So I asked Naomi whether she’d rather hear a story about sausage or a 27-year-old pact, and she said, “Sausage. Always sausage.”
So this is all her fault.
There comes a time in a woman’s life where she is so intensely happy with herself and her life that no glance of judgment can deter her from her chosen path. I am that woman, and it is that time. I officially have no shame.
Backstory: For the last four days, I have had a negative account balance in my bank account. This is due largely to the fact that the Boulder postal service still evidently uses ponies to deliver the mail. Sick ponies. Ponies with gout and arthritis problems. I have been waiting a long, lonely day for money to show up in my mailbox. And in the meantime, I’ve been eating a lot of oatmeal and Bisquick and the slightly dead vegetables in the bottom of my crisper. I eyed a lone jellybean left over on the floor from the previous tenant’s children for a good long while before finally letting it go, but only because it was a licorice one.
The freelancer diet comes highly recommended. Starving artists do not actually starve. We just decide that oatmeal is no longer worth it the trouble it takes to chew. I was lying awake in bed one night thinking I was kind of hungry, but deciding I simply did not want oatmeal badly enough to get up. Now, if there had been a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in my fridge, you better believe I could have bestirred myself. You would be surprised how much less food you decide your body needs when the only food available is, essentially, gruel. That Oliver Twist character was delirious. There is no way he actually wanted more gruel. He was hallucinating at the time. He thought it was brisket and deep fried mushrooms.
This morning, a very dear friend of mine, who has heard about my freelancer diet at length for the last few days, came to my house at 5:45 a.m., through the snow, to drive me to the airport. He brought me breakfast, which was sealed up in three Zip-loc bags. The three bags were: Toast with eggs fried in the middle. Two tiny muffins, and four strawberries. And sausage.
I may have sworn lifelong fealty to this man, as well as given my solemn word that I will bear his children and clean his fish tanks. It was the gruel talking. For pity’s sake, the man brought strawberries.
I chowed down with a vengeance. But he is a young man, this friend, and young men always think the bottomless pits they have for stomachs come standard for the rest of the human race, and so he brought me a lot of sausage. In fact, he brought me four little breakfast links, and an entire polish sausage. This is because he has ever experienced a stomach that is so disgusted with gruel that it has decided to wear black eyeliner and rock back and forth for awhile in its room, telling all visitors to go away. So the polish sausage went uneaten for a little while, while was delayed for nearly an hour in the snow for the first leg of my flight, landed with ten minutes to spare for my connection, and sprinted down half a terminal to discover that the second leg was also delayed, that I decided the time had come to eat lunch.
Next to my gate was a Dairy Queen. There were people surrounding the Dairy Queen, getting frosty shakes and burgers and french fries. There was ketchup involved. Also a good many bald men. I do not believe I have ever seen so many bald men in my life outside of a Congressional assembly.
I sat down. I put my beautiful brown leather computer bag, which I got as a graduation present, on the seat next to me.
Out of the beautiful brown leather computer bag I drew a Ziploc baggie with a giant hock of Polish ham in it, grease pooling at the bottom, still a little warm (those folk at Ziploc make a good baggie). Heads turned. Noses wrinkled. I distinctly saw one woman turn her child’s head away. I reached into the grease and pulled out my sausage, and began to merrily gnaw on it, among all the fries and the milkshakes and the bald men and the nicely dressed business people on business flights. A little sausage juice ran down the inside of my arm and I caught it with a fingertip and stuck it in my mouth, which is when one of the baldies decided to get uppity.
“Forget the bread?” he asked, smiling in the greasy way that too many Dairy Queen burgers will net you. He was wearing a pinstripe suit and a power tie, and he’d flung it over his shoulder to keep it out of the ketchup. He eyed my cleavage and bit off a french fry and it made a noise that sounded exactly like, “You poor, pathetic sausage-gnawing child. I can afford bread and meat to stick between it. And a milkshake.”
It was a noisy fry.
“A friend of mine woke up at five this morning to take me to the airport, and he packed me a little breakfast for a surprise. I’ve already eaten most of it.” I said calmly. I bit off a piece of my sausage, and IT made a noise that sounded just like, “You probably took a taxi to the airport, baldy, and nobody likes you enough to make you breakfast. Definitely not with strawberries.”
There comes a time in every woman’s life where she is perfectly, utterly happy with her life.
That’s the sausage story. Tune in a few hours for the 27-year-old pact.