| rev:text
| - I'm one lazy bitch. I have four bottles of moisturizer spread throughout my house. Why? So I don't have to go all the way to the bathroom to get it. Some days I sleep on my couch because my upright is laying on my bed and I don't have the strength to move it (but also because I have a tile floor and no hard case). I'm so lazy that I can't even be bothered to think of creative screen names. The URL for my yelp profile is the same one for my myspace, livejournal, and gmail.
They may even all have the same password, too, but I wouldn't know. I just check the "remember me" box on all of them so I don't have to put in my info again when I sign back in. Fuck, what IS my password?
I'm so lazy I can't even be trusted with simple tasks, like preparing my own lunch.
Fridays means I get out of work at 1pm, which means I have the house all to myself for a couple hours to play my upright bass as much and as loud as I want before other people start showing up and start demanding to able to hear the TV. Haters.
Anyway.
So Fridays means getting takeout for lunch. Because I know that if I actually try to prepare a lunch at home, eventually I will get caught up in something else and bam, there goes my practice time until everyone goes back to bed.
Usually "practice day" means Dragon Garden Express, but on my way there I spotted Big Daddy's Frankfurters.
Though I've known about Big Daddy's for years (how could I not? I live within walking distance), I've been hesitant to give them a try. Not just because hot dogs are the rat bastard of the meat community, but because with a name like Big Daddy's, deep down I expected to walk inside to be greeted by Danny DeVito's crazy sex offender third cousin who gives me a big smile and says "Welcome to Big Daddy's! Whose your Daddy?!"
Oh, hai, I'll get a chili cheese dog and a pillow to scream in.
In spite of these fears I bravely opened the door and stepped in to find a well-adjusted-looking gentleman sitting at the counter who perked up, literally jumping to his feet the moment I stepped in. Judging by the time of day I imagined business was slow.
I ordered an all-beef dog and a bratwurst. Now, personally, I've never understood the "all-beef" craze. While I applaud their honesty, I just think that it's a grim reminder of the reality we face with "non-beef" dogs.
A hot dog vendor saying "Our dogs are made with 100 percent beef" gives me that same foreboding feeling that hearing the girl at Sephora say "and the best part is, none of this stuff has been tested on helpless animals".
At Big Daddy's, every dog/sausage comes with four free toppings. I opted for cheese, relish, sauerkraut and grilled Italian onions (don't judge me).
As he fixed my lunch the man at the counter, who I'll assume is either Big Daddy or at the very least Large Uncle By Marriage, said "Man, this stuff is going to get messy when you get it home, but boy will it be good".
Personally, I appreciate that level of honesty. I cannot begin to tell you how much less complicated my life would be if occasionally the girl at the Pane Bianco counter would say "You're going to break your fork trying to cut these fresh tomatoes but they will be soooo juicy", or if the bartender would say "you're going to ruin someone else's shirt later but this drink will be delish" when he handed me a hurricane.
To put a cherry on my sundae, he gave me a bag of chips "on the house". Though to be honest I think it was more a manner of cleanliness than customer service. One, I didn't complain (surprisingly), and two, it was the last bag in the box. Either way, I was being undeservingly rewarded for trying a place out for the first time, and I liked it.
I rushed home with my lunch in my passenger seat, wondering exactly what he meant by it would get messy. Perhaps the sauerkraut would crumble, or the onions would be greasy.
Imagine my surprise when I opened my little styrofoam box to find my frank and brat covered in cheese sauce. None of that mincy shredded cheese you get at Taco Bell. Cheese sauce, thick and gooey, like the kind you get at a concession stand or gas station.
You'd think that cheese sauce and sauerkraut would be gross. And by Eris, how you would be right. It was the nastiest, messiest frank and brat I've ever had, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy that, just a little. Okay, maybe more.
My poor choice of complimentary condiments aside, the franks themselves were amazing. They tasted like they just came off the grill, like the hot dog carts that hang outside of strip malls and Home Depots.
By the end of it my face was a train wreck, like a bulldog eating custard. I scraped off onions and cheese sauce from my lips and chin, realizing that while I may have had the perfect lunch, it cost me my dignity. Which is fine. I'm actually surprised I was able to trade it in for so much.
There was more I wanted to say, but I don't feel like typing it, so I guess I'll end it here.
Le sigh.
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