Sip Bacardi Like it's my Birfday

So, Wednesday I turned 26. I spent most of the day at school, in classes and doing intake interviews with moms for a social skills group. I came home at around 8:30, which was pretty late to be celebrating any kind of birthday.

I walked in, and Russ was there. He had cleaned up the house, walked the dogs, and had a candlelit dinner on the table. And he looked fantastic.

We sat down to eat, and then he gave me my presents. He gave me a pair of earrings that he had seen me eyeing at the airport in Oklahoma. He had been holding onto those puppies for over a month. Then he gave me this book called the "Not For Tourists" Guide to New York. I had wanted one for a long time, and had nearly bought one for myself several times. Then, he gave me the icing on the cake:
He's taking me to Avenue Q this Saturday!

I haven't seen a show except for Linda Edder since I have lived here. I am so excited! Russ really went out of his way to make me feel special. It was awesome.

So there you go. Happy Birthday to Me!

Sweet, Salty, Fried, Chocolate, and Au Gratin

I love food. It shows. I don't judge food by its regional location, save for the mild ribbing towards New Yorkers and their spice-wussy food preferences. I will eat almost anywhere, except maybe a restroom or a graveyard, and even then...well, there are always exceptions to rules, as they say.

Now I know this is petty....

but why does the deli insist that I have an 18 inch tall mouth?

I order sandwiches from any deli, and they send me an entire turkey (sliced thin, which is nice, no complaints) placed between two wafer thin pieces of white bread. A third layer of the sandwich contained a produce section worth of iceberg lettuce, a dab of mayonnaise, and what I can only assume was a genetically enhanced tomato.

And here is my point:

Sandwiches should not need bowls.

If at some point, deli-workers of america, you realize that you are defying laws of physics by rearranging atomic particles of chicken breast to fit a pound of the slices between two saltine crackers, I implore, remember, this is not a sandwich freak show. A real live human will have to eat this. No forcing meat to go into crevices where it simply will not go. If it is falling out of the paper, I will probably find it overwhelming. I want to hold it in my hands, and fit it in my mouth without calling a personal trainer and a contortionist.

The sandwich I had today qualified more as meat performance art than it did dinner. I am referring as much to the art of meat cramming into bread as I am meat cramming into mouth. It was a sight to see.

Now, I am going to go home and wait for the bounty to be taken out on my head for teasing the delis of New York. But it's okay. I have barricaded my door with the leftover turkey and lettuce. They'll have to eat their way through just to get in.