Un Chien Andalou Chaud

I usually let the wife do the cooking and take what I get. Because she's often busy, and because I'm lazy and wouldn't cook for myself if you paid me*, dining alone usually means instant noodles, instant curry, instant spaghetti, and so on -- which generally results in instant stomach discomfort and instant diarrhea. Still, I refuse to change my eating habits. That'd be like asking a dog to be a cat. However, very rarely I get the urge to march to the beat of a different drummer, so to speak; to step outside my hermit culinary kingdom. Thursday was one such day. To tell you the truth, I was as surprised about it as you are.

(pretend you're surprised)

Yes, on the way home from work I capriciously decided to venture into E-Mart and pick up some vittles.

Sometimes, I realize now, the best decisions are the ones we don't make. I think it was Comte, or possibly Eddie Murphy, who said that.

Here's what I bought:

- a bag of pork cutlets (with a free roll of paper towels!)
- a 3-pack of some crappy Korean candy bars
- a pizza sandwich (apparently ham, cheese, and sweet pickles between bread = pizza sandwich)
- a bag containing 2 servings of instant spaghetti
- some sauce for the pork culets (if I finish it before it expires, I vow to eat the bottle it came in)
- a small pack of processed cheese slices
- a bottle of French's mustard

and the topper...

- 2 packs of hot dogs, packaged with buns

Me being a complete blockhead, I read the expiration date on the hot dogs (end of March) and thought to myself yeah, I can eat 10 franks in a month. What I failed to realize was that the buns' expiration date is today.

Now, you might argue that if I keep the buns in the refrigerator they'll be good until the end of next week, possibly longer, but your assertion will fall on deaf ears, I'm afraid. See, I have this weird thing about bread and expiration dates. In my fucked-up mind, if it says it expires tomorrow, then by god it bloody WILL expire tomorrow! Nothing anyone says can change my mind. This weird foible likely stems from the fact that my father would (and probably still does) pick mold off of bread and cheese and eat it complacently, chastising me and my brother for refusing to do the same.

Whatever, Dad. You're no longer the boss of me.

I realized my mistake once I got home. So you know what I did? I ate 2 hotdogs for dinner, 2 more for breakfast this morning, and I just now polished off another 2.

After the first 2: "Boy, those hit the spot. I forgot how good a hot dog loaded with mustard can taste."

After the second 2: "Not bad. Probably not the best thing to eat for breakfast, but I'm still young."

After these last 2: "Ugh. Hot dogs, I'm beginning to grow weary of you."

Those adroit at math will no doubt see my present dilemma, namely that there are 4 more hot dogs to be eaten. So what do I do? throw them out? Keep them and eat them sans buns?

Fuck it. I'm going to eat the rest now. If some pipsqueak Japanese dude can eat 50 in 12 minutes, I can handle 4 more in an evening, right?

Because I'm a scientist at heart, I will disclose the results of this bold venture tomorrow. Not since Marie Curie has a man** risked so much and asked for so little.

Pray for me.



*I think the most challenging meal I've whipped up for myself in the past year was a grilled-cheese sandwich. Boy, was that ever a hassle. First of all, like any civilized household we keep our margarine in the refrigerator. One of the things I love about being married -- besides regular sex -- compared to when I lived with my folks is that there are no toast crumbs in the margarine. God, that's disgusting. But refrigerated margarine isn't easy to spread on a piece of bread (that's what I said, my rhymes are heavy like lead). And when I put it in the microwave to soften it, I invariably either liquify the margarine or end up melting the container inside which it resides (my favorite Drexler is Clyde, I wash my whites with Tide). So, as you can see, even a seemingly simple thing to make such as a grilled cheese sandwich is a bothersome task. I'm encouraged by my unwavering hope that, when I'm rich like Oprah, I won't have to worry about shit like that any more, because I'll have a gay Swiss dude preparing all of my meals for me.

** I know, I know.