You’re Not Going to Put That in Your Mouth, Are You?

Shall we just get this little announcement out of the way so that we can move on with our day?

Thursday the 5th will be my 500th post in as many days. I would’ve bet against it, but there ya go – that’s why I don’t gamble.

I am giving away something small and fairly silly to the person who can introduce my blog to two new readers and provide the answers to the following questions:

Dolly “Gee” Squeakers is formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers. From what family did Liza “Bean” Bitey spring?

Liza Bean Bitey often takes calls on Pearl’s cell phone in what room?

Has Pearl ever been forced to bail Liza Bean out of jail? Extra points for remembering on what occasion the cat was last handcuffed and “taken downtown”.

Would Pearl like to have a beer with you?

In what neighborhood of Minneapolis does Pearl live?

How does Pearl get to work?

Should you talk to Pearl first thing in the morning?

Pearl believes everyone should practice yoga and has listed many reasons why (some of them actually pertaining to its physical benefits). List two.


Obviously, I won’t know if you’ve introduced me to new readers or not. Just know that if you don’t and you say you did that I will, eventually, find out and be forced to come to your house toting a 24-pack whilst you are unawares, whereupon we will sit at the kitchen table drinking for as long as necessary as we figure out what makes you lie and what that may or may not mean for your immortal soul.

Oh, and while we’re drinking those beers? We should have nachos. They really go with beer.

So. That’s enough of the announcements. I’ll make the same announcement Wednesday, too, and then Thursday we’ll see who knows what.

HA!

In the meantime, do you have time for a quick story? Because I can’t just hang out here all day, you know.

I love chicken skin. You know – when it’s cooked, when it’s all crispy and brown and just a little salty? Best part of the bird, frankly, and if they made a bird that was skin only, I’d eat it.

OK. That made me a little sick.

My point here is that I love chicken skin.

So we have that established, yes?

Ages ago, my boyfriend (we’ll call him “Jim”) and I were friends with another couple. We drank together, danced together, played board games and were, generally, the kind of spazzes that you expect in couples in their 20s.

“I make the best chicken in the world. Seriously. I’m a really good cook.” She said this on a number of occasions. Eventually I called her on it.

“Yeah? You should make a chicken for us, have us over for dinner.”

And so it came to pass that she and her boyfriend had Jim and I over for dinner.

Ohhhh, the smells. The lovely, lovely smells that came from her kitchen.

“It’s almost done!” she called out. “I’m just making the gravy now!”

Jim and I were on the couch in the living room. He got up for a beer.

“Hey,” I whispered. “While you’re in there, grab me a piece of skin off the chicken! It smells great!”

Moments later, Jim came out of the kitchen and into the living room with a beer in one hand – and what was that in the other?

Lisa was right behind him, munching happily. “The chicken skin is my favorite part!” she enthused.

“Me, too!” I said.

But the look on Jim’s face told another story, and our eyes met as the hand not holding the beer reached out to me, handed me what appeared to be part of a flesh-colored wetsuit…

“We’ll have as much as we like,” Lisa said. “Tommy doesn’t like the skin.”

I looked down at my hand. The chicken skin was a limp, pimpled piece of flotsam. Horrified, I looked back up at Jim.

What have you handed me? My eyes said.

What? I thought you liked skin? His eyes said.

“Try it!” Lisa stood next Jim, beaming.

Jim’s eyes met mine as I raised the skin to my lips… “It smells great,” I said to Lisa.

“I’ll be right back, I’m just going to check the gravy,” Lisa said.

But it was too late. The skin was in my mouth and there was no where to turn.

I swallowed, hastily, furiously. “What the hell are you doing?” I hissed.

“What do you mean?” he said, smiling.

“What do I mean? I mean I’m going to get you. Some day, some way, I’m going to get you.”

I didn’t eat like I thought I would that night, but I did drink three fast beers after that.



I never did “get” Jim. We broke up several years later, and frankly, getting even with him now strikes me as something that will either get me an honorable mention in a special part of the “Crimes in the City” section or pepper-sprayed by whoever he’s with now.

But I’ll never forget the valuable lesson I learned that night.

Get your own damn food.