I know you're thinking that my crazy social calendar prohibited me from blogging last night. In truth, I was racing the clock while putting together a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. Since I never like to be at a deficit and I have committed to blogging five times a week, I'll pop another post in here over the weekend (after my confession, you know I don't have anything better to do).
I went on a walk tonight. My walks are quite lengthy since their purpose is two-fold: (1) exercise (in a suburban mom kind of way, not in an athlete-sort of way) and (2) to clear my head. It's the latter that takes awhile. While trying to unwind (there is a certain person who has really riled me up this week. Since I'm unclear of her internet abilities, I won't disclose further details), I received quite a few honks. I hate honks. If my own husband happened to see me coincidentally walking down the street in a foreign country he was visiting alone, he wouldn't honk. It's just impolite and my husband isn't crass (opposites attract). The only time you would honk at someone on the sidewalk would be if you knew them, and no, let me take that back, in that case you would actually roll down your window and yell out their name and then wave like a maniac.
Prior to the walk, I picked up dinner for Steve and I. We are probably the only couple who go to both Chipotle and Qdoba for us each to get a burrito. (I like queso and have no idea why Chipotle won't expand their menu). Now this past week, I've been a bit self-conscious about a blemish -- ok, a pimple, I didn't want to have to say it, but that's what it was: a pubescent zit on my 26-year old face -- yet I refuse to stoop as low as caking nude-colored paint on my face. I hate foundation and powder all over the skin. It really grosses me out, actually. So I went au natural: in all its fiery red glory. It has finally died down.
Anyway, at Chipotle, the woman creating Steve's burrito had a goiter of a zit. Seriously, I'm not just being my typical insensitive self, it was that huge. I couldn't even look her in the eye and she knew why. I didn't care, I just wanted to get out of there before it could leak puss into Steve's dinner. If we have policies where food-service workers have to wear hairnets (and sometimes even beard or sideburn nets I've heard) for cleanliness, we ought to also have a policy against those foot-blisters on the face. Not that you have to scrape them off with a dull razor blade per se (although that is my first suggestion), but perhaps keep the offensive face in the back of the restaurant. Or maybe wear a face-mask like Richard Hamilton. I'm not going back to Chipotle for 5-7 days, even if I am merely the courier of their burritos and not the consumer. In these situations, you don't want to take any chances.