Yesterday, Zacque and I went down to Knoxville Cigar Company to relax for a few minutes.  No big surprise, I’ve been stressed, and needed a little time to sit down in an air-conditioned place with a big comfy leather chair.  Rather, at least a place like that that wasn’t in the confines of a doctor’s office…

     We decided to go across the street to DaVinci’s Pizza and grab a couple of slices first.

     “Hey, fellas, whatcha need?” asked the rather large, oily man behind the counter.
     “A slice of cheese, please.”
     “Ahhh, man, I’ve got pepperoni coming out of the oven,” he added.
     “No, I’d really like the cheese, thanks.”  No emphasis added.
     “Alright, Well!” he said annoyed.  “II’m just trying to be helpful!”  He seemed agitated.
     Zacque ordered, “Two slices of cheese.”
     “Ahhh, sorry,” I said.  “I’ll take two, too.”
     The fat man huffed.
     “What’s your name?” I asked.
     “Dave,” he replied dryly.  “Want the special?  It’s $1 more and you get a drink.”
     “Sure,” Zacque replied.
     “Six dollars,” the fat man said.
     Zacque handed him six dollars.  I handed him a ten and a one.
     “Oh, man!” the guy started annoyed.  “You are not taking my last five!  This is stupid!  I’ve only got one left!  I can’t go the bank!”
     “Ummm, sorry,” I said.  “It’s all I’ve got.”
     “Well, you can’t have it!  I’ve only got one five!  I told you, we don’t have anyone to go the bank!” he exclaimed.
     Zacque helped.  “Here,” and handed the guy two fives for a ten, leaving him one ten in the register.  Apparently having only one ten wasn’t cause for alarm.
     The fat man grasped for ones, shaking his head and mumbling the whole time.  He now had three fives.
     “So, can I get a five back now?” I asked.
     “No!  I told you there’s no one to go the bank!” he snapped.
     “Jeez, dude,” I mumbled with a grin.
     “Here!” he said sarcastically as he threw six ones in my hand.
     “Mellow, man,” I replied.  “Jeez…”

     Zacque and I sat and ate our pizza silently.

     At the end of the meal, I filled the plate with crushed red pepper and parmessan cheese.  I drank half of my Dr. Pepper down and placed it carefully on the cash register where there was no chance of it spilling — leaned into gap where the receipts come out where it’d be nice and stable, and just a minor annoyance to move, and certainly wouldn’t cause any damage.  I took the plate and placed it upside down on the counter.
     It’s the least I could do given the guy was an asshole from the time we went in.

     We walked out.  A random passerby said, “Hey, did you guys enjoy your pizza today?”
     “Not especially,” I said.  “But that was mostly because of the asshole serving it.”
     “Sorry!” he grinned as he walked on.

     As we stepped into the road, the guy runs out screaming.  ”What the fuck did you fuckin’ do that for you fuckin’ moron?”
     “Sorry, man.  I dropped it,” I replied dryly.  I found it odd he should come out raising such hell for such a minor mess.
     “Fuck you, you fucking retard!  I’ll ring your skinny little neck!”
     I turned around.  “No, I really don’t think so,” I said calmly, smiling.
     He stepped back.
     I turned to cross the street, and fat bastard screamed, “You fuckin’ retard!” and shoved me.
     I turned around again.  “Dude, you really don’t wanna do that.”
     As I turned and walk towards the cigar shop, Mr. Asshat decided to keep on screaming.  One of the other local business owners came out to see what the commotion was.  He crossed the street, and as I turned around, the guy’s pushing Zacque — someone who hasn’t done a damn thing.  So here me and the aforementioned business owner go back across the street…
     “You fuckin’ fucked up my register!  Goddamn fuckin’ retard!  Fucking threw shit all over my counter!”
    “No, I didn’t!  It’s in one spot, easy to clean!”
    “What you did is wllful destruction of property!”
    At that point, I got pissed.  I stepped towards him, finger up.  “And what you did is assault, motherfucker!”
     He turned his attention to the other business owner.  “Dude, come in here and look what he did!”
     Zacque and I turned and crossed the street.
     “That fuckin’ retard is never allowed back in here!” he screamed to my back.
     I gave him a well-deserved one-fingered salute and walked into the cigar shop.

     A few minutes later, the other business owner came into the shop.
     “Dude, what did you do?” he asked.
     “I put the plate of cheese right in the middle of his counter.”
     “Why would you do that?” he asked, half laughing.
     I shrugged.  “I’m stressed, and the guy was an asshole from the time we walked in.  I really don’t need that shit right now.  He pissed me off, and that was the least destructive thing I could think to do.”
     He laughed.  “Did you also put the drink on his register?”
     “Yeah, half full where there was no chance it would spill.  Why he’s going on about me destroying anything is beyond me.  That guy’s gonna have a coronary before the night’s over.”
     “Yeah, especially if you guys go back over there!” he laughed.  “He stepped back!”

     After selecting the cigar of my choice, I sat down at the bar for a Guinness on tap.  I felt so calm and peaceful.  I started laughing.
     “Mark, what are you laughing about over here?” asked the bartender.
     “Ahh, Pizza Dave’s an asshole.”
     “Yeah, that’s news?” he grinned.
     “Apparently I ruined his day.”

     Also apparent is the fact that I’m not the only person who has the opinion that Dave is an asshole.  It’s just that most people seem to tolerate him a little better than I do.
     Of course, there’s at least one other person on the Internet annoyed with him, too… 

     Actually, I’m worried about Dave. 
     Even though he’s an asshat, he’s still a human being.  Well, in theory, anyway.  And with an attitude like that where he thinks he can come out screaming abuse and shoving people when he could just as easily pick up a rag and wipe it off, it’s apparent that he’s got some rather serious health issues.
     There’s plenty of evidence that physical problems can manifest in peoples’ behavior, and this guy, given his size and trouble breathing, seems to be a ticking time-bomb for coronary disease.

     I would urge my fellow Knoxvillians to visit DaVinci’s Pizza in the Old City.  If Dave’s working, I suggest that everyone turn their plates over on the table.  This should give him some much needed aerobic excercise, as it would require him to do something besides scream and shove people, which is largely a stationary act.
     In doing this, it would ensure that Dave actually has to come from behind the counter and move his arms in a circular motion a few times, thus giving him a bit better workout.  This would probably cause him a little more shortness of breath given his slothful condition, but if it’s done multiple times a day, it may actually save the asshat’s life.

     He should thank me.

     I mean, I’m only looking out for his health.

     *snicker*

     As for my sense of calm from the incident, and why I didn’t turn around and kick the living shit out of the guy, there’s an easy explanation.
     it was actually refreshing, given that during the last three months in that tiny little town where I was working for a Healthcare company, everyone is so non-confrontational that they’ll gossip and stab knives in each others’ backs, spreading the most insane and vicious slanders imaginable.  There are never any questions, never any explanations, just filth and over-reaction.
     It’s nice to be back in a place where people will actually attempt to do something about their problems rather than just bitch about them and make up vicious rumors in an attempt to discredit and ruin a person’s livelihood.  It takes small minds and a lack of humanity to do what some of you people have done.
     And so, for those who’ve partaken in recent events can share this Asshat of the Day Award.  Myself, I can walk away with a clear conscience, knowing that I’m a better person, and certainly a better worker, than you people will ever be.
     Talk’s cheap, people.  I have a feeling that very soon, you’re all gonna learn some lessons the hard way.  Karma can be a real bitch. 

We generally have friends over on Saturday nights. Not because we don’t dig going out, because we do. But going out all the time does tend to get old, plus you have to worry about the PO-PO pullin your ass over in the middle of the night.

Of course, I’m a spoiled, lucky girl. I have a designated driver at all times and I dig it. Regardless of that, it’s nice just to stay in, cook a smorgassboard of tasty good stuff and drink hot toddies or beer or wine or Jack….

Well, on tap for the past weekend’s buffet was pork tenderloin, rosemary potatoes, steamed snow peas and a variety of other crap.

I must say, I’ve never cooked a tenderloin before and I rocked the balls out of it. Baked it sloooooow in the oven, double wrapped in foil filled with every herb you can think of. After being on slow bake for 3 hours, I jerked that badboy out of the foil and slung it on the grill… G-R-U-B!!

Everybody ate way too damn much.

I, of course, was no exception. Quite the contrary. I started drinkin whilst cooking. The flavor of the day was Meridian Chardonnay, mighty good.

I asked Big T to open me the first bottle and it was on. Between me and Taucha, we polished off close to three bottles. A little much.

I paced myself, like a professional New Orleans drinker. Sipping all night long. It’s hard to tell how much wine one has consumed when one’s glass never quite gets empty before somebody happens by to freshen it.

So, it’s 1:00am, and everybody is leaving. I had been giving Big T the eye and making obscene gestures toward him all night. REOW… come here big daddy.

He was sitting on the couch in the love den, when I crawled up in his lap and made close up obscene gestures at him before departing with my clothes and heading toward the bed. I knew it was a matter of 1.8 seconds before he’d be following me that way.

Woooo! I was feeling my oats. I was gonna tear his ass up. I was gonna make him scream my name and write bad checks. I was gonna make him beg for mercy.
Let the makin out and major league cannoooodlin begin!

I kiss my way down into a desireable spot. Somehow, don’t ask me how… I passed out. His goodies right in front of me and I pass out. Of course at first, he thought I was thinking or taking a breather….

He taps me on the head. “Baby, are you ok? If you’re gonna go to sleep, release that and get on a pillow.”

“I’m not asleep. Swear I’m not.” As I sit up and leave a drool puddle on his belly. “Ok, so I might have been asleep.”

“That’s ok, baby. Go to sleep.”

So I did.

Well, I woke up to him staring at me. “Gotta hang over?”

My head was spinnin, “Hell ya. I’m dehydrated and my head’s spinnin.”

“Why don’t you go back to sleep?” He picked. “You do remember falling asleep last night, right?”

All day long, kids, I had to hear him slip in little comments about my inability to handle my alcohol and still be sexually fucntional. I mean, granted, it was all in fun, but how embarrassing is that?

“Sorry, baby. I swear I’ll never drink again.” Rolling my eyes. “Gimme some aspirin.”

“Yah. Yah.” He gets me aspirin, “You know you got yours and you were done, ready to go to sleep. Sometimes I think our roles in this marriage are jacked the hell up.”

“I know, huh? I spit, burp, and fart better than you.” Smiling at him like the cat that ate the canary.

Pick on me again some more.

There’s nothing Diva digs more than a fiesta. Well, unless beer is involved. And what would ya know… I got both over the weekend. My bestest friends Holly, Mario and Tausha heard through the rumor mill that I was making enchiladas and such for dinner Saturday night and that was enough for them. Holly said she’d bring some good stuff and we’d have a fiesta. Complete with rice, beans, salsa and chips…. and BEER. Yay! Come on over boys and girls. There were all us adult types, 6 teenager and 2 munchkins. So, I was cooking my ass off listening to the VOLS get spanked. (Sorry drifting off, a little annoyed it didn’t go any better than it did… interception throwin mama’s boys)… Anyhoo…I made Chicken enchiladas and homemade red sauce (mmmmm):

And beef enchilada casserole:

Rice n Beans (refried beans just aren’t pretty, so there’s no pic).

And Holly’s grub-ass homemade, garlic filled, spicy as hell salsa:

We were playing kamakazi karaoke in the lair when “Just a Gigalo” came on. This is the point where Lil T (the 2year old grandson) informs me that he is, in fact, a gigalo. Big T confirmed to Lil T, that it’s ok to be a gigalo.

I tried to explain to him “You should be a pimp, it pays better. Say pimp.”

“No! Gigalo!” He screams and runs off.

It’s true. If ya have a choice, for goodness sake, be a pimp. Look, he could pimp his auntie and her friends out. He’s got every one of those girls wrapped around his pinkie finger…

And its official. I crowned my BFF (Holly) my beeeeyach. She’s a skank and I love her more than a squirrel loves a nut.

She is now in charge of kitchen clean up every time we drunk at the house. She is quite good at it. Reckon if she would have known I was gonna blog her ass and slap her picture up on the internets that she would have stayed in her PJs? Heh. Again, I say, you are a skank, but you are a damn fine kitchen cleaner upper.

I have decided on what one of the most annoying occurances in a woman’s life can possibly be.

I was at work and everything was coming up roses. I had an super great hair day. I even woke up early enough to slap on some war-paint. I had a box to pack up for a customer who is in a shit panic to get something done RIGHT NOW, after he had been advised a week ago that he needed to take action.

Whatever. Lack of planning on his dumb ass part, does not constitute a shit panic for me. None the less, I went ahead, as a good colleague would, and got his stuff put together for him and was putting the large part (a 50 pound instrument) into the box when I felt it…. SNAP! The underwire in my most favoritest bra gave out.

That kids, is annoying. My boob popped out of said bra into my shirt, making my the girls look all awkward and crooked. Needless to say, the bra came off and I wore my sweatshirt for the rest of the day.

---

I made an attempt to be stealth like a ninja this weekend. I did, really. I waited for Big T to get up and go to work, acting totally and convincingly asleep. He was out the door and I jumped up to take a shower. I hi-jacked the truck and snuck all the way to Pigeon Forge to the Music Outlet.

I cried on the sales fella’s shoulder about how I had to have the camo Morgan Monroe guitar case, of which they only had one and was already half paid for by some psycho woman.

Being the spoiled brat I am, I tried to talk him into giving me that one and ordering her another one, but to no avail. Kids, I haggled this dude for 20 minutes before his son said, “Dad, I think there might be one upstairs in the storage room.”

The waters parted and the heavens opened when I saw the boy coming back down the stairs a mere 30 minutes later carrying the last one they would ever have.

I am such a good wife that I pay attention to all the stuff Big T says. And I specifically remember him making a mental note that he was going to go back and get that case one day. Check. I made a mental note too. I was sure it would get me a free pass for a wicked roll in the hay. Woo!

Anyhoo, I get home and try to get in the house before Big T can come help me in with the stuff. But, I didn’t make it. He was out the door before I could fart and run from it.

He asked obviously annoyed that I would have enough nerve to put something back there when he had specifically told me not to. “What’s that in the back of the seats? I thought I told you not to put anything back there, baby.”

“I know you did. It’s for Natalie (my kid) and it’s lightweight. I was afraid it would blow out of the bed if I put it back there.” I protested.

He rolled his eyes and said “Unlock the door, let’s get it out and take it in the house.”

What could I do. I handed him the key. Mind you, he’s had a hard-on for this particular item for a little over a year.

He pulls the box out and looks in it. I swear, I thought he was gonna cry. The look of horror on his face that he had found one of his Christmas presents.

Oh well, his bad. He ain’t gettin it until Christmas day. I’ll wrap that bitch up and put in under the tree anyway. He better act surprised and he better still give me some major league nookie.

So much for being a ninja.

---

Taco Bell gets a stay of execution for now.

As promised to Ms. P, I went ahead forewent my diet in order to keep Taco Bell in business. I have had a burrito and large Diet Dew two days in a row. There is no need for anybody so sweet to die of hunger because of my vanity. What the hell was I thinkin anyway? Maybe that is why I broke bitch in like 1.3 seconds… maybe it wasn’t PMS… maybe it was lack of bean burritos with extra red sauce.

Thank you, Puddin, you saved me from myself.

---

What is a school zone? A school zone is a place where flashing lights, crossing guards and cops all come together with one goal in mind… to slow folks down in order to avoid mowing down of any munchkins.

I respect the school zone and all of its components. However, some asshat in an SUV, who apparently woke up a little late, doesn’t.

I drive my kids to school every single day, as she is too much of a princess to ride the damn bus. Which is fine. I too was a princess. I take into consideration that I might just run into traffic in the school zones, and allow this into my alotted time for the AM commute. Generally I take it for what it is and am a mellow driver. I don’t suffer from road rage very often… until today. Today was the day I finally snapped.

Anyway, the forementioned asshat decided that he was in a hurry and as a result his SUV was raping my poor little car he was riding so close… like right up the tailpipe raping. Not like I could go anywhere any faster with the half mile of folks trying to do the same thing I was.

I didn’t think about my daughter (16) sitting next to me when I finally got pissed off. I rolled down the window and yelled back at him “If you’re gonna ride my ass, at least pull my hair, asshole!”

Ooops. Of course, my kid busted out laughing and looking back at him. He must’ve been humiliated cuz his boy was laughing his ass off as his dad yelled at him. Good. Back off and don’t ride other people’s bumper. It’s just consideration.

I lost 70 pounds last year. I gave away all of my “fat clothes” and went on a serious shopping spree. Then BAM! All of my newly acquired, smaller sizes are officially snug to the point that my eyes feel like they’re gonna pop out when I try to button my jeans. I’ve packed 30 pounds back on.

I went down to a sexy, curvy 16. REOW. Ooops, I’ve managed to get back up somewhere between a big 18 and a small 20. I’d be totally fine if it wasn’t for Taco Bell and chinese food.

No, I don’t want any cheese to go with my whine… LOL. I swear to Larry, Curly & Moe that I’m not whining at all. I’m just letting you kids know that if you hear me talking about bean burritos, custard Krisy Kreme donuts or sesame chicken w/eggroll, you can kick my ass for me and remind me that I should be in step class, not the fast food line. See how it works?

I’ll be honest, afterall, I’m amongst friends. I’m flat lazy and wussed out of going to the gym like I should have.

I loved the gym and looking at all the hot dudes with well defined legs and massive arms. Hell, I even loved looking at the hottie girls that have dedicated their gym time to maintaining that hottiness. I know that ain’t right, but remember I’m being honest here. Whoever says people don’t pay attention to the other people in a gym is full of shit.

So, today I started out very well. I got up this morning, packed my bag and went to the gym immediately after work. I trotted at a leisurely 3 to 3.5 MPH on the treadmill. I managed to crank out just under 3.5 miles before I decided I’d had enough. Made me want to throw up on the extremely fit fella right next to me that was running his ass off and didn’t even get out of breath. But, then again, who’s fault is that? I think I cursed myself to gain the weight back when I wrote that friggin blog about gluttony.

So boys and girls… Wish me luck. Wish me back into a sexy size.

My youngest clone is 16 years old.

She and her friends are so much more “grown up” than me and my friends were at her age.  All we really cared about was ditching school to go to the beach, sneaking a cigarette now and then, and other stupid crap.

These guys talk about saving the world, like the little tree huggers they are.

They talk about saving the rain forest.  They talk openly about so many things.

I guess I’m the type of mom who, for better or worse, never kept any secrets from my kids.  I’ve never pretended that smoking, drugs, alcohol, or sex don’t exist in their worlds.  I took the preemptive approach of actually telling my kids the pros/cons - good/evil of these things…. and from a young age.

All of these things were unthinkable and taboo in our house when I was growing up.

Don’t get me wrong.  I don’t encourage my kids to smoke it up, drink it down and knock boots.  Quite the contrary.  I encourage them not to do any of it, at least the youngest one and her friends (who still listen).

I just think it to their advantage if they know they can talk to me about anything and that I will be there for them and they won’t be treated as if they have the plaque and be banned from my sight for being human.

With that in mind… the youngest and her lil friend designed and baked me a penis for my bachelorette party.  Dear Lord.

One week to the day after I was wed to my prince, I was on a plane to Germany for a business trip that would keep me away for 10 days.  I can’t say I’ve ever been happier to be home than I am now.

I realized there are so many  little bitty things I manage to take for granted every single day.  You better believe the following is a tribute to those things.

Ice
I never really realized just how damn much ice  meant to me until I didn’t have it in my drink, for 10 days.  No friggin ice.  Luke warm yacky soda with no ice to chomp on. Damn.

Soda
Well, the German people have soda.  But they don’t have a friggin clue what Diet Coke is, no.  They call that shit Coke Light.  It’s super sweet and it tastes like real Coke.  And without ice it is simply undrinkable to my spoiled American palate.  And Diet Dew?  They don’t have Dew at all, let alone Diet Dew Light.  Damn.

The Dollar Being A Dollar
The US dollar is nothing more than a flipping piece of paper at the time of this writing.  I’m here to tell ya, by the time I paid the currency exchange fees and the exchange rate being as it was… my damn dollar was worth less than 47 cents, my friends.  It was extremely apparent to me just how bad it was when I came home to do my expense report and found that for 10 days, with exchange rate, I had spent more than $400 on food and drinks alone. Damn.  Wait!  Rachael Ray would be totally impressed, that would be $40 a day.  Go me!

Courtesy on the Road
Well, not that we have the most courteous drivers in the US, especially in the states that start with “I”, but even those numbnuts are courteous compared to the asshats on the autobahn.  Hello dickhead, get out of my tail pipe and learn to use a signal other than the bird!

My Man
Now this es muy imporante.  I never in my life thought, with all the traveling Diva does, that I would be homesick for my man.  I thought, I’m gone all the time.  It’ll be no big deal.  WRONG!  After more than a year of seeing his face and hearing his voice every single day… I realized how much I need those things and how much that he means to me.  Oh God, I’m getting all mushy again.
But seriously, doing without Diet Dew with ice on the autobahn was enough to make me want to walk to the coast, buy a boat and start paddlin my ass back home.

Of course, by Fuzzy Little Foreigner, I am referring to me and the fact that I went on a 10 day trip in Germany.  I went on strike and didn’t shave my legs (I know TMI) until the night before I came home.  Can you say Woooolie-Boooooger?

I never realized eating in a forgein country would be so damn difficult.

First, I am the second pickiest eater you will ever meet in your life, behind my step-son… he’d have starved to death.

Ok, being the typical American tourist type, not to mention a closed minded, livin in the box kinda girl, I never realized that Chinese people that run a chinese restaurant in Germany wouldn’t speak English.  It was odd to me that they spoke Chinese and German. But, the place was across the street from our hotel, and smelled really, really good.

Won-Ton Soup: #3 on the menu.
Mini-Spring Roll:  #2 on the menu.
Cashew Chicken:  #42 on the menu.

Best Won-Ton Soup I ever have consumed… EVER.

Since I am afraid of anything ending in -wurst or-snitzel, I steered clear of tradtional German food.  God forbid I pork-peniswurst or something like that.  It’s not like I can translate German to English very well.

We were in Pforzheim the first several days, so, we ate Chinese food at the same place on Sunday and Monday nights.

The Tuesday night, we switched off for some Itatlian. The spinich manacotti was yum and the wine was a-flowin.

The Wednesday night, we were gonna give the Brazilian place a crack, but I wussed out, paid for my beer and ran away.  The couldn’t speak English and I couldn’t figure out anything but shrimp from the Brazilian/German menu and I don’t do shrimp.  So, we ended up back at the Chinese place again, where we were greeted with..”Hello. You wanta Coka Light and Hotta Tea, yes?”

With a sweet smile I tell her, “Of course and can we have the same table by the window?”

I know she had to be thinking… Crazy American bitch won’t eat anything.

Then we went to Hannover…

Thursday night we ate food from the hotel bar, which is always tasty with beer.

Friday night, we had another awesome Italian dinner with the owner of my company.

Then to Munich…

Saturday night, I finally broke down.  Mom took me to a Beer Garten (pub) in Munich.  Oktoberfest was over, but you couldn’t tell it by the guy on the table who had a bucket on his head and was leading the whole place in a sing-along.
After several pints of some delicious brew, I was starting to pack a nice buzz.
So, I broke down and ate stewed steak smothered in roasted onions (DAYUM!!) and potatoes. 

The beer was the best ever though. It didn’t have that watery as piss taste to it.

Sunday night, we found us another Chinese place. It was pretty tasty too.

So, I guess I totally blew the opportunity to expand my culinary palate… NOT!

I do know one thing for shizzly: Germany  has the corner on the ice cream market.  It was grub, and I had my fair share.

As if hunting for a smoking area wasn’t fun enough to occupy our 4-hour layover at O’Hare International Airport, mom decided that she needed airport food. Now, it wasn’t that she was hungry. No, this wasn’t the case.

“It’s almost like tradition,” she says beaming that smile of hers.

“Yogurt is somehow a tradition? Do tell,” I ask.

“Not really yogurt, but eating in the airport,” she quips back.

“Oh hell, now I’ve heard it all. That’s like me running right to Manchu Wok for Lo-mein everytime I hit the ground. It ain’t tradition, Mama. It’s a matter of eating from being bored. Pure and simple,” I lecture.

“Well, whatever you want to call it, Missy. I want a frozen yogurt and we’re gonna walk until we find one,” she commands. “Did you see anyplace to get one?”

“I saw a fat guy up by the security check thing, but I think it was ice cream, not yogurt,” I tell her.

“I want fat-free-frozen vanilla yogurt…” she says dreamily thinking about diggin’ in.

Not ice cream. Not chocolate. Not full of fat…. No.

With that I pick up my 50 pound carry-on bag at Gate K-5 and we start walking. We see a sign for frozen yogurt and head that way.

I have to say this should have been an extremely simple and painless task as right there in the “K” terminal are TWO, not just one, but TWO TCBY’s!!! Easy right?

Well, not so much. Off we go…

The lil dude at the first TCBY didn’t have any vanilla, SO, he pointed us to the other food court way the hell down the way at gate K-15.

We get there, and sure enough, TCBY. We walk up smiling, only to see that the lady has the frozen yogurt machine torn down for cleaning. The sparkle immediately left my eyes.

So, we decided to take another walk and ended up in the “L” terminal. Only one TCBY and no vanilla. So we follow back out of “L” and wander over to “G”, only to find out after walking 2.5 miles to get there, that it’s a commuter terminal and they have no TCBY at all. Figures.

Defeated and depressed, we turn around with our heads hung low. The pep in our step was lost long ago as we shuffled along. All of a sudden, my mom happened to see a hidden food court area that we had somehow walked right past at least 3 times.

And in the very bad end of that little hidden jewel sat a TCBY. We walk up, skeptical that anything will come of the visit.

“Vanilla?” Mom asks the girl with that desperate tone in her voice.

“Sure. What size?” The girl says with an angelic smile on her face.

“Large!” Mom says completely satisfied.

It was as if the clouds parted, the heaven’s opened and a choir of angels started to sing Halleluja in unison.

“Want one?” Mom asked me.

“Nope. I wanna bagel.”

I am sad to say that my addiction to Chinese Food was abruptly halted as a result of the ongoing battle with the Fortune Cookie Nazi.  He won, I lost; no MSG, salt loaded, sugary goodness for Diva.  Dammit.

So, I come home from a business trip and OG tells me that while I was gone, she had went to said establishment to partake of take-out as her man had taken ill.

She went to the self serve bar, I remember so well.  She filled her to-go boxes with treats of all kinds…

She went to the front to pay our friend the Fortune Cookie Nazi…

“You need-a any sauces today?”  He asked.

“No.  I don’t think so,”  she politely replied.

“Well, you must-a take the fortune cookie,” he tells her.

A light bulb went off over her head.  She knows first hand that I’m not kidding when I say he just won’t give me a fortune cookie.  That he has an inner drive within his deep dark soul, which keeps him from simply dipping in and giving me my friggin’ cookie. 

What’s wrong with a brother when he won’t even share a 5 cent cookie?  He would give me a truck load of sauces, chop stix, but no damn cookie.   All I want is my cookie!!  Why can’t you just give me my cookie!!!

I’m going to go rock back and forth in the corner now.