective, completely stoned as I explained my plan for the next 34 days. No refined sugar, went the royal edict, and here’s the reality: it’s going to be one hell of a Lent. I’d tell you I abstained from the stuff last night, given my general dislike for chocolate and soda and other treats, yet I’d be lying. Don’t get me wrong, I harbor no hatred for Nestle Crunch or Sprite–were a masked bandit to load her Glock with white chocolate, I’d probably struggle a bit and then have her shoot me in the mouth anyway. It’s just the cravings seldom seize hold of me.
So, last night. Dinnertime approached and I found myself in the kitchen, rooting through cupboard and fridge to find an appetizing combination of ingredients. The goal? Make something that a) didn’t have sugar and b) didn’t resemble the goulash you find in the septic tank.
Pasta. Check.
Sauce. Check.
Oregano. Smoked the shit out of that one.
Gorton’s fish sticks. Check. And baked.
Halfway through cooking, I realized I forgot to analyze the ingredients. Not a big deal because everything was salty, right? WRONG.
Pasta: “hard amber durum wheat” and “pure spring water.” I’m guessing a little “deception” too, because pasta can’t possibly be so simple.
Oregano: they didn’t even have a list of ingredients, choosing instead to slap a picture of some nondescript shrubbery on the cover.
And then I ran into trouble. Buried deep in the sauce were those five execrable letters. S-U-G-A-R. My sweet Aunt Jemima, I only wanted tomatoes, maybe a little water, but mainly tomatoes. Why couldn’t they have used corn syrup?
The kicker, of course, was Gorton apparently cast his fishing rod into a goddamn candy factory. That’s right, gentle reader, my fish sticks had sugar in them. What on earth happened to our favorite sea dog garbed in yellow? It went something like this.
“Yaargh, by me ol’ hag’s mizzenmast, ’tis a fish filled with sugaargh!” Gorton said, hand on the wheel.
“Where, cap’n? The men have sung songs about the fabled Sugar Fish. Never seen one with me own peepers!” shouted the bosun over the crashing waves.
“Thar be the Sugar Fish!” screamed Gorton, pointing a gnarled hand at a gigantic silhouette. “Ready the war cannons! And toss me ridiculous hat into the sea. I look like Paddington Bear, cursed be the monster. It walks the plank tonight!”
“The Fish?” asked the confused bosun. “Yaargh?”
“No, you stupid sea monkey, the hat!”
“Aye aye! But I lost the plank,” admitted the crew member sheepishly.
“You wha–”
The roar of the guns and the cry of the Sugar Fish silenced the captain.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. There was fish and sugar everywhere.
“Har har! Untie the cook from the anchor, lads, and prepare for a feast!” ordered Gorton. “’Tis almost as sweet as finding six dead whores in Davey Jones’s locker on a twilit night, true as the horizon.”
One of my work buddies, in a moment of misjudgment, asked if I wanted to join a soccer team a few weeks ago. This was a kind gesture, flattering in a delusional way, and the venue of these physical exertions–the Y–promised a rawness not found at other health clubs. The team would play locals in a mad, uncompetitive scrabble for the prize money. No pressure, none at all, just a few friendly games.
I said I appreciated the invitation and promptly submitted my resignation, citing this as incontrovertible evidence of my inabilities. I wouldn’t contribute anything to the game, I argued, and I would in fact actively detract from the team. Yes, it was just a drawing I found on the Internet, but the resemblance was frightening: the lack of feet, the grossly disproportionate arms, the soulless eyes, the vapid smile. Hair, even. I have hair. It wasn’t a coincidence.
Turns out I was smart to quit, dear reader, because the games were pretty intense. My co-worker came out all right, having played competitive soccer in college, and I narrowly escaped humiliation. The better part of my training unfolded on the harsh playgrounds of elementary school, where I would play full-back and charge straight at attackers, sometimes foiling their attempts by doing an epileptic dance and stealing the ball.
The time for quitting, however, is over. My health kick begins in earnest this week. Taking a cue from my work buddy, I’m going to give up refined sugar until the end of March. That’s what she’s doing for Lent, and she’s not even Catholic. Come to think of it, neither am I, but there’s an appeal to the discipline.
In past years, I was convinced Lent meant shelving sinful pleasures such as church. Maybe this year will be different. Heck, I’ve already given up puns for the most part, and today’s discussion permitted at least two or three really sweet ones. Oops.
Ever since I started doing accounting at work, I’ve played the oracle to a host of amazing questions, queries that often have absolutely nothing to do with spooky numbers and their kind. This is probably because I’m sitting in the old office manager’s seat, and apparently the imprecise placement of your ass can redefine your role entirely.
Questions about mathemagical problems, I’m fine with those. It’s in my blood, my very birthright as an Asian, to sniff out integers as a boar would savory truffles.
“Did you guys match my 401k?” asks one employee.
“I’m processing it right now,” I reply, “in my left pants pocket.”
“And what about salary?” she pushes. “Did you guys get around to doing that?”
“What is sa-al-ary?” is my counter-question.
A job well done, right? You needn’t answer. The other inquiries about office minutiae, dear reader, sometimes get on my nerves. The following is my guide, which I recommend you don’t use, for answering three common questions that really should be reserved for the office fern.
[It’s the Declaration of Independence!]
Question: Can you have him sign this?
Boring Answer: Of course. In fact, I’ll do you one better and make a three-course breakfast. Do you take sugar?
Fun Answer: No can do, and I’m really sorry. Last person who tried to make him sign it? Man, I didn’t know one’s thigh could wrap around the arm so easily, or that internal bleeding could become external so quickly. Really makes you wonder what they teach in health class, doesn’t it? Poor woman, they didn’t even have cake at her funeral.
Tell you what. I’ll grab a brand new manila folder. I’ll mark the tab with “Why Don’t You Get Him to Sign This Yourself, Moron?” And here, I’ll even file it in my high priority cabinet. No, no, it only looks like a trash can on the outside.
[Oh noes, I l0st3d my papers!]
Question: Why can’t I print?
Boring Answer: You know, I haven’t the faintest idea. Been experiencing some printing problems myself all morning. Let me call the IT guy.
Fun Answer: My best guess is the little man inside the LaserJet fell asleep. Again, for fuck’s sake. Usually, and this is being generous to the little fellow, usually he’ll get right to it as soon as you hit the button. You click “Print,” he runs over to the toner, drenches himself with ink, and painstakingly recreates the exact image you see on your screen. Then, per cleanliness protocol, he’ll take a shower, dry himself real quick-like, and push your paper out of the printer. I will call the IT guy so he can administer a beating.
[Is my urine really sterile?]
Question: Where is the Culligan Man?
Boring Answer: Yeah, I’m also getting tired of all this soda, so you can bet I’m looking forward to the cooler refill as much as you are. He should be here in a day or two, but let me call for faster delivery.
Fun Answer: Dead, most likely. In a ditch. With lots of clean water.