I had big plans to write about the end of Fashion Week, and how excited I was that Mary Kate and Ashley had a new fall collection, so my ski poles would finally have something to wear. But then life happened, as it always does, and I fell off the fashion wagon.
Last night, around Coronation Street time, Puke Boy had a craving for solid food. After three days of a weird stomach thing (the details of which I will spare you) this was music to a mother's ears. He said he felt like a roast beef sub, so I hopped in the truck to fetch dinner.
Meals at our house are not exactly well thought out, sit-down affairs. In fact, our fridge is an under-the-counter mini bar, minus the lock and the Barbie-size bottles of vodka. And, it is usually empty. We don't even own a table.
You see, Jack's palate leans toward beige food – toast, fries, rice, chicken balls no sauce, pasta (Kraft dinner) and any creature they can process into a nugget. I love spicy food, ethic food from any nationality other than ours, salad (with lots of dressing) and eating standing up at the kitchen counter or in front of the computer. The only thing we agree on is we both love eating in the car.
So, off to the local sub shop I go. It was well past rush hour so there were two sandwich artists waiting to serve me. I hate lineups, so life was good. I ordered Jack's usual, and just as they were slapping extra cheese on his sub a lovely, young girl/woman approached the counter. She smiled, pretended she hadn't caught a glimpse of my jammies tucked into my rubber boots and started to order.
"6-inch whole wheat", she said.
The artist flattened the bread and waited, as did I, for her next selection. I guess I was in the way as she scooted around me, past the yummy slices of meat, and straight into the veggie section. She proceeded with her order, which at this time was still just naked bread splayed open on the counter.
"Lettuce", she said.
A few seconds later she pointed at some cucumber. Then, and I am not kidding, she asked for a few pieces of green pepper. My head kept jerking forward like I was willing her to say, "salami", but with no luck. My eyes kept darting sideways, and I was thinking maybe she'd never been to see the sandwich artist and she didn't know you start at the other end where all the fat was congealing. Should I help her?!
"That's it." she said.
It took a few seconds for it all to register, then my head snapped around so I could make eye contact with this person, and from somewhere deep within the words, "THAT'S IT??!!" came flying out of my mouth.
"That's not a sub", I pleaded. "That's what I pull out of the lawnmower."
She just smiled, paid for her bread and lettuce and left. Which left me, standing there dumbstruck. The now available, and clearly not exhausted, other sandwich artist looked at me and chirped, "What would you like on your sub, M'am?".
"Nothing," I said, thinking how much I hated being called, M'am. There were some chips at home, and some ketchup packets. I could make a dip. I'd be okay.
Jack ate most of his sub, except for a bit of lettuce and cheese that I mixed into my dip. I caught the end of Coronation Street and a glimpse of what life would be like as a size 0. I suddenly felt sorry for Mrs. Olsen and all those meals she lovingly prepared, only to have her twins push their plates aside. (Or run to the can.)
Maybe today I'll go the the grocery store, and celebrate the end of Fashion Week and his flu, by making a nice, beige dinner. His clothes are hanging on him now, but in some circles, that's fashion.
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