u s e y o u r h a n d s

It’s funny how we ritualize insignificant aspects of life. I’m pretty sure everybody does this, from always dressing in the exact same order to having a favorite brand of pen (Precise Roller Ball Peacock Blue). David Lynch and I both have food moods. The Purveyor of Weird only eats a chopped salad for lunch, with all parts of the salad the same size. I, too, have a fondness for the salad. Like many people on a diet, I’ve forced myself to get emotionally involved with not only the eating but also with the making of my daily lunch.

The United cafeteria, I’ve mentioned, is ridiculously cheap and fairly savory but I’m rarely tempted by anything but the lackluster salad bar. After a quick skim at the soup of the day, I invariably head to the salad bar, grabbing a large plastic to go box. Why plastic? Because if you use a plate, the weight of the plate gets factored in to how much your salad costs. Why nobody has caught on to this, I’m not quite sure. Anyway. There’s always a choice of several greens: Iceberg, romaine, and either spinach or field greens. Now, this is bizarre. I often see people bypass the nutritional dark greens and dive into the iceberg. Iceberg! That’s just eating water in a cellulose shell. There’s no benefit to it. Gross. I load up on the dark greens, bypass the neighboring trays of COOKED broccoli forets and hard boiled eggs for the cherry tomato dish. I eyeball my tomato of choice and tuck it into a corner of the container. Then, I spoon half a scoop of sunflower seeds over the top. I would rather die than eat those crunchy, krinkly bits, and frankly, get very angry when a krinkly bit or two find their way into the sunflower bin.

Then, I swoop over to the other side of the bar for toppings! I heartily dump two large scoops of chickpeas on the top of the salad. Now, kidney beans are NO substitution for chickpeas. Putting kidney beans in place of chickpeas is highly offensive. They should just destroy dishes after kidneys have been there, they so sully all. I like kidneys in soup, though, so go figure. The chefs at United also have this tray of scallop-edged pieces of cheese about the size of a dollar bill folded in thirds. I select three pieces of cheese, two cheddar and one white, which is, ostensibly, mozzarella.

I return to the greens/broccoli/dressing side of the bar to ladle on some dressing. United has the best balsamic dressing ever. It’s flavorful, not dominated by oil. I limit myself to a scant tablespoon of this wonderful goodness. I grab a large diet pepsi and WOW! Nacho Cheese chips and head to the checkout.

You can’t spear balsamicy field greens along with chickpeas. Well, you can, but not that often and always with concerted hunting and pecking. Mostly, I eat the greens first, then get to the balsamicy chick peas coated in sunflower seeds. Such a reward. I finish my soda and continue reading. I may eat the Wow! chips outside, or I may wait to savor them below deck, in my cold, dark corner.

And that is lunch.

Watching: We’ve just finished the third season of The Sopranos. I have no idea how long we’re forced to wait for the next season.

Exercising: I cardio’d it at the Mount Prospect Bally Total Fitness this morning. I’ve darkened the door of eight Bally gyms in three different states.

Going: Tonight, we’re going to the do at the Field Museum. $10 tickets you have to buy through Ticketmaster, which slaps $3 in assorted fees on top of the ticket price. The Field gets some of that as a kickback. Why didn’t they just charge more? Whatever. The ticket comes with two free drink tickets, so it’s basically free. Just wish it weren’t the same day as the Art Institute AfterHours.

I’m just sure it’s gorgeous outside. I have a feeling about the sky, that’s it’s sunny and just cold enough to be biting. Of course, down here in United’s cinderblock bowels, there’s no windows to confirm my suspicion.

Listening to music at work is such a double-edged sword. I’m listening to song called “Bubble Toes” by Jack Johnson, a song which is making me dance in my chair. I’m grateful they’ve sequestered me at this moment, because I can dance, dance, dance. But sometimes I just want to sing along down here. Not allowed, says the Man. Even worse are those songs that make you want to throw the first person you see across a desk and perform intensely carnal acts. (Heel, P-Jo!)

Who wants a Harley-Davidson calendar from last year? There’s one in this desk’s drawer.

My paranoia is growing. I’m always incredibly protective of myself when I leave the house. I know who’s behind me at all times. If I can help it, I let people walking behind me pass, generally by faking that I have to tie my shoes. Of course, in a crowd, I can’t really do this. Last weekend, Peedge and I were at the fabulous Gramercy here in Chicago. As we walked passed a table headed by a man with a lit cigarette, I was sure he was going to burn me. Inexplicable. However, we live in a bizarre world. Note the sniper.

I need to be able to stay up past 1130. Any tips?

Eating: The us’. I’m going to make a supah minestrone tonight with cornbread. I’m also going to whip up a low-fat apple brown betty. Boo yah.

Driving: Thanks to my boss, Dave, I took this bitchin’ route home through the forest preserve. It would have been perfect with some Vivaldi.

Weighing: Still down 40. Can’t crack into the last 30, though. Feh.

It takes me about 45 minutes to get to work in the morning, which just borders on absurd. But my 60-75 minute commute home is just ricockulous (so ridiculous, it’s ricockulous). So, instead of habitually letting the Man fuck me in the ass and then handing him $.40, I’m trying to figure out alt. routes home.

Friday I wove through the banal cities of Park Ridge and South Park, both of which seem to have limited their entire decorating palette to poo brown. It’s a look. I didn’t save any time with my goofy circuitous route, but as I zoomed from Oakton to Devon to Bryn Mawr to Northwest Highway to Foster, I got to see things besides the metal Rexam building fucking blinding me in the sun.

Fat Predator – I swear to God! I saw this on Milwaukee. Ok, this store, according to the Web site, sells fat burning pills. Fine. However, this company also makes pills called Passion Predator that aid sexual performance. Very ew.

Stripper in a Jetta – This phrase reminds me of The Smiths’ “Vicar in a Tutu,” and like the character in that song, our neighborhood stripper “just wants to live [her] life [her] way.” How do I know she’s a stripper? Well, there’s not too many professions where highlighting the everloving fuck out of your hair is acceptable. Also, the curve-hugging, panne velvet tracksuit gave her away. Oh, and the fake boobs.

Strange Planning – There’s an entire stretch of the Northwest Highway populated only by printing companies on the west side and boxy apartments on the east side. Bizarre. Maybe it used to be a little workers ghetto. A localized Hershey, PA for printers.

I liked mixing it up, though. I’ll do the same today, with different streets. It pays not to pay attention to the road, I guess.

Eating: Cinnaraisin bagel. OJ. Will play it cool with the salad today. Word.

Watching: The third season of The Sopranos on DVD. Excellent.

Exercising: Cardio this wknd. Kickboxing tonight.

Coupons Used: Thanks, Entertainment Book. We’ve used coupons for McDonald’s (McFlurries!), Indian Garden, and Domino’s. Totally covered the cost of the book!