Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Tag: Food

My Resolve To Remain Unpopular

blur breakfast close up dairy product

Photo by Tookapic on

I have been reading a site called The Art of Blogging They said that bloggers who want many readers should remember that strangers don’t care about what you had for lunch or how you tripped over a paving stone yesterday, and that even those who know you only pretend to care out of politeness. Now, I am not taking issue with this advice–it makes perfect sense. I only ask that you keep on pretending to care, because I warned you what to expect at the outset. And how did they know I tripped over a paving stone, hmm?

Rather than tell you what I had for lunch today, let me tell you about–


–Next to me in the window well of the bus–2 Q-Tips. WITH EARWAX ON THEM. “This bus ride is boring. Think I’ll clean my ears.” Suppose the bus went into a pothole and you ended up puncturing your eardrum? You’d probably try suing the city. BECAUSE YOU’RE OBVIOUSLY NOT THE SORT TO TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOUR OWN ACTIONS, OR  YOU’D HAVE THROWN AWAY YOUR GROSS Q-TIPS. (Disclaimer: I have no way of knowing if the cotton swabs in question were actually Q-Tips. Perhaps they were some generic brand.)

–On a bus stop bench on the way (not mine, because EW EW EW)–a to-go plate of pancakes, partially eaten. IN THE RAIN. Just wring those out, they’ll be fine. They did inspire me to have pancakes at McDonald’s. (See, I worked my lunch menu in there after all.)

–In the gutter on N. St Joe Ave.–a stick of deodorant, with the cap off. “Oh no, I forgot deodorant, better put some on in the car and throw it out the window!” It was Suave Powder Fresh, so at least the offender was powder-fresh. Maybe the police could identify the culprit by scent.

And remember–VOTE FOR ME FOR PRESIDENT, I’M THE OUTSIDER! (I’m getting a head start on making you sick of me.)



Domination, Donald Trump, Donuts

bread food sandwich wood

Photo by Steyn Viljoen on

…is not what this post is about, but a list of my frequently-used tags (do I write a lot about those things? really?) on the side of my page showed them, and the juxtaposition amused me. Like my music collection, in which “Catholic Communion Classics” is next to “More Cowbell.”

Disclaimer: Nick paid for this post with dinner and a movie, and is, I’m sure, already fretting because his name is not in the title. He will have to settle for a subtitle:


And not even a very good subtitle.

Nick may think that he can change from his human to his beast-shape at will, but that actually occurs only when will it, which does not always work to his advantage. So it was in the form of a man that he came to pick me up Sunday evening. I had invited myself along to see The Big Lebowski, his favorite movie, basically because I wanted to know what the big deal was. And Nick was too much of a gentleman to say, “No, you can’t come, you’ll spoil the mood.”

Our dinner party also consisted of Nick’s wife J. (I’d add her middle initial, but I don’t know it), their children Thing One and Thing Two, and Nick’s friend Officer A. B. Nick’s wife was eight months and three weeks pregnant with Thing Three, and I kept thinking, What if she goes into labor right here? Well, there are two police officers here, I guess they’d know what to do. Actually, most men know more about childbirth than I do.

If J. had gone into labor, it would be because there were two birthday parties going on at Hacienda that night, and employees are required to come to the table and clap and sing, and they were VERY LOUD. I was about ready to run out the door myself.

Nick, whose idea of a good time apparently involves trying to make me eat food I dislike, kept asking me why I don’t like salsa, to the point of insisting that this post include the explanation. I don’t know why, since I told him why right then and there. It’s because it looks like vomit. This also applies to gazpacho (I once actually saw someone vomit into gazpacho, and it looked no different afterwards than it had before), and re-fried beans, which look more like cat vomit. If anyone now feels they’ll never eat any of those again, they can just blame Nick, which is a good policy anyway. I tried dipping my chips into ranch dressing, when that option was made available, but it seemed pointless.

Before the food arrived and gave me something to do (since I don’t talk much), I did the usual social-event self-monitoring–OK, now you’ve looked at that person long enough, it’s time to look at someone else, or they’ll think you’re staring at them. If Nick has the keen peripheral vision he’d like me to think he has, he would have noticed that I did stare at him quite a bit (he was sitting next to me), and assumed I was magnetized by his good looks. I was actually wondering if a light-colored fleck on his cheek was a chip crumb or a gray hair in his beard. Oh well, by now it’s either washed off in the shower, or not. I’ll have to remember to check next time.

Thing Two, The Destroyer of Crayons, got free french fries because his food was late. Thing One, The Gazer at Screens, wasn’t sure this was fair.

Nick protected me from an ant on my plate, even though he had sore fingers from being bitten by a folding chair earlier. See, there is an officer there when you need one. Even if he lost a fight with a folding chair.

J. and the kids went home (because this movie is soooo not suitable for children), and the rest of us headed for the theater.

I didn’t really think I’d like The Big Lebowski, but I actually did. It is dopey, but a lot of intelligence went into its making. Did you know:

–“Directing” Jeff Bridges consisted of him going up to the director before each scene and saying, “Did the Dude burn one before this happens?” Since the answer was usually yes, he would get ready by rubbing his eyes until they were bloodshot.

–A lot of the Dude’s distinctive clothes were actually Bridges’ own. Sure, it all looks like it came from Goodwill, but you know the Dude would be selective about his Goodwill shopping.

–The dream sequences were lit to make them bright and sharp, the Dude’s apartment was made seedy-looking (insofar as a bungalow in Los Angeles can be made so) with grittier lighting, and the bridge between the two was the lighting they used for the L.A. skyline shots, which used the orangey-type streetlights rather than the cold bluish kind. So it, to paraphrase the Dude, tied the look together.

–Walter’s repeated admonitions to Donny to “shut the fack up” was an inside joke about Steve Buscemi’s character in Fargo, who never stopped talking.

Nick and I shared a tub of popcorn (which I hadn’t had since I retired). Once we reached into the tub at the same time and our hands touched. Yikes, cooties!!!!!

Oh, I also liked (most of) the music, especially “Dead Flowers” at the end, although it would have been better by the Stones themselves. So, all in all, thanks be to Nick, who, I am reasonably sure, would not forget to put roses on my grave.


Now It Can Be Told

This page took so long to load, it was as if the computer was asking, “Are you sure you want to do this?” Well, I’m not sure I should be doing it. S.G. has just lost its original reason for being, after all, and may turn out to be flimsy and pitiful without work stories, but I’m pitiful without something to write, so here you are, like it or not.


I own a light blue ball cap with rhinestones on it. I wore it to church today–it was only the second time I’ve worn it. I looked at myself in the mirror, and thought the fit was a bit odd, but Rom has owned ball caps that had some type of stiffener in the front panel and fit in a similar manner, so I didn’t think anything of it. When I got home and took the hat off, I realized I had never taken the cardboard insert out of it that had kept it from looking droopy on the hook at Walgreen’s. By the way, the first time I wore this hat was to a party at Nick’s place. Obviously he didn’t notice anything amiss, or he’d have laughed until he cried (if that is indeed possible).


My exit-interview form (they didn’t give me an actual interview, just a form) said, “What was the best thing about working for the City?” and I wrote “Never a dull moment!” Then I thought, No, I’m supposed to say, “Helping people”! But “never a dull moment” is what first came to mind, and so it shall remain.


Namely, my coloring-book progress. I have dealt with creepy moths and dragonflies, and explored the differences between yellow-green and green-yellow. The author’s introduction said, “You may find some of these patterns too intricate to color each small space. Feel free to color the whole larger area and just let the pattern show through.” That is such a load off my mind. It tells you something that with many of the pictures, I preferred to write captions or dialogue for them, rather than color them.


…which is the new name for D., since Rom says she has arms like a T. Rex. I didn’t notice that myself, but it has entertainment value.


–That s’mores (had by me for the first time!) (Nick: “I can’t believe you never had them.” WELL, I DON’T GO CAMPING, SO WHERE WOULD I HAVE HAD THE OPPORTUNITY TO TRY THEM?) are better without the chocolate. Also that I have a talent for toasting marshmallows, which, like my talent for miniature golf, is due to a watchful patience that I have yet to display in any other areas of life. Perhaps I can take up a second career as a sniper. DID YOU KNOW? They make square marshmallows now for this purpose! For s’mores, I mean, not sniping.

–That I do not, in fact, know enough to come in out of the rain, but neither did anyone else at this event. We just sat there eating in the rain. Roughing it.



Day 22: More Fun Than the Law Allows

S.G.’S 22ND POST, 4/26/13: Selected Short Subjects

–Nick shows up with a beard, after telling me he wasn’t going to grow one because it was too trendy.


–Child singing “Jingo Bells, Jingo Bells” as a woman says, “Shut the f*ck up, I know how to drive” to a man in the car.


Ad in the paper for Hagedorn’s: “Fiddlers, cat fillets, frog legs every day!” Cat fillets? Good thing I keep my cats indoors.


Talking To Myself

I almost discontinued this blog. (“WHAT?!” Nick screeches, leaping to his feet. “But when we have our ridealong–who will write about my great and terrible deeds–and–and–” He sinks down, clamping his wings tightly against his body, buries his face in his tail and sobs. Sighing, I continue…)

I almost discontinued this blog, because, well, because it’s too late to be Elvis Presley. But Rom staged an intervention, and convinced me that I am, in fact, addicted. So, FanBase, to thee I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful–but yet oddly arrogant–and bring you–


–Whose visit (with the ever-indulgent Sam) to Dispatch the other day raised the question: How would salvation history be different if, when Eve offered Adam the apple, he’d refused to take it? Actually, Nick also provides us with the answer: Adam would then preen, congratulating himself on his willpower, and thereby show himself prideful, and we’d end up in the same fix anyway.

–Did you know there’s a variety of apple named after me? “Great for applesauce!” the bag cheerfully informs us.

I suppose I shouldn’t beat up on the helpless beast, who did, after all, give me part of his chocolate bar. Note to co-workers: The next time he says, “Anyone else want some?” I would like all of you to say yes, so he ends up with no chocolate bar whatsoever. (I promise to consume any chocolate you don’t want.) And would you like an apple now, Nick?


I’d felt mildly miffed that the Disney Princesses lip balms I distributed at the July 4th party did not include a nod to the Dark Side. But Disney has rectified this oversight for Halloween, with Disney Villains lip balms! My heroine Maleficent gets Ruthless Red Licorice (I can’t think of red licorice as ruthless–does it have any taste other than plastic?), Cruella de Ville got one which I can’t now bring to mind, and somebody else–the design on the tube made it hard to tell who–got Evil Fruit Punch. I am in no need of lip balm, thanks to Nick & Sam’s birthday present to me this year, but these products tempt me nonetheless.

Well, I am up too late, considering I must answer phones tomorrow. The last time I did so, I literally didn’t have time to blow my nose, because people were butt-dialing all over town. It really gets old. As do we all. Too late to be Elvis Presley, too early to be anything else.

Mid-Century Modern


…my in-laws, that is. This involves finding a safety zone–a cushy chair in a far corner is ideal. However, on the way, Rom’s daughter was talking about some recent furniture finds, and mentioned that one piece was valuable because it was from the coveted Mid-Century Modern period. I thought, Wait, wait–back up. Mid-Century Modern? You mean what your father and I knew as “furniture”? So I have decided my kind are not baby boomers, but Mid-Century Modern, and I have a feeling you all are going to get pretty sick of this term before I’m done with it.

Annnyway, I was fashion-disadvantaged because the party setting featured a swimming pool, and I have no bathing suit, because up to now, no one I know has had a pool. (Even though I can’t swim, I enjoy the splashing-around part. As long as no one tries to shove me under water. Remember that I’m dangerous when frightened.) So I solemnly promised to buy myself a bathing suit next summer. I also told myself I’d lose the 10 (OK, 15) extra pounds before next summer, but like that book I plan to write, I’ve been telling myself that for a very long time. I will say, however, that I was very well-accessorized. Rom was planning on distributing some necklaces he’d made to his mother, daughter, and sisters, and I wore mine as well, so that no one would think I hadn’t got one. Because that’s just how good a Christian I am.

(Speaking of ecclesiastical matters, we at St Boniface have a new young priest. He is short, slight, and bespectacled, and I was trying to figure out who he reminded me of. It was at a high point in the Mass that I realized–my spiritual director is Harry Potter.)

I was looking forward to dinner, because there was a pile of fried chicken, and Rom said, “Did you see the corn bake?” “The–corn bake?” I said, barely able to believe something that sounded that good. “Yes, it’s got corn, creamed corn, and cream cheese–” and I was bolting for the kitchen. So excited was I that I piled these items on my plate, brought them happily to the table–and realized that not all the food was laid out, and the signal hadn’t been given to actually eat yet, and Your Humble Narrator had missed Another Social Cue, so I had to just sit there and be embarrassed until the actual moment arrived. No wonder I had to ask where the forks and napkins were–they hadn’t been put out yet. But I’m married to Rom, so these people are stuck with me.

And my old friend Charles, as he is not called, asked me how I’m doing on the book. As if that were a real thing. Maybe I should give up this fantasy life and start living the life I actually have.

Oh, and Bingo Pingo is alive and well. Thanks for asking.

After the Deluge

Nothing like being almost at work, juggling bag of food, 32oz drink (I wisely avoided the 44oz, which would have been even harder to juggle), and umbrella as it suddenly starts to pour–and then the wind starts to blow as well, rendering said umbrella useless. After two blocks, I looked as if I’d jumped in a swimming pool. (I’m guessing that’s what I looked like. I do not frequent swimming pools.) I arrived with soaked socks, squelchy shoes, and my chicken tenders had been dipped in my blackberry cobbler (and I am normally opposed to foods touching each other on my plate). There remained only a slow and lingering death by air conditioning. But an ANGEL OF MERCY, my co-worker Princess Carol, offered to run me back home to change clothes, which was approved by the Powers That Be. The only thing that wasn’t wet was my bra, so the umbrella wasn’t completely useless. (I believe sitting around in a wet bra causes you to get mildew.) Of course, it then took us an hour and a half to deal with (minor) emergencies brought about by, at most, five minutes of storm.


The day before yesterday, I spilled cola on myself. Yesterday, I spilled banana malt on myself. I can’t wait to see what type of fluid today will bring. (“You had a banana malt? And I didn’t even get to eat dinner??” Nick says, and begins to wail. Well, most days he gets an undisturbed hour to eat, and I don’t get any dinner, and have to work while I eat if I do, so he can just suck it, or munch it, or whatever it is he does with his type of mouthparts.)


No sooner had I observed that “Everyone loves a smartass” yesterday, or whenever it was I last wrote–I saw a sentiment on Facebook to “Stop Hating Smartasses.” We supposedly perform some useful function in society. It finished with “Born With a Smirk. Smartass for Life.” (I’m inclined to substitute “Until Death,” since people want to wipe the smirk off our faces.) But I thought, What a cool statement! Nick & I can get matching tattoos! When I suggested this, he growled, “Not for all the ride-alongs in the world.” He is no fun. But he was just cranky because he didn’t have a banana malt like I had. I had a greasy cheeseburger, too. I’m sure I enjoyed consuming it more than he enjoyed escorting drunks to jail. Life is hard sometimes.

I’m Still Here


–“Female walking down the street, kicking cars like she’s a ninja.”
–“So someone was throwing raw chicken legs at you from his car window?”

–“Complaint of someone in the motel room trying to hug the caller’s wife.”

–“Report of a hillbilly inside the gas station at Barker and Broadway, trying to start a fight with the caller.” Being a hillbilly turned out to mean wearing a cowboy hat. You know the lights are always bright on Broadway…

–“Report of a man walking down the street screaming like he’s mad at the world.”

–“Check for a teenage boy dressed all in black curled up in the middle of the road.”

–“What’s my address? Ask President Obama and he’ll tell you.”

You might think these were all the calls I’d saved up, well, since I last posted about strange calls, but no, they all came in a single night. As did seven traffic accidents, all over town, within a two-minute time span. Ready, set, crash!


Dinner was brought, once again, by Nick and his handler. He proudly brought the bag in his teeth and dropped it on my desk (all that training is paying off!), then, remembering that I can’t eat with him staring at me, tactfully withdrew and bothered somebody else. Everybody else. Then he returned and–

–stole the scissors so I couldn’t open the soy sauce, but refused to open it for me himself instead,

–threatened to throw my grapes all over the room (and a good thing he didn’t, because I take my food seriously and there would have been a scene),

–and accused me of treating him like a prostitute, in which case he would be high-priced and insolent.


The specter of grape-throwing reminds me of a dispatch party held at Ye Olde F.O.P. Club (at Louisiana and Fares, across from Red Spot Paint–very atmospheric!). Former Officer P.K. (name withheld to protect the innocent, by which I mean me, from the guilty), under the influence of alcohol (I hope, otherwise there’s NO excuse at all) smashed his face into the cake, thus ruining it for us all before we’d even cut it. And I don’t mean he passed out and fell into it. I mean he deliberately stuck his face into it and rooted around. He is no longer with the department, due to another error in judgment.

You know, tales of the old Club could make a whole post in themselves. It would embarrass quite a few people, me not the least.

Moody and Inconclusive

…is how Rom categorized my fiction writing. Such as it is.


This was my first day of dispatching the traveling road show of Nick and his new partner Sam-I-Am. (The latter’s feelings about green eggs and ham have not been determined as of this writing, but she seems to feel positively about green food in general, since she doesn’t realize that peas are gross. And Nick puts PEAS AND CARROTS IN RICE, which is just unspeakable.) The last run I gave them: Numerous pickup trucks on the lot of Sonic with alcohol in the vehicles. This is how you Sonic! (“It isn’t how I Sonic,” Nick said primly. He has never even been drunk, so afraid of losing control is he.)


The other night I woke up with heartburn, as I all-too-often do, and fumbled the new bottle of Tums out of the hall closet. This was the brand-name bottle, not the Walgreen’s generic bottle I’d had previously. Well, the lid was not only child-proof in its tightness, but the tab you had to push to open it was razor-sharp (which also discourages children, I understand). Which I proceeded to prove–there’s nothing like standing there with heartburn, half-asleep, wrestling with recalcitrant packaging. I finally wrenched it open and wormed a tablet out of it, snapped it shut, and realized my fingers were slippery with blood. Yes, I had sliced my thumb on the razor-sharp thingy. Good thing it was my left thumb–the right one would have been in just the right spot to hit the space bar on the keyboard, and I would have had to call in sick with an outlandish story (and not for the first time, as Sam knows, and Sam, do me a favor and don’t tell Nick about that one). Although my colleague L.L. raised the bar on that one by CUTTING OFF THE TIP OF HER FINGER and coming in to work anyway. And then there’s my other colleague’s deodorant-related injury…


A new CVS is going to be built catty-corner (NOT “caddy-corner,” OK?) from Walgreen’s. And no one will be able to pass through safely, because they will be shooting arrows at each other across the street.

Why haven’t these posts been illustrated lately? Because the illustration function hasn’t been working. Why don’t I fix it? Because I don’t know how. Next question?

P.S. Nick, the point I was trying to make in our last conversation begins with “R.” You’re mighty slow on the uptake for someone who wasn’t drunk.

5 Minutes of Fame on the Bus

For some reason, my co-workers always think it’s cute when I cuss. Well, if you think that’s cute, picture this:

I was getting on the bus, and 2 people getting on ahead of me were greeted effusively by a black woman a little younger than myself. I figured, obviously, that they knew each other and hadn’t seen each other for a long time. Well, once I got into my seat, this same woman turned to me and yelled, “I LOVE THIS WOMAN!! SHE RIDES THE BUS ALL THE TIME! SHE ANSWERS THE PHONE WHEN YOU NEED THE POLICE!!  SHE SAVES LIVES!!!” Now, for someone I don’t recognize to recognize me is no big deal, since I tend to avoid eye contact, and can’t remember faces very well anyway. (“I don’t often make eye contact, but when I do, I still can’t remember who you are.”) (I still remember the first time I saw Nick in uniform. He’d come in to bring us food, and I turned to him and asked politely, “And you would be…?” “The guy you’ve just been exchanging messages with?” he answered, bewildered. I hadn’t recognized him with his police hat on, obscuring his distinctive hairline.) But she then THROWS HER ARMS AROUND ME. Now, that is something many people have taken years to work up the nerve to do. She’s hugging me madly, while I’m clinging to the pole next to my seat with both hands. I’ve never been so glad to get off a bus in my life. Well, maybe the time near Central High School when a bunch of teenagers in the back of the bus kept telling me I was ugly. At least this lady was nice.


“McDonald’s, may I take your order, please?”


“What would you like to order?”


“But what kind of food?”


“Because you haven’t ordered any.”


“But what would you like to eat?”



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