McGriddle. Pancake sandwich with meat in the middle.
Ladies & Gents we have a new award: The James Brown Crack Pipe Award. (JBCPA). Awarded to the individual or group on any given day who most exemplifies the wacked-out, jail-deserving, “are you so high you didn’t see the stoplight?” behavior of Mr. James “wahhhhhh!” Brown.
Today’s award originally was going to a gentleman in a pseudo-SUV, one of those ritzy MercedeSUVS, who signalled right as we approached a corner (I was behind said gentleman) and then, instead of turning and in a daring move, parked about 7 feet from the corner (which also had a stop sign), got out of his vehicle and began running north on the sidewalk along Boundary Road, necessitating my sudden swerve and a right turn at an irresponsibly wide angle. Luckily it was early in the day and there was no one yet driving down Boundary road.
But then, the McGriddle, which I have been meaning to try for quite a while. We were at Wal-Mart, looking at the cheap chips, and I suddenly (Imlovinit) really wanted (Imlovinit) a sausage McMuffin with no egg. It’s been years since I had one. They are my favourite Mcbreakfast. But then, the sign said EAT THE MCGRIDDLE! DO IT! so I ordered one. Pancake sandwich. I’m thinking some drunk teenage son of the Executive Director of Marketing used the McGriddle prototype to distract from his irresponsible behavior. “Hey, dad, so yeah I missed curfew but check this out! Pancakes and SAUSAGE and EGG! America would totally go for this and you’ll get that promotion! And then you can buy me a Mercedesuv or a LINCOLN FREEDOM NAVIGATOR.”
Terrible, terrible stuff.
Yesterday for breakfast, I smushed two hardboiled eggs, added liberal doses of fresh salsa, spread it on toast and topped it with parmesan. I highly recommend this as a breakfast. It’s like egg salad, but without the grossness of mayonnaise.
I do realize how ridiculous it is to be offended by mayonnaise when I have so recently consumed something called a McGriddle (imlovinit). Just so you’re not wondering whether or not I realize that I’m inconsistent. I delight in my inconsistency. So there.
Nothing like summer to remind you how much hair covers the human body. I think this is going to be a shaven summer. For the longest time, growing up, I didn’t have any hair on my legs. It was great, except I wanted to be a grown-up and shave my legs. My mom told me that I should count my blessings because once you start shaving you can’t go back. The hair grows thicker, darker, more ominously, like the films of M. Night Shyamalan. (oh my god, he’s only four years older than me. what am I doing with my life?)
The hair eventually came. I mean, I am half Italian. That half? Lots of hair. And I shaved merrily for a few years and complained about it, as you are meant to do. Secretly, though, I felt awfully grown up. My body hair made up for my woefully lanky (read: flat-chested) body.
When I was 20, I met the ex-girlfriend (M) of my boyfriend (P1). M had no hair on her head (had shaved it off) but lots under her arms and she didn’t seem too concerned about the hair on her legs. I had never known that body hair could be a personal statement, an expression of intent and principle.. This was militant! She was controlling her own hair based on what she thought was right, not on what society said was right.
(One of the other things M taught me was that red wine can really deliver a sucker punch to menstrual cramps. Up till then I had always swallowed handfuls of Tylenol. But red wine is much more pleasant and just as effective.)
I took to letting my leg hair grow. Handily, P1 was used to this sort of thing and didn’t complain. At the time, that was important. I shaved when I felt like it, which was usually in the winter when I had to wear tights because if you don’t shave your legs before the Christmas party, you spend the Christmas party scratching yourself which means you get less of the free food and drink.
For a few years, I let it grow, shaving once or twice a year. The armpits are trickier because they trap the sweat and then you smell. I developed theories that have probably been well-documented by more academic women than me about why we shave and what it means when we don’t. At one point I became very angry that the idea of a smooth, pre-pubescent girl’s legs was perceived as good. It seemed like a giant oppression that no one was paying attention to. How can we expect to be taken seriously if we look like we haven’t yet reached puberty? And if it is inappropriate for men to have sex with underage girls, how can it be appropriate (even encouraged) for women to make themselves look like underage girls in order to attract men? Meanwhile, men are lauded based on their amounts of body hair, resulting in a society made up of grown up men telling little girls what to do. Did anyone else see this? Was I the only one?
Then, a couple of summers ago, I started shaving again. I think it was because I started working in an office and people were staring at my legs and judging me. Intellectually it didn’t matter, of course. But to meet my day-to-day goals, like getting along with co-workers and not being the ostracized one in the corner of the office for ONCE in my LIFE, I gave in and shaved.
I felt like a bad feminist. But in the mainstream, with leg hair, I felt like a bad woman. Is that fucked up or what? (oh yes, yes it is.) There is a deep, abiding desire in me to fit in, which battles almost constantly with my deep, instinctual need to set myself apart.
This year I think I’ll compromise and shave my legs (but not obsessively) and leave my armpit hair at a not-stinky, not-non-existent length. And I will paint my toes but not my cheeks. And I will make my beliefs known by speaking them rather than displaying them about my person and hoping people will understand.
And by next year: who knows.