Category Archives: Texas

I Confess: I Am a Pig

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Why is it that every time I go to Texas, I fall back into my old habit of eating whatever I want and drinking gravy? Muscle memory takes over and my brain thinks it’s actually okay to eat bean dip for dinner. Seriously, one night I ate Tostitos and bean dip for dinner. And I enjoyed it too. Blame it on my mom who has Cameo cookies and iced tea for breakfast I suppose. Within thirty minutes of being on Texas soil, my shiny silver rental car drove through a Whatburger. I swear to God I had nothing to do with it. The GPS and the cruise control conspired against my healthy eating habits and force fed me a number seven combo. One day while in Texas, I had a McDonald’s McFlurry for lunch. I didn’t even know what a freakin’ McFlurry was, but I was introduced to it by my niece who recommenced I get the Oreo McFlurry. I did and now I worship at the altar of McFlurry. True, it was a blatant rip-off of the Dairy Queen Blizzard, but I cared not. I ate it for lunch and I felt fine about it. One morning, I drove past my arch nemesis, Chick-Fil-A who I blogged about quite unflatteringly a few weeks ago. As I sat in the Target parking lot trying to decide if I should give them my hard-earned gay dollars, I thought, “what would Jesus do?” And I decided that Jesus would forgive and forget and drive his sandal wearin’ ass over for some chicken. And so I did. And it was good. And the lady at the drive thru window didn’t seem like a total homophobe at all. She was right nice and friendly.

These four days in Texas saw me consume more Coca-Cola than I normally do in three weeks. I had it for breakfast, lunch dinner and snacks. One morning after brushing my teeth I almost rinsed with it, but thought better and used Country Time Lemonade instead, for that fresh, minty, sugary feel. Someone made chocolate chip cookies and I had about ten of those in one sitting. I drank Coors Light and Michelob Ultra instead of cosmos and I drank these out of cans. Cans, I tell you. Cans that were in coozies. When I was at the airport to come back to reality, I scanned the food court for one last food extravagance. I only had thirty minutes until boarding and my eyes fell upon Schlotzky’s Sandwiches. I literally ran to the counter to place my order. I heard my flight being boarded but all I cared about was that ham and cheese on the sourdough bread so I ignored the plea for all customers for flight 351 to go to gate 18. I got my sandwich and inhaled it, along with a Coke and salt and vinegar potato chips. As I waddled over to my gate, I picked some shredded lettuce out of my teeth and patted my belly. Texas was very good to me. My digestive track? Not so much. But I was okay with it. I made myself comfortable in my seat and buckled my seat belt low and tight around my waist and promptly fell asleep.

I woke up only minutes away from New York. When I got out of the airport, the cold air slapped my face and jolted me back to reality. My time in Texas was good on so many levels. I was melancholy but content. Empty but full. Sad but happy. Later, while on the 7 train only three stops from home, two subway performers came into the car and danced. I didn’t give them any money because I don’t do that, but I knew I was home again. The fast food, the Cokes and my family were all back in Texas. I miss them. My family, I mean, not the fast food. I miss my family. Okay, and I kinda miss Whataburger too.

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Eat More Chicken

My obligatory vacation (A.K.A obli-cation) is still on my mind and since all I did while there was eat out, why not write some more about it? Living in New York City, I very rarely go to fast food places. All of them here seem filthy and disgusting and there are just too many homeless people hanging out in there. I mean, how can I enjoy my number two combo at McDonald’s when I’m sitting across from a lady in a trash bag taking a nap? And who can forget that Taco Bell/KFC on Waverly Place that was infested with rats over night? But once my ass gets off a plane in Texas I sniff out the nearest fast-food joint and eat that bitch up. And if it’s a place that isn’t in New York, even better.

My first fast-food visit was the wonder that is known as Chick-fil-A. I was driving south on Highway 59 not twenty minutes after leaving George Bush (I still-can’t-believe-they-fucking-named-it-that) Intercontinental Airport when I spied my fave chicken sandwich of all time. I took the first exit, did a u-turn, wiped the drool from my lip and went in. They were so friendly. So very very friendly that it struck me like a pile of bricks upside my head. A nice lady greeted me and asked me if we wanted a free cup of coffee since it was so cold out. I was definitely not in New York City anymore. I ordered my chicken sandwich with the dry white bun and the pickles on it. I went to get my napkins and straw and find a table when I realized that a Chick-fil-A employee was following me around with my order on a tray. She placed it at the table that I chose and when I was done eating someone else came and cleared my table. These Chick-fil-A bitches were giving way better service than I ever do. It was heaven. I had it again a few days later at a mall and when I sat down with my food in the food court, one of them Chik-fil-A’ers came up and gave me some Purell to clean my hands. So classy. Those two visits were probably my favorite fast food experiences while on oblication. It was way better than the ill-advised trip to Jack in the Box in Wharton, Texas. The place was full of small town folks who looked at me as a real city slicker. I’m pretty sure that the girl who rang up my order was the same girl who is in that movie Precious. I got the spicy chicken sandwich. Compared to my Chick-fil-A, it tasted like ass. But it was still fast-food so it was alright.
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Deep in the Heart of Texas

My vacation is over and I am back home safely ensconced in my tomb of comfort in New York City. I spent the last eleven days in Texas where the rivers flow with cream gravy, the air is filled with the aroma of “fried” and margaritas come from the tap. I hesitantly call it a “vacation” since it was really a necessary trip to go visit family. Henceforth, it shall be called “oblication.” While there, I became part of that group of people who I hate waiting on. Many times, I found myself at a restaurant as part of a large party, with separate checks and children under the age of six. I cringe just remembering the look on many a server’s face over the last week and a half as we came into a restaurant.

One night we were a party of nine. As soon as we sat down, my seven year old nephew opened a packet of crackers and poured ketchup on them to create the most disgusting sandwich I have ever seen. I declined his offer for a bite of it. I also spied him pouring salt and pepper onto the table and making designs with it. I then saw him standing on the chair and also running around the restaurant a few times. At one point, he opened up the squirt ketchup bottle and sucked some of it out. Yeah. These are the children that I hate in my station and suddenly I am related to one of them and sitting next to him. A big loud holla out to Amanda who was our server. The girl kicked ass and was never phased by anything. At the end of the night I went to tell her thank you and also to plug The Bitchy Waiter. She told me that one of the other servers told her that a kid at one of her tables was licking the ketchup bottle. “Yeah, that was my nephew. Sorry.” She shrugged her shoulders and said, “No big deal. I’ll throw it out after you leave.”

When we left the restaurant, I turned back to look at the table and saw a pile of Saltines on the floor. I grimaced and weakly yelled out, “Thanks, Amanda.” It was official. I was the person I hate.
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