Yesterday we decided to look at storm doors for the house. I’m starting to come to terms with the idea that we’re going to be homeowners soon. It’s weird, but you know – what isn’t?
So we looked at storm doors that had a screen to get some nice cross-ventilation going on the first floor since we don’t have the Central AC (we got so close on that other place, that had the Jacuzzi tub and steam shower – but its best not to dwell). And I found out the guy we’re hiring to paint can also install the door – bonus.
After we looked at doors, light fixtures, other doors, windows, trees, patio furniture, Tyvek house wrap, and about 400 other things Deeps announced he was “starving.”
“Are you up for questionable mall food?” he asked.
“Is the Pope Catholic?” was my response.
He picked the place close by - a Tex Mex joint that looked like it might be part of a chain. I’d never heard of it and even now the name totally escapes me. I suppose that’s my body’s way of coping.
We sat down and were quickly served by some woman and her protégé, Jeff. “He’s training,” she said as she tossed some tortilla chips on our table.
“Hi,” was all Jeff could muster with a wave. Jeff, you make me feel very, very old.
We ordered some different stuff and it became clear after food started arriving that we’d be eating a completely breaded/battered fried meal. Now where I come from, Indiana, this isn’t totally unusual. In a holdover from the days of farming (there are still farmers – but not everyone is a farmer) the meals are on the large side. You needed a lot of fuel to do that work.
I can recall stopping at a truck stop in northern Indiana on our way back to Chicago after visiting my parents in Indianapolis. Deeps ordered a turkey sandwich which came on a double skillet platter, open-faced, on Wonder bread, with mashed potatoes, stuffing, turkey and all covered – the entire plate – with weird yellow gravy.
“Do people need to eat like this everyday?” he whispered over the giant mound of food.
Not really, not anymore. I don’t know any farmers anymore. The closest I know to a farmer is my father – when he gets a load of aged horse manure from a neighbor and shovels it into the flower beds.
But I digress. I’ve eaten this kind of food before – but I’ll admit that age and certain lifestyle choices have afforded me a certain luxury in choice. I choose not to eat food like this very often. And now I know why.
We ate, slowly, chatting and laughing and commenting on the friedness and oooh how we’ll pay later. I don’t think either of us felt like we’d really pay.
But we did.
Towards the end of the meal, Deeps complained that his “gut is starting to revolt already.” Apparently the man with the iron stomach is a big baby. That’s what I thought. Until after we got the check and I got to the car.
“Oh God, it’s like a brick in my stomach,” I whined. We drove home and I headed for the bathroom to take some Tums.
At some point I made it horizontal on the bed. I was feeling pretty nauseous and my head was starting to hurt. I think I fell asleep. When I woke up about 25 minutes later I felt like I’d just come out of a night of hard, hard, hard drinking.
Hard – like the worst hangover ever. I was kind of clammy and my head was pounding. The crappy Tex Mex food was kicking my ass. I thought if I made myself sick I’d feel better. No such luck. I prayed for a quick death.
About 8 hours later I started to feel normal. But that questionable meal decision took more out of me than I dared to acknowledge. I’m too old to eat like that – and now that I know how I’ll feel afterwards, I don’t expect I’ll try that again.
I’ll have the salad next time – and please hold the bacon (sometimes they try to sneak that into your salads in Indiana).
Labels: 2005, consumerism, food
