exile countdown

I have taken to reading nutritionally information on packaging, even on things I do not eat. The salads I eat at work do indeed belong at a fast food �restaurant� because once you slather dressing on them they lose their health benefits. Leave it to fast food to ruin salads by making them delicious and unhealthy. I am weird about dressings and gravies and avoid them in general, so I have been able to dodge this bullet. Most people would be shocked to learn that vegetables do indeed have palatable flavors without the aid of dressing or melted cheese.

Thursday was a day of shame that I did not report here, despite my vow to report all my shame for your entertainment. I graduated from �dude� to �sir� at the grocery store, prematurely ensconcing me in my thirties by three years, twenty-one days. I pride myself on my age defying skin, but something may be awry. Everyone I am related to on my mother�s side looks a good ten to twenty years younger than they actually are. If alcohol were on my diet or a part of my life anymore I would have gone into the package store so I could be carded, that is always an ego boost.

The last time I drank was the �Worst Martini Ever� at Ruby Tuesday, the day after Thanksgiving. My sister and I found great humor in the fact that you spend a whole day in idealistic thankfulness for the things in your life on Thanksgiving and spend the next day embodying exactly why the rest of the world is disgusted by America at Wal Mart, the Mall, and Best Buy.

When I ordered the �Worst Martini Ever,� I was carded, by the waitress who proceeded to question the validity of my driver�s license because, in her words, �this ain�t real;� especially not compared to the ultra believable Commonwealth of Kentucky Driver�s license, �It�s just friendlier,� which looks to be drawn in crayon and nicely compliments their smiley face license plates. The Connecticut license does not look fake, compared to theirs.

Luckily, I had my passport with me as a joke to my sister, who is currently exiled to the Red States while I am living in New England, home to radicalism and open-mindedness since we stole it from the natives, and while the waitress had never seen one she guessed that if Secretary of State asked the good people at the Vatican and Italy to let me in than I could have drink. My childhood passport, while more impressive than my current one, would get me nowhere since I was eight when it was made and could be burned at the stake in a Red State for having been to France so often.

I am ready to start a counter for my sister because he exile to the Red States is coming to a close, she will be Back By Popular Demand shortly. She will staying here, Connecticut may never be the same.