Bender: A Story of a Bachelorette Weekend | The Grand Finale

Sunday, Sunday, SUNDAY! Time to go to see my folks. After all the barf-inducing behavior, it was time for some good ‘ole fashioned Bauer family fun. But there was one thing missing. One very critical thing that I absolutely must have before I leave KC. If you haven’t guessed it, you’re stupid. Because it’s BBQ. KC BBQ, bitches!

I told my parents that Sam and I would pick up lunch. And I knew where I was going: Oklahoma Joe’s. It’s part gas station, part liquor store and part “the best BBQ in the world” restaurant. The hick’s hedonistic trifecta, if you will. But alas, my father told me that Oklahoma Joe’s is closed on Sundays. I cried on the inside (weeped is extreme, but it might have gotten to that point…not telling), but would not be deterred from having some KC BBQ. So, Sam and I headed to Southwest Blvd., readied our Spanish skills and hit up Quick’s. It, too, was closed. Dammit! So, our third stop was Rosedale BBQ, and as luck would have it, it was OPEN. Queue the heavenly “ahhhhh” music.

Sam and I hopped out of the car in delight and bum-rushed the glass door to get inside. Girls from Johnson County, KS can bum-rush too, you know. Haters. And frankly, we were hungry because neither of us had eaten good BBQ in years. We walked in and you could tell the manager knew we were in it to win it because she immediately asked us if we had been in before and what she could help us with. I said to her that we both hadn’t had BBQ in years and were grabbing food for my folks, my younger brother and niece, so we needed advice on what to get to adequately feed everyone. “Adequately” being relative.

She started rattling off suggestions, and before I knew it, we were saying yes to everything. It was like going to the grocery store hungry (yes, I absolutely need these frozen taquitos with fake chicken. And oooh, hot pocket-stuffed hot pockets are on sale!). I’m not what you’d call a “yes” person, but all be damned if smoked meat doesn’t make me agree to anything and everything. We ordered two pounds of burnt ends, a pound of pulled pork, a half-pound of beef strips, a full slab of ribs, bread, a quart of heart-stopping twice-baked potato salad, cucumber salad (needed something semi-healthy), beans and coleslaw. Oh, and an order of fried mushrooms for good measure – I chalked it up to my dad mentioning it, but really, it was for me. Enough food to feed a small army…and give it heartburn and/or the runs.

The manager was awesome, though, and didn’t bat an eye. She immediately had one of the cooks bring out a box that warranted its own zip code and started loading. There were several men at the bar looking at us two girls like we must be pregnant or something. Each time the manager added more to the box, their eyes get wider. I gave them the “This isn’t all for us” line, but I’m pretty sure they thought we were simply competitors in an eating contest. And I really didn’t care. It took about 20 minutes to get everything together, then it was time for the bill. When it was all said and done, with tip, we dropped around $100. I consider it an investment in being a better person. Self actualization, if you will.

That there is a box full of $100 worth of KC BBQ, aka a vegetarian's nightmare. The horror!

We got to my parents’ house and my dad took one look at the box and uttered, “Jesus Christ.” Not that it’s out of the ordinary for my dad to say that, but he was my inspiration for my implacable food desires, so him saying that told me, “Holy ballsack, the Bauers might actually get full today.” My brother Brent looked at it like he would one of his female conquests and said, “Hell yes!” Another one of my dad’s legacies, but then again, he grew up in the 60s (Brent, what’s YOUR excuse, prostidude?). Put that on the resume.

I grabbed the box, waddled in the house (so THIS is what it’s like to walk when pregnant with a 20-pound baby!) and we started digging in. It was a smorgasbord of goodness. 

2 lbs of burnt ends. Yes.

1/2 lb of delicious sliced brisket. Oh yes.

1 full slab of ribs, 1 lb of shredded pork, twice baked potato salad, cucumber salad, beans and cole slaw. Yes, yes, yes!

Pretty sure I ate my weight in meat. Vegetarians and PETA might have stoned me in the front yard if they had the chance...good thing is, my stomach was so full of meat that it was like a trampoline. Throw that stone…if you’re okay with it bouncing off my stomach and killing an errant chipmunk.

Then my niece pointed to my dad’s computer and said, “Hey Mickey!” Apparently Brent introduced her to the song and she’s obsessed. We turned it on, started dancing, and I soon realized that eating BBQ and dancing immediately after does not mix. But kids don’t know that, so I shook my butt and moved my arms, but definitely didn’t whip out any of the dancing in the arsenal of what I like to call “Francie’s Sweet Moves.” Many of you may have seen them and were wowed (negative impressions count).

We sat, talked and soon it was time for Sam and me to leave. We actually left my parents’ place a little early because God forbid we didn’t have Foo’s Frozen Yogurt before I left. I chugged a little Diet Coke, belched to all high heavens, and made some extra room in the tum-tum. After Foo’s, Sam and her folks dropped me off at the airport and I was off to Denver. On the plane, I told myself I needed to go on a diet. At least a meatless diet. I knew I was lying to myself, but it made me feel better for a little while.

Don picked me up, and believe it or not, I was hungry again. And I hadn’t even “made room” if you know what I mean. Which, sidenote, reminds me of a story of a guy I used to work with who loved Indian Buffet so much, he’d actually do a road game in the nasty bathroom to allow for full-on gorging. Sick and awesome.

So where else to take a fine lady like myself than Toby Keith’s I Love This Bar & Grill. Don suggested it, just because we’d seen it being built and I had called it Toby McGuire’s Bar (he still makes fun of me, but hell, I don’t know country music, dude!), and I said, why not? I mean, might as well go out with a bang. And I did. In the form of a 12 oz. NY strip – medium rare, of course – and a massive baked potato.

We were THISCLOSE to getting the fried Twinkies, but we both opted to wait for the Colorado State Fair to sample it in a true carnival atmosphere. Carnies scare the crap out of me, but the food makes up for it.

So, that was the end of my epic weekend. Lots of food, lots of drinking, and LOTS of decisions, both good and bad (but more bad than good – just the way I like it). Can’t wait until next time…and neither can my liver and colon.

Bender: A Story of a Bachelorette Weekend | Part III

So, after having downed four large OJs the morning of the bridal shower (Hi, my name is Francie, and I’m an orange juice-aholic), I was feeling pretty darn good and ready to face the ladies who got to see table-napping, wine-slurping, crotch-revealing Francie the night before. By this time, we had ushered Carolyn to her car to get ready at home. I put on my outfit, which was a bit tight due to a case of the McD’s triple burrito bloat (some guys like curves, I guess…get over here, Grimace!), but whatevs. And then we were off!

We left early to make sure we arrived on time, but I soon realized that Kristi’s sleep demon left remnants of mind scurvy because she had no idea where the bridal shower was. “Um, Krust? Pretty sure this is not the way to get to the shower.” “Yes it is, it’s at Carolyn’s parents’ house,” she retorted. “Um, no it’s not, it’s way out in BFE (if you don’t know what BFE is, let me Google that for you).” Sam, being the dutiful friend she is, fished out the invite, and sure enough, it was out in BFE, at her cousin’s house out south.

Kristi has lived in KC all her life, so she knew where to go. But you see, here’s the ‘ish: the house is located on Foster. But there are like 10 Fosters. We drove around in circles and soon hit the corner of Foster and Foster. Pretty sure the city planner drank as much as I did the night before and thought it would be super hilarious to confuse stupid people…or those with that oh-so-special day-after head smog. So, us being women mustered up the strength to – gasp! – ask for directions! After a few more twists and turns, we ended up at the shower.

We were late. I was thinking, “Dammit, Carolyn is going to be pissed.” Little did I know that Carolyn was in her own special place at that moment – the place you visit where it’s great when you’re crapping, but you hate it when you’re up-chucking. Carolyn emerged and looked like she had been bitch-slapped by Kristi’s morning demon. “Yeah, so those breakfast burritos? They’re no longer in my stomach,” she uttered. You see, she was still drunk in the morning, so her hangover was a bit delayed. I patted her on the back, told her to feel better, then took a long look around. While not everyone from the bachelorette party was there, many were, and I thought, “All of these girls have seen something they shouldn’t have. Or should have, depending on if they swing that way.”

Anyway, I made my apologies, acknowledged my a-hole behavior, and we proceeded to drink punch, eat fruit pizza (Cookies? Good! Cream cheese mixed with sugar aplenty? Good! Fruit? Hell, fructose will help with the hangover, so also GOOD!) and mini chicken salad sandwiches, and open Carolyn’s presents.

This picture was taken by Danielle Ross, the queen of all that is photography. If you ever, EVER post a picture taken by her and you haven't given her credit, she will cut you. Thanks for the great photo, Miss D. I'm starving.

Wait, what?!? Well, you see, Carolyn still felt like complete donkey doo-doo, so we all agreed to each open a gift for her and read the card. It was actually kind of fun, because everyone got to get involved. And I felt like I was at a poetry reading. I thought about going Beatnik, but figured the awesome rhythm and voice inflection might stimulate Carolyn’s gag reflex. Plus, Allen Ginsberg is ugly. I refrained.

So, we were there for a couple of hours (Carolyn only excused herself once!), bid adieu, then headed to Sam’s house because Kristi had to go to a wedding that night. You’d think we’d plan for a chill night, right? Nope. Earlier that day, Sam had said, “So, I kind of committed to something for tonight with my parents.” She has this way of saying things. It’s like “So, I’m going to make you clean toilets in a frat house, but I’m going to smile and speak in this really high, angelic voice so you think it’s super awesome.” Works every GD time. “Oh?” I ask. “So, hope you like jazz!” she said, overcompensatingly enthusiastic. Here, I was thinking that Sam’s parents are in their 60s-70s, so after having drunk my face off, I now have to sit through a session of some awful Kenny G/Muzak-inspired garbage they call “smooth jazz.” Something my BF warned me about. I’m like, it must be karma for being a full-on douche nozzle. Plain and simple. And I agreed to it, because I needed to be punished.

Well, much to my surprise, her parents took us to Jardine’s, which always has GOOD jazz. So, my visit to the 7^th circle of hell was put on hold…for now. We got there, I ate crab cakes (God bless you, East Coast. You have proven that having crabs isn’t always a bad thing.) and a fabulous salmon dish, had a few drinks, and listened to some of the best jazz I’ve heard in years. So, all in all, fantastic evening. And at this point, I thought about Don because I had made a good decision. But the weekend hadn’t ended. Read part four for the final segment of the epic weekend.

Bender: A Story of a Bachelorette Weekend | Part II

Nine hours and zero monkey incidents later, I found myself in bed with Carolyn and Sam, texting my boyfriend. It was like an episode of “Gossip Girl,” minus the teenage hormonal bitchiness and the Manolos. Here’s how the texting convo went:

Francie: I made some bad decisions.

Don: Hungover? Jail? Tattoos? Smooth Jazz?

Francie: I passed out at dinner. I also apparently showed my crotch.

Don: To whom?

Francie: Everyone at dinner,

Don: Should I even ask why? Glad we had that talk about decision-making. So…awkward bridal shower coming up.

Francie: To say the least.

Don: Well, good luck, feel better and still have some fun. Maybe aim for “better” decisions since “good” ones seem out of reach on this trip.

Francie: Better decision: Going to McDonald’s.

But let me backtrack a bit, because the conversation didn’t happen that fast. You see, during this text conversation, Sam, Carolyn and I were all in this double bed complaining about how hungry we are. “All I want is a breakfast taco,” Sam said. “Okay, Texas, we call them breakfast burritos here,” I said. “But yeah, I could eat the holy hell out of some breakfast burritos.” Carolyn agreed, somewhat succinctly: “Need food.” The problem was, Kristi was asleep, and anyone who knows Kristi knows full well that if you want to live past the morning, you DO NOT go in there and wake her up. She’s possessed by the devil until she wakes up naturally.

We went back and forth for about 30 minutes talking about how hungry we were. During this time, I discovered a “Beware of Dog” sign in my suitcase. Yeah, I apparently stole a sign on my way home. I was horrified because I figured I had stopped off next door and ripped it off the neighbor’s fence. Luckily for me, Kristi’s hubby was sober when I came home and told me I stole it from Carolyn’s friend Allison. Even better! Man, I’m really good at making first impressions.

After making arrangements to return the sign to its rightful owner, the growls of our stomachs overcame us once again. Sam said, “Man, if only we had a car.” To which Carolyn replied, “Hey, I have a car.” Eureka! We scrambled out of bed, me bra-less with crazy hair and smeared makeup, Carolyn in her shirt from the night before, exchanging a pair of Umbros for jeans, and Sam still in her cute signature Sam pajamas because that’s how she rolls. We’ll call them Samjamas.

So yes, we had a car. Now, who to drive? Francie, still drunk. Carolyn, still drunk. Kristi, sleeping morning demon…and probably still drunk. That left Sam, adorable Sam. Sam who hadn’t driven in five years thanks to a life in NYC and Europe. But how hard could it be, it’s just like riding a bike, right?

With Carolyn by her side like a 10^th grade Driver’s Ed instructor, Sam situated herself in the driver’s seat, checked all the mirrors, started the car and was ready to roll. Well, ready to roll once Carolyn helped her put the car in drive. A few dozen stops and starts later, and we were moving. “It’s just like riding a bike” Sam said cheerily, to which Carolyn responded, “Sam, you need to apply the breaks because that there is a stop sign.” Even hung over, Carolyn remained ever eloquent. And then there they were, the golden arches, glistening in the humid KC air. Tears and fist pumps followed, I’ll let you decide who did what.

We got to the McD’s drive-through and now had to figure out what we wanted. I was looking through all the meals when Carolyn said, “Let’s just get a buttload of burritos.” Brilliant! Sam said, “Well how many? I could do two or three.” I responded, “Three for me, mos def.” So we all decided on 10. Then, to the drinks. “I want a massive glass of OJ,” I said (I had been bitching about needing OJ all morning). Then everyone concurred that OJ was a must. So we got four large OJs. Then Carolyn turned to her right and saw a sign for the new frozen strawberry lemonades. “I want that,” she said. We all looked over and agreed that we should get some of those too. So we ordered two.

We got to the window and ordered, and the total was around $30. $30?!? That’s the most I’ve ever spent at McD’s, but then again, we were all hungry and I’d be damned if I didn’t get some food in my belly pronto. We grabbed our massive bag of burritos, our six drinks and sped on home (okay, not “sped” because Sam drives like a grandma). 

We sat at the dining room table pretending to be civilized, but there was nothing civilized about us. We looked like we had been to Gitmo and back. I dug in and couldn’t seem to get the food in my mouth fast enough. “France, it’s not like you won’t have the chance to eat again,” said Sam. I looked at her, smiled, and continued to eat like the piggies eat. 

Kristi soon exorcised her morning demon and joined us to share in the breakfast fun. She ate maybe one burrito (lame sauce), while Sam and I devoured three each. Carolyn got through 1.5 before she needed to go lie down. Meanwhile, I finished my OJ and decided to try one of the frozen strawberry lemonades. 

Big mistake. It was like lemon-scented floor cleaner mixed with cough syrup, and while that’s gross in itself, being hungover makes it way worse. Like drinking from a toilet, only worse (so I guess that makes us as bad as our dogs and cats). Sam was like, “It can’t be that bad” and took a swig. She choked on it and agreed that the concoction was 100 percent pure nastiness. Of course, Carolyn was now curious, but before she took a sip, she mixed it up. I’m like, “Duh, probably should’ve done that first.” But alas, she tried it and it still tasted like a mouthful of evil. So evil, in fact, that it was probably what put Carolyn over the edge at her shower. But you’ll have to wait for part three to learn about that specialness.

Bender: A Story of a Bachelorette Weekend | Part I

“Now remember, Francie, make good decisions this weekend,” my boyfriend told me as he unloaded my suitcase from the car at the airport. “Oh, I will,” I told him, thinking sarcastically to myself, “I’m hanging out with my best friends from high school for Carolyn’s bachelorette weekend – what possible situation could I put myself in where I’d make bad decisions?”

This, folks, is what we call foreshadowing.

I arrived in Kansas City after 9 p.m. and saw my favorite people in the world waiting for me outside the gates: Kristi, Sam and Carolyn. And they were drunk. I, being the competitive person that I am, felt the need to catch up. “Girls, I’m sober, you’re not. We need to fix this.” To which they all replied, “Don’t worry, we have you covered.” So, off to the airport bar, I’m thinking. But then it hits me. We are in Missouri (not Missourah, you hicks). ROADIES! This, my friends, is one of the few good things about Missouri. Roadies are legal as long as you’re not driving. Most excellent.

So as I proceeded to chug a few beers in the car (we had a designated driver, mind you), then we ended up at Kristi’s house, where I decided to drink more beer (with koozies to keep them cold – not that we gave them the chance to get warm), munched on Utz mix (think Ghardetto’s, but better because it comes in a massive tub from Costco) and did some yoga on the hardwood floor. Because at the time, downward dog seemed like a great idea.

Cut to the next morning. Wasn’t going to run a marathon, but I didn’t feel like death (high altitude training, courtesy of living in Denver). So we headed to Eggct. in Brookside. Know why? Because we were starving. Kristi’s hubby Scott recommended the chorizo breakfast burrito. I couldn’t think of a better way to start the day. Hearing my boyfriend’s words of wisdom from the day before, I thought to myself, ah yes, this is a good decision. Poor Kristi was trying not to puke of course, but she had some food and we headed back to her place to rest a bit before….drumroll: mani/pedis with Sam. 

We hit up Shine in Westport. Here’s what’s great about Shine. First, it’s more of a spa than one of those typical nail places where they usher you in like cattle. Second, and most importantly, you can BYOB (or in this case, BYOW). If you’re sensing a theme about Missouri, then you’d be right – it’s like they have a rivalry with New Orleans and Vegas. The salon had REAL wine glasses, and we kept it classy by not breaking any – talk about high-rolling. So, beginning at 2 p.m., we started drinking wine while we got our nails done. Being the overachiever that I am, I decided to help drink the majority of it. Such a giver. But as the saying goes, give and you shall receive. And I certainly received…a major buzz.

After the nail salon extravaganza, it was off to get ready for the bachelorette party. Since I had this great buzz, I thought to myself, “Why not have some wine while getting ready? I’ll be able to hang tonight because I’ll make sure I have a big dinner to soak it all up.” Famous last words.

All the gals arrived at Kristi’s house and Carolyn opened up her bachelorette gifts...and the wine drinking continued. So, at this point, I had been drinking for about five hours straight. The breakfast burrito was big, but not Francie big. So I was getting to that point where I’m getting loud and semi-sloppy. But no worries, dinner was in a few hours. – and was at Brio, an Italian joint on the Plaza. I’d be able to eat bread, pasta, etc. and would feel fine by the time we hit the town. 

We all sat down in our private room and the waitress brought out the wine. Lots and lots of wine. I thought to myself, “I’d be remiss not to partake in this delicious beverage.” And yes, the voices in my head do use the word “remiss.” So I did. Sure, I ate some bread and calamari (or squidlets, as I’ve coined the term at a previous time), but at this point, I was Sheen-tastic. I was loud and completely inappropriate (at least more inappropriate than usual). Thank God my meal came…or so I thought. I ordered Pasta alla Vodka, and it was awesome. 

I know there’s not such thing as food chugging, but pretty sure I invented it that night. Plate was empty in no time, and I was still hungry, so I sloppily grabbed at the calamari plate and shoved squidlets in my mouth like a two-year-old eats Cheerios. I took what I thought were pictures of me seductively eating Italian bread. Nope, not sexy. Not sexy at all.

Then I became fascinated with this piece of fried octopus and decided to leave it on the tablecloth for all to admire. Took pictures, posed it in different positions, etc. I’m sure I thought to myself, “Man, all these ladies are being treated to what I’d consider pure, unadulterated food art.” Meanwhile, everyone else is thinking, “Bitch be stoopid.”

So, having enjoyed last night’s roadies, not sleeping, drunk all day and now having eaten massive quantities of food in a small period of time, my body rebelled. We’re talking Robert E. Lee, Lenin and Admiral Akbar (“it’s a TRAP!”) level of rebellion. I don’t remember much after that, but apparently I decided to take a nap on the table. When my friends woke me up, I was told I fell over on the floor and just lied there. At one point, I felt stretching seemed appropriate, extending my legs straight up in the air in a classic Jane Fonda position. Unfortunately, instead of leg warmers, I was wearing a short dress. No pictures available, boys. 

Photo courtesy of Danielle Ross - She really knows how to capture the most special moments.

What did matter was that I got the hell out of there and headed home. No bars for me. I was a cop magnet. So, a few gals were leaving after dinner and took me back to Kristi’s house, where her husband was waiting. I mumbled that I wanted to hang on the couch to wait for the girls while he played video games. He told me that no more than five seconds later, I was out for the count. “Francie, time to go to bed,” he said. “No!” I replied. “Francie, you cannot sleep on the couch, you need to go to bed,” he said, more affirmatively. “Well,” I replied, “My monkey says that I can sleep on the couch and wait for the girls to come home.” Scott replied, “Well, Francie, MY monkey says that you have to go to bed NOW.” I retorted, “Well, MY monkey and YOUR monkey don’t seem to think the same way, and your monkey can go f$^* itself.”

And there the night ended, but the story doesn’t. Part two coming soon.

Food Alzheimer's

You know what’s so great about food? It’s delicious, provides nourishment, quells a growling stomach, powers your brain, offers opportunities for socializing, helps relieve stress, great for use in fights, etc. So when someone utters the words “I forgot to eat,” I think to myself, “Is this person all there?” “Did this person recently make a stop at a meth house?” “Did this person also forget to wipe their ass this morning?” “Am I in the presence of evil?” It goes on and on.

How in the name of deep-fried cheesecake on a stick does someone forget to eat? I forget a lot of things (names of people, where I parked, the number of licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop – and it’s not three, Mr. Owl. Wonder how many kids have broken their teeth on one to make it in three…I’ll bet dentists paid for that commercial to air) but NEVER do I forget to eat. Now, sometimes I don’t have time to eat – that’s different – but rest assured I’m thinking about eating. Thinking hard. Like how I’ll probably go all competitive on food’s ass when I get the chance. Suck it skinny Asian kid who can eat like 100 hot dogs in a sitting. By the time I get to food, I’ll have you waiving your white flag and running for the nearest Nathan’s to get in more training sessions.

So, what to think of people who forget to eat. It’s disturbing, and frankly, annoying. But maybe they can’t help it. Maybe they have some sort of Food Alzheimer’s. But then again, if I had Food Alzheimer’s I’d forget that I’d already eaten and eat again. Crap, maybe I have that NOW! And if that’s the case, you can bow down now. And I’m hungry again.

Have You Had Your Breack Today?

Because I sure did. In the form of a massive smothered steak burrito. The place? Taqueria Mi Pueblo off 23rd and Federal. For those of you not familiar with Federal, just think of it as Little Mexico. When I saw this sign outside, I knew I'd love it. Because clearly these people spend more time perfecting their cuisine than learning how to spell. Which is just fine with me. To boot, there was a "parking attendant" awaiting our arrival. He was wearing a white apron, so pretty sure he was taking a breather from cooking his colon-raping fare, but nonetheless, he ushered us into the nearest spot like a pro. No orange batons or reflective gear for this guy -- he's a true renaissance man. We'll call him Nacho. After Nacho ensured we were properly parked, he bid us adios and we headed in to stuff our faces. No waitresses here, just a counter where you look at a variety of pictures and point out what you want. My kinda place. Oh, did I mention they make wedding cakes too? Grab a steak burrito, pick up a pastel de boda, and you're f-ing set. Plus, they had the uber horrible movie "Congo" playing in Spanish on the big screen. AND it was the part where Tim Curry gets attacked after he's stealing the diamonds. "Ahhhh Dios Mio!!!!" That's actually what I said as I dug into my burrito...for two reasons: 1.) It was awesome and 2.) I could immediately tell that the food would not be residing in my belly for long. And it didn't. Thank God Nacho was still outside leaning on the car just waiting to help us get on our merry way as quickly as possible (because he knows full well us Gringos don't have the impregnable stomach walls that have been seasoned by vats of tequila and lard-laced beans). Long story short, I made it home without crapping myself. Which is really all I can ask for. So, word of advice for anyone wanting to hit up one of the Mexican places off Federal like Taqueria Mi Pueblo -- if it has something misspelled on its windows, it's bound to be good, just make sure you can access a toilet quickly and have plenty of two-ply.

Wow, anchovies taste like a salt lick, not that I've had the pleasure

So, I'm all about the caesar salad. In fact, I'd motorboat it if I weren't restricted to society's norms of not acting like a complete slob in public; however, for the first time in my life, I had an ENTIRE anchovy. No, not the chopped up bits you find in gourmet caesar salads. This was full on, "here I am bitch," anchovy carcass. I don't even feel a sense of pride having ingested it. It was no different than ponying up to a salt lick. In fact, I'm now looking at horses thinking, "you stupid hoofed characters -- you are going to retain so much water after you enjoy your customary salt lick." Hoofers be willingly lickin' salt. For realz? Frankly, why don't they give them an "anchovy lick?" Probably cheaper, and frankly, more natural. So, long story short. You eat an entire anchovy, you better not have an issue with water retention. I'm done.

I eat until I am full...hot air balloon style

So, this is the first blog post I've done in my very special 30 years. I never, EVER thought I would do a blog because everyone and their hamster has one. But after expressing my abundant appreciation of food on Facebook, my friends encouraged me to just expound on that passion. And that's why I'm doing this. Because, plain and simple, I love to eat. I think about food all the time. More than sex (I'm not a guy!). Except when sex includes some aspect of food (but FYI: those stupid chocolate-dipped strawberries don't count). So, here we go. I'm going to eat the crap out of food and you can live vicariously through me as I stuff my face...although, I hope you're not some diet whore who thinks food is the devil. This blog is not for you. Happy gorging!