Yes, I know it’s been a while since I blogged. If I were to list the events which have taken place, in order, in the last two and a half weeks, I’m sure you would all think I was padding things a bit. I assure you, that would not be the case.
There are things ongoing in my private life that are preventing me from blogging at this time. Once it’s over, I may have a real good story for you … but for now, I need to be a good little Moofie and keep a low profile
I would, however, like to mention that Dr. Rob’s bog imploded the other night, and made a huge mess all over the place. We did everything possible to bring it back with blog-CPR, but sadly, it could not be saved. Once it became obvious that there was no recourse, I helped him set himself up in some nice new digs. If you haven’t been there yet, go see Dr. Rob’s new blog … he made a good choice of templates, I think. Make sure you bookmark the new site address, and update your RSS feeds. Don’t forget to blogroll him!!! :o)
And now, following Dr. Rob’s fine example (no, not with the llamas and goats,) I thought I would play a rerun to keep you entertained until I’m blogging again; this is a post I made nearly 2 years ago, and is one of my personal favorites. I thought a little levity would be nice. It was a final paper I passed in for an English course. By the way, it earned me a perfect score …
Five Reasons to Avoid
Eating Beans for Breakfast
December 17, 2005
(Folks, this is what I just submitted today as my “final” for my college English gen ed. I sincerely hope that my prof has a really good sense of humor! Wish me luck! Comments appreciated! ;-)
There are any number of reasons to choose your breakfast with care. It’s the first, and most important, meal of the day. This is the repast intended to carry your sore and aching body through the long drudgery of carpooling, and endless meetings with clients. Breakfast may even have to get you through one of those awful “Continental lunches” … you know, the type you have to endure when you meet a prospective investor at one those dimly lit restaurants where a lunch costs a week’s salary. You need a microscope to find the food on your plate, and although it looks like a Michelangelo, it tastes like the glue that holds the sole to the rest of your shoe.
Good breakfast choices would be bacon and eggs, toast, orange juice, waffles, pancakes … and if you’re daring, a cheese blintz! Not so good choices might be last evening’s pizza – especially if it sat out on the coffee table all night … or maybe the chicken soup that Aunt Lucretia brought you last month when you had the flu, and which is hiding behind last week’s lasagna at the bottom of the fridge. Besides, you’re sure it didn’t have that little fuzzy green coat on it when she first brought it over. You know from experience, however, that a worse choice would be a bowl of those nice baked beans that you can smell coming from the neighbor’s apartment next door. Anything would be better than those beans, even Aunt Lucretia’s fuzzy chicken soup.
You’re probably wondering why I would say such a thing. Hindsight is always, well, hindsight. Let me share with you five reasons why baked beans, especially those baked beans, would not be a wise breakfast choice.
I’ll begin by telling you about the last time my neighbor made those luscious beans. She cooked them all night long in her little pink crock pot, and by morning, the smell was beginning to make me crazy. I knew that I just had to have a bowl of those beans. My mind began to devise evil plots to satisfy the designs of my stomach
Reason number 1: If the Baked Beans don’t belong to you, you probably shouldn’t eat them.
The first reason I should have avoided those beans for breakfast was the fact that they were not my beans … and in fact, were not even in my apartment! That I had to present myself at her door with a bowl hidden under a woolen ski hat in the dead of summer should have dissuaded me from making the attempt, but I’ve always been a slow learner.
The enticing odor was just too much to resist. I went over, knocked on her door, and doing my very best to come across like the helpless, single male I really am, I begged to borrow a bit of instant coffee. As soon as she left the room, I made a bee-line over to the little pink crock pot, pulled the vessel from beneath my hat, and hastily dipped it into the pot, scooping up an entire steaming bowlful of the lovely, golden brown beauties. I burned myself putting the lid back on, and sloshed beans onto the floor as I scrambled for the door to the hallway. It never occurred to me before that moment just what I was going to do with the bowl once it was full, since it would have made a decidedly uncomfortable head-piece. My only choice was to make a run for it.
Once safely behind the locked door of my own abode, the enormity of what I’d just done hit me, and I stood there, holding my precious bowl of beans, quivering in reaction. I knew she was going to see the beans on the floor – and notice that I was gone. She might even connect the two pieces of evidence, and call the police to report me as a bean thief!
I didn’t have long to wait. There was a timid sounding knock at the door, and a tiny voice asked, “Are you in there?” I considered denying that I was, then realized that she might not believe me. Beads of sweat began to run down my forehead as I tried to decide what I was going to say. Finally, in a gasp, I admitted that I was, indeed, there. “Are you okay?” asked the timorous voice. I fumbled for an answer, “Yes! Yes! I’m okay. I’ve got the … uh … flu again, and I had a sudden urge … um … “
I ran out of words … a rather awkward silence ensued.
I heard her clear her throat, and then she tentatively inquired, “Is that what’s on my kitchen floor?”
I could feel the heat on my cheeks, and it didn’t have nearly as much to do with the woolen hat as it did with what I realized she had to be thinking. I paused just long enough to get a handle on the blood rushing to my head, but before I could formulate a response, I heard a door close quietly down the hall. Gratitude so intense that my vision blurred washed over me as it “sunk in” that she hadn’t waited for a reply. My breath whooshed out in a big rush, and I shakily made my way over to the table. As I sat there and shoved big dripping spoonfuls of the gooey sweet beans down my gullet, I decided that I would make a terrible thief, and that I really should keep my day job after all.
Reason number 2: Baked beans don’t work well if you car pool.
Although the beans were delicious, I could tell that they weren’t going to settle well as I took a hasty shower and made a mad dash to meet my car pool. Maybe it was the excitement of the thievery … maybe it was the realization that my sweet little cutie of a neighbor thought I’d had an, um, “accident” on her floor, but whatever it was, they were roiling around in my stomach like two cats in a rucksack.
My carpool pulled up, and I got in; I tried to fit myself between the door and Bertha Buttski, the secretary from the second floor who always ended up sitting next to me in the car. I was certain that her “closeness” was deliberate, as I tried to keep the door handle from breaking my lower right rib. Bertha looked over at me, batted her mascara caked eyelashes twice – three times – and smiled sweetly. Fascinated, I couldn’t help but think of Uncle Mose’s Jersey cow, the one with those big, brown, droopy looking eyes. Only, Uncle Mose’s cow never tried to sit on my lap in the car pool, and she had a reason for weighing over 300 pounds.
Just about then, my gut began to rumble. I cringed as I realized what was about to happen. A moment later, with a sigh of relief, I began to relax. I was very pleased with myself. My gut not only felt a bit better, I hadn’t made a sound.
It quickly dawned on me that I may not have made any noise, but that I hadn’t needed to. A noxious cloud crept up to my nostrils, and at first I wondered if that could possibly have come from me! I felt my face turn crimson as Bertha began to gag, and the two fellows in the front seat began to cough. The driver rolled down his window, and hung his head out of it in a really good imitation of cousin Ernie’s hound dog. The air in the car almost shimmered as a green vapor made its escape through the opening. Bertha, for the first time ever, gave me a wide … berth.
Reason number 3: Your clients may not appreciate the fact that you had baked beans for breakfast …
By the time I made it into my office, I felt as if I’d run a marathon. Looking over the day’s appointments, I could see that there wasn’t going to be a lot of time for farti… um, woolgathering.
The meetings with my first few clients were rather uneventful, and I began to unbend a bit. The morning’s shenanigans were fading into the background as I engaged in the mental calisthenics necessary to please my often irascible clientele.
Sometime just before noon, as I was seeing the last client of the morning, my belly renewed its angry rumbling. The office suddenly seemed stifling, as if the air conditioner had died, and I began to sweat. The rumbling grew more insistent, and became loud enough to be heard over our conversation. The gentleman in the bow tie stopped in mid-sentence, peered at me, and arched an eyebrow. Just at that moment, I opened my mouth to excuse my errant gut, but my gut beat me to the draw. My open mouth turned into a dropped chin, and I felt my eyes widen in surprise as I realized that my body had just loudly betrayed me.
The arched eyebrow was joined by a twin on the other side of the fellow’s rather wide forehead. Soon the eyes beneath the eyebrows registered serious concern, the nose beneath the eyes wrinkled, and the nostrils began to quiver in disgust. Before I could compose what I hoped would be a proper apology, I watched as the eyebrows, eyes and nose marched out of my office in offended shock … along with what would have been a very lucrative deal. Those beans had just cost me a month’s salary, proving the adage that “crime never pays.”
Reason number 4: Beans for breakfast may make intimate lunches a bit too intimate.
There was nothing for it but to just go on with my day. All I could do was hope that the thought of green crinkly money would triumph over the memory of green malodorous fumes, and that my absconded client would return and seal the deal. With that thought in mind, my wayward gut and I ambled over to the little French Bistro on the corner to meet a prospective investor.
When I walked in, the hazy little place was packed. The only remaining spot was in the far corner of the crowded dining area, and I had to make my way between tables which were placed so closely together that diners couldn’t tell which tables they should be eating from – never mind which plates! I mumbled a constant stream of apologies as I slowly proceeded: bumping one table with my posterior, bounding forward and displacing the wig on a lady’s head with my belly, trying to recover from that, and stepping on a highly polished shoe which seemed to appear miraculously underneath one of my two left feet.
Finally, I arrived at my destination. After all of that exercise, my poor gut rumbled ominously. The relief I felt as I sat down was short-lived. The two cats in my gut began hissing and spitting as they circled for yet another round, and I realized that I was going to have to let off some pressure. As quietly and unobtrusively as possible, feeling guilty and afraid of the consequences of my covert actions, I cleared my throat to cover any offensive sound, and allowed myself to garner a bit of relief.
No one looked up. I was comforted by the knowledge that my ploy had worked. At that moment, my prospective investor entered the Bistro, and glided in my direction as if he were a sailboat on a placid pond – he didn’t even leave a wake in his passing. I was so mesmerized by his grace in avoiding all of the obstacles between us that it took me a moment to realize that there was a commotion building around me.
An elegant looking lady at the very next table had bolted upright, and with a chagrined expression, was trying to shove her way to the other side of the restaurant in a most unladylike manner. In a moment I realized that there was a mass exodus of those at the tables nearest to me – everyone was heading for the door. An odor that resembled a week old cracked egg in a chicken coop in August began to fill my senses. I grabbed my linen napkin, and flapped it around a bit, trying to dissipate the stench. Big mistake. The mass evacuation spread outward in a ripple effect, with me at its origin.
My graceful investor finally sailed into port at my table. He had a confused look on his face as he took in the mass emigration of the entire rear of the restaurant – with diners leaving behind untouched plates of food and steaming cups of coffee. His bemused look crumbled into a pucker as the vapors invaded his awareness.
“I say, old chap, what died?” The last word was more of a moan than an utterance. By the time he had spun on his heels and set his sail for the door, I could see that his eyes had begun to water.
Reason number 5: He who eats beans before church should sit in his own pew.
Desolate, I stumbled out of the Bistro. The sidewalk was crowded with people standing in little groups, discussing the trauma they had just experienced in the restaurant. Curious passers-by added their numbers to the melee, and soon the scene began to take on the atmosphere of a disaster. Cars were slowing down in the street as the drivers rubbernecked to see if the building was on fire.
As I wove my way through the crowd, whispers of recognition followed me. I noticed a rather large individual break away from a group, and with his gaze fixed directly on me, march purposefully in my direction. His shaved head gleamed in the noonday sunshine as he rolled up his sleeves. He looked irate.
Trying to make myself as small and inconspicuous as I could, I ducked into the first doorway at my disposal. To my immense relief, I found myself in a tiny, cool chapel. There wasn’t a soul in sight. I felt sure that the big guy wouldn’t follow me into here looking for trouble.
I slid into a pew, and closed my eyes for a blessed moment of peace. Suddenly, a flash of light brightened the dim interior as the chapel door was thrown open, and cacophony echoed from the close walls as the little church quickly filled with all of the people who’d been outside on the sidewalk. Through the open door, I could hear what I realized were firemen – they were ushering people away from the sidewalk before the Bistro until they were done investigating the source of the “gas leak” in the restaurant. I groaned in misery as I found myself completely surrounded in the very center of a pew, in the dead middle of the little chapel. There was no escape.
As if on cue, my gut erupted in what could only be compared to the “grand finale” on the Fourth of July. There was a tremendous response from the people surrounding me, and mercifully, that’s all I remember.
When they finally let me out of the hospital, I determined that I would never, ever again eat baked beans … especially not those baked beans.
And now that I’ve told you my story, I need to get out of here as quickly as I can. The delicious aroma coming from my neighbor’s apartment is almost more than I can bear, but I need to behave myself, because my boss has me on some sort of probation, and the EPA has threatened to plug up the source of my toxic fumes. I’ll just have a bit of toast, and a cup of coffee …
Oh wait – I’m out of coffee. I wonder if my cute little next door neighbor would let me borrow just a bit …
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