Monthly Archive for February, 2006

Every now and then, we have our Homer Simpson D’oh moment.

I would like to think I had one today, so please, may the gods of (mis)fortune leave me alone for a while.

This (right) is what greeted me when I opened my take-out order today.

However, this (left) was what I ordered.

There is no moment more “d’oh!” in the history of mankind than ordering something you are craving but getting something entirely different.

“Ginger chicken – Number L8″ is as far from “Rice vermicelli bowl with grilled pork – Number L16″ in the menu as in taste.

It was majorly d’oh! But I was already home and salivating. No chance my tummy would allow me to walk back to the restaurant and get the right order.

Somewhere out there in Seattle is another person having a similar d’oh! moment. May he enjoy his lunch.

PET PEEVE NUMBER 43: People who walk in front of you, at just about the same speed as you.

So you’re on the pavement, you’re walking, and there’s one (or worse, two) people ahead of you just blocking your way. However, they are only blocking your way when you’re keeping your stride.

Since they are at the same speed as you, you need to make the decision to (a) speed up and do an overtake maneuver of said person ahead of you; or (b) slow down to be far away enough from said person so that you are not clipping his heels.

It is an unpleasant decision to make because either way, you are not moving at your optimal speed.

That sucks. Well, not sucks sucks like you lost $50, but more like a $5 loss on the sucking meter.

When I walk, I stride. And I love to have the whole pavement open in front of me so there is no possibility of me losing my stride.

I’m not social when I’m walking. I’m not even remotely friendly. I think, I listen to music, I do lots of things in my head when I’m walking, and I like my path to be clear. Of people.

I wish I had a force field that alerted people to my presence behind them. At least they know to start a brisk jog, slow to a saunter, or you know, teleport themselves out of the way. I don’t really care.

Just as long as my flailing arms don’t smack them.

I went to get groceries from Trader Joe’s late yesterday afternoon and it was packed. I noted the crowds to the cashier and said, “Safeway’s always empty Saturday nights so I thought there would be no one here too.”

She looked aghast at me, like I’d said a dirty word.

I guess putting Safeway and Trader Joe’s in the same category was blasphemous. [Much like comparing NTUC Fairprice with Jason's or something like that.]

In the “liberal” city of Seattle, where many people like to think themselves liberal, educated and fastidious eaters who go organic, vegetarian, raw foodist, etc, I like to proclaim loudly, “I love Spam.”

It’s true, I love my luncheon meat, but say that in some circles around here and people will hold an intervention and “save” you from Meat Satan.

Food is religion. And there are converts who will exorcise you with a stick of broccoli.

But wait. Don’t show up here with pitch forks yet. With a blog titled Tofu Nation (For the record, I love tofu), and friends who are vegetarians, I have nothing against organics, vegetarians, raw foodists and the like.

I do, however, have beef with people who look down on the heathens who eat Spam, like meat, buy non-organics and (gasp!) shop at Safeway.

Give me a break.

I believe I eat fairly healthy, try to buy organic when I can afford it, and shop at gourmet and non-gourmet places.

Hold your scorn for someone more deserving: Like crooked politicians and the marketing industry, which has discovered that putting ORGANIC on a product allows their clients to sell it for a few dollars more.

During dinner tonight (and possibly under some form of wasabi hypnosis), I recalled what happened when I met Dave Barry on Sunday. [Please see entry dated January 29 below.]

When he signed my book with that little wisecrack – other people ahead of me only got his signature and I know that because I was watching hawkishly – I said, “YES!”

Out loud.

Not just any yes, but the kind of “YES!” accompanied by that clenched fist, arm pumping, motion.

When you pair those together, you get one embarrassing moment.

Dave Barry must think I’m a sad little groupie with no life. Hey…wait a minute.

No condolences, please, but you can send a Thank You card to Jay for jogging this unfortunate memory.