I’m a pretty easy gal, for the most part. A couple of kitties, a good beer on the weekends and a new pack of undies here and there and I’m a happy woman.
I’ve been told that I’m high-maintenance, but it certainly can’t be in the material aspects.
So what has got this simple gal going tonight?
Peer into my fridge, won’t you?
Over there, by the jars of pickles (does anyone else have five kinds of pickles in the house?), hey, those aren’t just any leftovers; those are leftovers from a restaurant.
There should be a restaurant that serves only leftovers, from a giant fridge… You go there, rummage through it, pull out what looks best.
As part of the whole couple-days-off-and-still-in-Minneapolis thing, we went out for dinner at a little Mexican place.
So you know what’s in the fridge, don’t you?
That’s right. Leftover Mexican food.
Bless you, my little brown friends. Your chili verde was ephemeral; your refried beans, musical.
It’s only been four hours since I ate the original meal, and here I am eating the leftovers.
This is how the other half live.
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