PlazaJen: Passion Knit

Sometimes, it’s the small stuff that’s just very difficult. For instance, right now? I seem to be going through a phase in which I cannot feed myself with regular utensils. Yesterday, we went to Thai 2000 for their Sunday brunch – and let me just pause to say there is nothing like this brunch. And you must say “Thai 200!” in slightly inflected tones with urgency every time you say, “THAI 2000!”. Because that is how we do it. Their brunch is exceptionally authentic, and yet also caters to the 5 Anglo people who go there, unaccompanied by someone of Asian ethnicity. I do draw the line at tripe soup and the beef soup which has been flavored with anise, because licorice beef broth and giant hard-boiled eggs and leathery mushrooms in soup is not my cup o’ – well – soup. But the mussels? On all that is sacred, I swear, these mussels are the best mussels in the city.

But I digress, as usual. I tell you, I am one of those people who start out on a journey and then end up in the ditch, trying to find that shiny object that caught the sunlight. I emerge 12 hours later with many chigger bites, some bits of tin foil in my hair and some garbage I picked up, and a new journey idea. So. Back to it.

I could not feed myself a bite of food yesterday without some portion of it flying on to my shirt, dropping onto the table, etc. I apparently had pad thai sauce all over my mouth. I was beginning to feel like a special needs person, who should not be allowed to use a fork, for fear of quadruple-piercing my nose with a vigorous jab towards my open mouth, and finding myself off by three inches, again. Usually these episodes go away, but today at lunch, I sat at my desk eating a gyro from the deli, and I am not kidding about this, I am wearing tzatziki sauce and gyro juice and every single f’n bite meant something was falling down the side of my face, into my cleavage, onto my desk, onto my shirt, and I’m seriously surprised I didn’t just eat the blasted napkin by accident, as I kept wrapping my pita with a napkin, trying to stem the fountain of flotsam cascading onto me. I went through 6 or 7 napkins, too.

I AM A MESS! I need to be hosed off. I need my co-ordination back! Lord knows I wasn’t given a generous amount to begin with, and if this keeps up my hypochondria will kick in, and I’ll be convinced I have a brain tumor (TU-mah) or some degenerative disease I never even thought to bring up at the doctor’s office this morning. GOOD GRIEF. I must now go wash the tzatziki sauce off my body. Give me a very wide berth, I may trip and crush you.