Last night I was in one of those craving-the-unknown phases. The type that makes me search my cupboards frantically. Opening cupboards four or five times, hoping that it has Indian in the Cupboard-like qualities. I gazed upon the shelves contents. A partially opened saltine cracker package (but if I am going to eat saltines, I’m going to want some soup. Gawd, my workload just increased!), a half eaten bag of licorice (that I am not desperate enough to eat), a box of corn muffin mix (I buy this stuff because I love me some corn muffins, but I NEVER use it), and two cans of tuna. I closed the cupboard, paced around the kitchen for five minutes. I looked in the fridge eying the milk and the big bag of cherries (There is a poor joke to be made here, but I’m not going to POP one off). I shut the fridge and opened the freezer. Sometimes I produce a little beat when I open the fridge and freezer doors. Opening and closing; opening and closing. Breaking out in song. “I can’t stop this feeling! Deep inside of me. Girl, you just don’t realize that I’m hungry!” It was one cool beat, but that could have just been the fridge and freezer. After, I begrudgingly dragged myself back over to my cupboard. Nothing new, but at this point anxiety sinks in. I grabbed a piece of old licorice, knowing good and well that it was going to take me an hour to chew. (Is it just me, or is rope licorice significantly better than the straw type? They use to sell bags of that stuff, now you have to buy the family pack and it comes with the Darth Vader black licorice. And if you like black licorice, you have no soul or no taste buds. One of the two. A ginger? Maybe both.) As I stand their tugging on the licorice like I am a dog trying to tear apart a rope, I come to terms with the fact that my cupboard is not magical, nor do I possess any oogaly-koboogaly powers. (And yes, that is a word in the Webster Dictonary. It means: “Shut fuck up…please.” Niceties always help.)
This hunger proves to be hazardous to one’s health. I cannot go out to the store because I lack the insight into what I want to chew on. And it is a known precaution that those who have munchinitus should not go shopping because you will end up with twelve loaves of every variation of bread, and one package of Mr. Mayer. While bologna may be on a friendly first name basis with many, I prefer to keep my relationship professional. Let me remind you that this is not munchinitus that is onset by a secret blend of herbs and spices. That particular type of hunger is easily solved by the first edible source you see. No, in this case, those twelve loaves of bread are bought because who knows which one will curb that hunger, scratch that itch, or park that car.
I’m getting off topic. I did not go to the store. Instead I paced around for another fifteen minutes, making the rounds, singing, doing random finger pointing guns at cups and eating utensils, silently complaining. There is no need for verbal complaints in the presence of inanimate objects. Unless you are Dor from Xanth, in which case, AMAZING. I’d finally be able to determine if certain people were truly dumb as a rock, or if was doing a disservice to the rock, and people are in fact dumber. BUT, there was no inanimate whisperer. I had to make do with what was present.
I had a can of tuna.
Oh, you expected a riveting resolution? Let me try again. Only because I am eager to please.
I had a can of tuna AND then I was abducted by aliens.
Every morning I wake up…That’s a lie. Let’s try again. The times I wake up and it is still morning, I can guarantee that my stomach will want to have a long conversation. I can never quite understand its mumbling idioms and its volume fluctuations. All I know is that when I eat, I silence the beast. Maybe the language of the stomach has a motley spectrum of phrases that all stem from, “FEED ME!”
People usually hate their stomachs because they have difficulty controlling their eating habits, they hate its appearance, or it gives them stomach aches; I hate mine for growling, nay, roaring. It can make any canine cower and whimper. It can make a thunderstorm appear mild in comparison. It can make a G6 sound like a G4 (Which means it is quiet. Almost like a TV channel nobody watches). I may not be as fly as a G6, but my stomach can be as loud as one.
It is an attentive alarm that keeps my food schedule on course. I have learned to pack snacks just to appease it throughout the day. There is nothing worse than being in a peaceful environment and having your stomach start acting a fool. This has happened on more than twenty-seven occasions. I have learned to battle the growls with stomach tightening techniques. I am not sure how effective this is, but I still make the attempt. I’m like a Jedi trying to work my mind tricks on the dark side of the force. Like a Qui-Gon Ginn taking on Darth Maul…It never ends well.
One time I was standing in line at a clothing store. My stomach began to act up. Everyone within its radius turned and gave me appalling stares. I wanted to growl in unison with my stomach. You know, get animalistic, but I did not. I really just wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. When it was my turn, I placed my item on the counter. I was buying a cardigan. He totaled out my purchase and I swiped my card. I proceeded to believe my card transaction cleared when the cashier said, “Would you please just swipe your card again?” I responded, “Really?” He nodded. I thought, hm, if you insist. I picked up my cardigan and walked out. As I walked out I was tackled to the floor by the security (Mall Cops). But…the cashier said I could swipe my cardigan. My stomach made another growl. I received that same disgusted look. I said aloud, “You are making my stomach angry…And you won’t like it when its angry.”
End Note: Okay, so that last story is completely fabricated. I don’t own a cardigan. I just wanted to make the joke, but I needed to make it fit in the blog. It fell flat, I know. I will admit it, but I will not omit it.