"Thin and gorgeous,” you say? Well it’s my summer diet kicking in. (That or the pills.) Until today I was not totally convinced that summer was a’comin’. I mean, Mammogram Day weekend is already almost upon us and I’m still wearing pashminas! But we’ve finally schlepped up above 70 degrees, so I figure if I want my bikini by the sea to be greeted with complimentary whistles instead of complimentary vomit and bullets, I’d better get it together. Me and Oprah.
I’ve been having salads at Chop’t every day. God, I live for that place. I’m one of those habitual food freaks who gets hooked on one thing and MUST eat ONLY that thing every day until the thought of it nauseates me entirely. The bad thing about my being a regular customer anywhere is that I get very picky and curmudgeonly and “jewy” about how my food is prepared. For instance, I enjoy my Chop’t salads finely chop’t. And when I say “finely” I mean that I like them to keep chopping until the contents of my salad have completely evaporated and we have to start over again. I like the chopping to continue until my Chop’t attendant says “Fuck! My arm!” or until I see blood. I want to be able to eat that shit through a straw. Some of them get lazy and try to get away with four of five half-assed little hacks and I'll tell you what - I won't tolerate it.
Here’s how out of control I’ve become: There’s a particular “chopper” who I’ve decided is the only one who does it right and now I request him. That’s right – I actually have the nerve to sashay into a busy Manhattan chain during lunch rush with my big sunglasses and say, “Yes, is Fernando here today? I like the way he does me.” I know whenever the staff sees me coming they whisper to each other, “Oh no… Here comes that horrible white lady again.” Whatever.
I don’t consider my demands irrational at all. When I go to see a show called Hair, I expect to see Will Swenson’s pubes before intermission; and when I go to a place called Chop’t for lunch, I expect not to have to chew my own food. Ya hear??