Glory be to sweet baby marzipan, the holidays are over!
Now, I’m not one for the 12 days of Christmas, so despite the cries of protest from, well, everyone, I will be reclaiming my living room this weekend and taking down the Christmas tree and decorations. My only dilemma now is how to decorate so that my apartment doesn’t look so barren. Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I’m drowning in so many holiday knick knacks that barren will be a welcome change.
And speaking of change, it’s year end! That means that all my residents are gone and the office is quiet enough to think and do the uber important administrative task that truly rings in the new year: Records retention!
See, my boss has an unnatural attachment to his records, despite the fact that he doesn’t know what those records are, where those records are, or how long we have to keep them. Since I am the most organized individual this company has ever had in its employ, (and I get the sneaking suspicion that I’m being punished for that fact) it falls to me to put our files in some kind of order. So here I sit, covered in dirt, dust, sweat, and possibly some kind of lethal, flesh eating mold; exhausted from sifting through our old files, looking for things to destroy and reorganizing so that I can find little Janie Doe’s lease file from 2006 if she ever decides to sue us over the $50 we charged her for the broken shot glass in her garbage disposal. I also have to do this without breathing word of it to the boss, lest he start looking at my mountain of shredding and get all sentimental, insisting that it be kept.
So despite the fact that it’s the slowest part of our year, I’m still too busy to go out and pick up lunch, so I ordered something and had it delivered to the office. Since I’m trying to get back into good eating habits after all the riches of holiday food, I decided to forego pizza and opted for a salad instead. I found a bacon ranch chicken salad that sounded sublime in its description, so I ordered it instead of the million delectable pizzas, foccacia breads, and cheese sticks I could have had. If only I’d listened to Seth MacFarlane…
See, pizza places are notorious for their “salad is not food, salad is what food eats” mentality. As such, they couldn’t toss a decent salad if they were a gay carjacker doing a nickel in Chino. Here’s how you make a salad, according to every fast food, pizza restaurant, or sandwich shop in any city the world over:
Step one: Chop a head of iceberg lettuce into 4 inch square pieces. Don’t bother taking out the heart and the rusty or bitter pieces. To save time, you can use the bag of Dole pre-cut, unwashed feet salad mix. Add to a plastic takeout container.
Step two: chop a hothouse tomato into quarters and toss on top of the salad. Don’t bother removing the seeds, stems, or slimy colloidal suspension that the seeds live in. It imparts texture and character!
Step three: Chop an underripe cucumber into 1/2″ thick wheels of choking hazard and toss on top of the lettuce bed. Don’t bother washing the bitter, waxy residue off before cutting. The dressing will hide that.
Step four: Grate half a carrot over the top of everything. This step is crucial: the wider your strips are and the harder to fit in your open mouth, the more legit the salad.
Step five: Add your meat. Chicken breast should be at least 2 days old and dry enough to be mistaken for unseasoned croutons. Bacon should be either burnt or more limp and greasy than my ex boyfriend. And the more sodium, the better because a bloated customer is a happy customer!
Step six: Hodgepodge of hell. Add whatever little touches of hate you feel would best finish off this vegetable medley of suck. Sprinkle some dry, crumbly cheddar or canned parmesan on 2 of the pieces of lettuce, but nowhere else. Don’t forget to include 2 quarts of flavorless, curdled dressing or watery vinaigrette. Toss a couple (no more than 3) stale croutons on top and then smash the lid down on the container really hard to render those croutons helpless breadcrumbs for an extra special touch of FUCK YOU.
Cups of lettuce? Check. Six inch shavings of carrot? Check. Three foot wedge of half green tomato? Check. Gag. The bacon wasn’t even cut, it was just 6 slices of bacon snapped in half and dropped on top of the fried chicken pieces. And I’m pretty sure that ranch dressing was sour cream with pepper. This is what happens when I try to engage in good girl dieting.
In hindsight, I guess I’m glad I ordered those mozzarella sticks after all.