Years ago, I worked the line with a guy who I wasn't crazy about. He was a decent cook, and a fun dude, but our working styles just didn't click. It was my last week at that restaurant and I was more than ready to close that chapter and not have to see my bff daily for 12 hours.
I threw this together a few months ago at work–very last minute–knowing I needed to leave a salad, but not thinking much of it. It was for my clients and [her] parents, and I knew that the two men of the group would probably email me that night asking if I left any double-stuffed bacon lard duck fat fried baked potatoes with the rabbit food.
I realize how this is going to come across but I really wish that I had more close friends who could, like, do things for me. You know, my friend so and so, the hairstylist/make-up artist who gives me trade secrets and cuts my hair. Or my photographer/graphic artist friend who can splain to me how the heck to accomplish on computer what's in my head. I mean c'mon you hero teacher and medical field friends! Geesh. I'll still make you food.
When I was once an 11 year old girl, l had a friend who always hosted the slumber parties. Her house was eerie. It was cold; shiny faux marble floors, sparse white walls, sharp corners, and foamy eggshell pleather furniture. There was absolutely no coziness factor. The carpet had fresh vacuum trails and most noticeably, every surface was spotless- not a crumb on the counter or fleck of dust on the floor.
Soooooo. Remember that time a homeless person threw a peach at me? That was yesterday. I was out on a jog, minding my own business, when something smacked my left thigh. A partially eaten peach bounced to the ground. I looked down and peach juice saliva was on my leg. I looked to my left and the a-hole was laughing at me.