Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop posts topics for bloggers to expand on every Thursday. This allows bloggers to further develop our writing styles (ya, whatev), opens us up to constructive criticism (this is me squinting in anticipation of the pain), and gives us an opportunity to get to know other bloggers (oh you know I’m all over that one!)
So in the spirit of embracing the blogging community that has become like crack to me, here I go…
People would be surprised to learn that…
I can eat.
No, I know everyone can eat.
But I mean I. Can. Eat.
I can pretty much eat anybody I know under the table. This includes men. Big, strong, manly men who have won pie eating contests and lift trucks for fun. You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. I can put back full racks of ribs. And I’m not just talking about 6 or 7 ribblets. I’m like: the whole motherfucken rack. Hot dogs. Easily 4. Servings of anything at meal time: minimum 2. You’re having visions of tapeworms, aren’t you?
It’s actually really embarrassing because I’m not a big girl. I’m 5’4, 115 lbs (ya, I’m braggin’, keep reading anyway) so it doesn’t make sense to anyone (including myself) that I can put back the amount of food that I do.
The other day I went for lunch with a friend at the Olive Garden. When you sit down, the waiter brings out a basket with four breadsticks inside. I’m like: Four? Are you fucken kidding me? But I don’t say this out loud. Because I don’t want to look like a pig (right away).
The meal arrives. A dinner sized portion of spaghetti. And remember, it’s lunchtime. Even asking the waiter for the “dinner sized portion” was embarrassing, because she’s like, “Oh you don’t want the dinner sized portion. It’s really big. The lunch sizes are big enough. I can never finish mine.” And I’m like, “No bitch, just bring me the fucken dinner sized portion.”
…no, of course I don’t say that, but I do say (must picture very delicate, girly-girl voice for next part), “No, I will have the dinner sized portion please, but I won’t eat it all. I want to bring the leftovers home to my husband. He loves the spaghetti here.”
Oh puleeeeeze! The effort of saying that with a straight face further increased my appetite.
And I eat fast. So I’ve downed the dinner-sized portion of spaghetti, swallowed 5 more breadsticks(seriously! I wouldn’t make this shit up), finished off the salad (which comes in a big bowl and is meant to feed both me and my friend, and possibly the people at the next table, ’cause it’s a big mofo bowl of salad).
And my friend is picking through her angel hair pasta, barely makes a dent in it, and is like: “Oh…phew…I’m stuffed!”
Is it rude to punch your dinner companion in the face? ‘Cause I’m like, “Really?”
Really? Did she eat before she came to the restaurant? She had to. Come on. Half a breadstick, three pieces of lettuce, 5 angel hairs, and she’s stuffed? And now I have to say I want dessert? ‘Cause I really really do.
So I order the chocolate cheesecake, and I’m like, “Here here” handing her a fork, “Have some with me. I can’t eat all of this.” What I really want to do is stab her with the fork.
But here’s the most embarrassing -yet also impressive in a fucked up sort of way- part: I went home after lunch, sat on my kitchen counter, and ate an entire pack of rice cakes slattered with peanut butter and jam. Yes, I did say the ENTIRE pack. Then I sat down in the living room, put on The View, which I tape every day, and watched it while eating an entire pack of crackers slattered with peanut butter and jam.
And then I had a diet Pepsi.
So don’t hate me ’cause I can eat like a pig. Just tell me you can keep up…even though I won’t believe you.