I find that self-righteousness is my worst failing. Maybe it’s those years in Baptist school. I can be pretty judgy. Not something I’m proud of. But there it is.
Like last night on the train. The woman across the aisle from me was totally seat hogging on a crowded train. She was well-dressed and precision quaffed. And totally blocking access to the window seat. Did I mention the crowded train part? Basically she was getting by on the fact that, in our “classless” American society, people rarely have the nerve to challenge rich, white women. And Queenie just sat there flipping through Food & Wine magazine (aristo) knowing that it was highly unlikely that anyone was going to call her on her pigginess.
I really, really wanted to say something along the lines of “Seat pigs burn in hell” or “You make Jesus cry when you are selfish” or, my personal favorite, “Move your ass you rude cow!” But I bit my tongue. Because, who knows, maybe she has a horrible neurological disorder that makes it hard for her to have anything touching her entire right side. Or maybe she was born with an extra pair of ass cheeks that made it impossible for her to share the seat. Or maybe she was raised by a pack of wolves, the poor dear, and never learned BASIC COURTESY.
Oh, yeah, nothing judgmental about that at all. So, knowing that I was not being kindhearted, I just seethed. Better to boil and bite your tongue, than to possibly cause embarrassment to a woman with two asses.
I haven't seen Mr. Fox at the train station lately. I kind of miss him. Especially since the absence of his foxy locks has thrown the balance of power in the men's hair world off at my station. It's bad. There is Middle-Aged Ponytail Guy (who I'd bet good money doesn't work in IT but wishes he was that cool). There is the guy wearing the George Clooney cut (the modified caesar cut that even George Clooney doesn't wear any more).
Saddest of all is the denial guy. And I can see why he is in denial. That bald spot has to be a hard thing to face (figuratively). Because once upon a time, not long ago, he must have had great hair. Dark, silky, a little curly at the ends, just past collar length. He's only average looking, but that hair probably bagged him a lot of chicks once upon a time. Run your fingers through it hair.
But he does have a fairly significant sparse patch forming in the back 40. Lush hair framing a follicular crop circle. Ouch. I can see his dilemma. The only real way to shore up his fading crowning glory is to go shorter. Less weight on what's there would kind of fluff things up enough to disguise that bit "where the pillow rubs in the back". It's a good tactic. But he'd lose the best part of what he has left to do it. That's a hard call to make.
But it happens to us all. Jowls get draggy. Butts get less bouncy. A few silver strands among the gold. I've reached an age where I've made a ruling that I will never again be photographed in profile. The amount of contortion that it takes to make my double-chin disappear would challenge a 15-year old Chinese acrobat, let alone me. So, I feel for ya buddy.
I'm working the 2 Party system for Thanksgiving: Party at my sister's for lunch, party at my parents for dinner. I'm assigned the green bean casserole for lunch and volunteered for sweet potato pie for dinner. I'm not a huge fan of the green bean casserole. But I understand other people are, and accept it as one of those things I have to tolerate at the holidays. Like football.
Why am I bringing sweet potato pie? Because I like it. I like it enough to say "Forget you, yankee. Eat mincemeat" to anyone who doesn't like it. And even though I grew up in Texas, I never had sweet potato pie until I was almost 30. And then I wept for all the Thanksgivings that I had wasted on pecan pie. But even though I've been trying to make up lost time since then, and there's a lot of pie gone under the bridge. I've never actually made one myself.
So, I'm cruising the food sites looking for a likely candidate. And may I say, some people have some very strage ideas of what constitutes sweet potato pie. Rachel Ray adds a banana. I know. It's appalling. I knew the bitch was crazy, but I didn't think she was that crazy. And I saw several recipes that called for 4 eggs, or more, for some sort of custardy filling. And y'all are just nasty. If your sweet potato pie wiggles to the touch, it. is. wrong. Shame on you. Shame!
But I found one that seems to balance the egg to sweet potatoe ratio. And calls for what I consider a healthy amount of spices. I'm going to go off the reservation a little and do a nut crust, instead of the regular. I've got a gluten sensitive guest. So, I'm going to violate my own purist credo here. But not giving a guest a raging case of IBS is the hallmark of a courteous cook, in my humble opinion.
My friend Nancy and I used to call them “Everybody’s lookin’ at me” moments. That moment where you’re walking through the sushi bar and all heads turn to look at you. Damn! I must be looking cute. Cause everybody’s lookin’ at me. Then you sit down and realize that your fly is wide open and you’re wearing safety orange underwear. Not that I would have any idea what that’s like.
So I’m walking behind this gal on the way to the train. She’s got the jeans tucked into black, high-heeled books look going. And a big, fat white price sticker that flashed like a strobe light with every step. Do I tell her? I had a couple minutes to figure it out before we got to the platform. And it truly is figuring. Some people are grateful of being informed of the fly open-price tag-booger on the nose-toilet paper out the back or your pants situations. I had a boss who informed me after a week of employment that the code for a slip showing below the hem of her skirt was “There’s snow down south.” And I was encouraged to use it. Other people get kind of offended when you point out a wardrobe malfunction. They can get a little huffy. It’s a small percentage, but if you’ve ever had it happen to you, you can be kind of gun shy of pointing out the slight faux pas. Personally, I suffer that “AAARGH! Why didn’t anyone tell me!” moment. I’d always rather know.
And I’ve been known to leave the occasional tag on for bragging rights. Like tying the 12 point buck to the hood of your car. “Look! $9 at Ross!” Then I lift up the bottom of my foot to prove it.
All things considered, I decided to bite the bullet, and let her know about her tag. Sisters gotta hang together. She knew. She just couldn’t get the tag to come off. And she must have paid too much, because she didn’t even show me the bottom of her foot.