Bacon: A Love Story

A few weeks (months? I don't know. I'm behind the times.) ago, Oscar Mayer introduced a new app to "Transform Your iPhone into a Bacon Scent Alarm Clock" and a Wake Up & Smell the Bacon Campaign. True to self, I didn't really read the parameters and thought that if I tweeted funny things to @oscarmayer, they'd be so enamored by my wit that they would surely send me the bacon device! (Moot point: I don't own an iPhone and wouldn't be able to use it.) Thus began my portfolio of bacon-related haiku.

Unfortunately, what they REALLY wanted me to do was send their stock tweets from their website so they could instantly tell me that I was a loser. That bored me instantly (and I knew my followers didn't want to read that drivel), so I immediately gave up on that.

My love affair with bacon, however, remains true and untainted by Oscar Mayer's blatant disregard for the passion we share. You may have crushed my dreams, Oscar, but not my love.

To you I present a few samples of smoky, crispy poetry.

Haiku #1: Bacon is the family you choose for yourself.

Haiku #2: Revenge is a great marinade for bacon. (AKA Sometimes I lie take poetic license because I think it's funny.)

Haiku #3: Sometimes it's okay to be clingy in a relationship.

Haiku #4: Pork Heaven - preferable to pork hell.

Haiku #5: Because bacon should know its place.

Haiku #6: True love is timeless.

I officially have written more love poetry to bacon than to any human being (except for maybe Kevin Richardson of the Backstreet Boys back when I was 13... little evidence of that remains, so the comparison is inconclusive). Mark this date in history. And sorry, boo boo, but bacon came first.

The Most Boring Blog Post Ever (AKA I'm Old)

I apologize in advance for this post, as most of you will be bored out of your minds. The rest of you probably relate a little and it will make you smile-- no chuckles guaranteed!

Thus begins the most boring blog post ever, also known as: 

I got together with some gals from college (in fact, I call them "the girls") this past weekend. We've been out for a few years now and had a stark realization: experiencing college and talking about college are two very different things.

 College! Yay!

"College" according to us old folk.

We quickly realized we are old. One of us is married. Two own houses. Two of us have master's degrees. We've held multiple jobs between the five of us.

...and at least a dozen times this weekend we stopped ourselves in the middle of a conversation to say, "What are we talking about? When did we get old?"

I don't have a lot to say about most of these, so I won't. I only reiterate: Most boring post. Ever. (For you, the viewer. I, for one, am quite amused!)

Pretentious, boring, and old. That's us. We talked a LOT about each of our benefit packages, where are careers are headed, and about our hypothetical children. What's weird is that I wasn't bored: I was completely interested. I had a great time, in fact.

The fact that I was NOT bored only proves my point: 

I'm old. 

I would just say that I'm "growing up" rather than "old," but I've left out my most incriminating evidence:

I love hard candy. Especially Werther's Original. (My co-workers call them "old man mints.")

If that doesn't scream, "Hi! I'm 84!" I don't know what else does.

The Day I Couldn't Get My Hair Cut

Sorry it's been so long, folks! Don't worry about me; I'm just busy being funny somewhere else. Hardy har har!

It's been about a month, so I figure it's about time I tell everyone about:

As a woman (or, more accurately, as LeeAnne), sometimes I decide that I'm in desperate need of a haircut. I can't bear to look at myself in the mirror. The very feel of the hair on my head makes me want to puke. Once these feelings mature into self-loathing, it is imperative that a haircut occurs within 60 min or all hell breaks loose. Imagine my horror when my plans were halted by a tornado of all things. Mother Nature herself was playing a major role in my misery.

Before I go on...

*(AP photo from Joplin, MO) I completely understand that this entire post is petty and insensitive, like most low forms of humor. I really do feel lucky that there WASN'T a tornado and that my only gripe is that my hair was unkempt for a few more days. I don't mean to take away from the tragedy of the tornadoes that have been tearing through the nation-- just trying to comment on a comical situation. 

At any rate, I was fortunate enough to be in civilization when my sudden desire for a haircut struck. On whim, I acted on it.

Up to this point, it registered only remotely that I'd heard tornado sirens in the distance. However, when I walked into the hair salon, I was greeted with a stylist who was completely panic-stricken. She literally kicked me out of the store.

I was disgruntled, having grown up in the boondocks where we foolishly ignore warnings because they're sounded by p******* who don't know how to weather a storm (AKA where we're completely ignorant and have irrational views on mortality). I wasn't downtrodden for long, though. 

I would soon learn...

*This photo is actually from my hometown. The cat man is a regular ol' celebrity on PoW. 

So my friend and I walked across the parking lot to Walmart, sure we could at least accomplish something before we headed home... We were wrong.

We were literally told that if we "crossed the threshold" that we would be escorted to the break room. I had completely forgotten about wanting to get a haircut and now was focused singularly on my urgent need to pee. I could see the restroom from where we stood, but my pleas were ignored. NO, we could not just come in and pee. We could enter or take our chances. At this point, I started to think maybe this was something serious.

...But I had only just started to think it was serious, so I wasn't completely there yet. Thus began a conversation that could have determined the future of our young lives:

So, of course, we crossed the threshold.

And we really were walked all the way back to the break room. When I dallied to look at some flippy floppies, I was chastised and pushed onward. This was serious stuff.

And when we got to the breakroom, we discovered...

...Paradise.

It was spacious, they had a big screen tv, their own private bathrooms (*which I used), well-stocked vending machines... Heck, they even gave us water and oreos! (The employees had Sunkist, but I didn't protest. The customer always comes first... unless you're asked to risk your life in the service of Walmart. In which case: just drink the effin' Sunkist. Go ahead and keep it to yourself.)

So we sat on the floor and made new friends and planned our new life in the post-tornado Walmart.

We decided that we would take over the first aid aisle and form alliances with non-perishable foods. Everyone left in No Man's Land wouldn't have had a chance. 

A little boy across from me played his DS the entire time and we discussed all the neat things that could happen if the tornado hit. Overall, we decided we'd get really wet and grumpy. Needless to say, the seriousness of the situation had waned considerably for me by this point.

True to my generation, I tweeted every fifteen minutes or so because surely everyone was very concerned about me. After a while, I realized that I'd probably regret all those tweets and jokes if something really DID happen, so I took great care to consider my legacy and what would be remembered of me.

After an hour, they set us free. I bought toilet paper and I had completely forgotten about my need for a hair cut. I'd had an adventure and had a good day...

And then...

Kidding! But as I joked again and again about the tornado, I had a very distinct vision of every other car in the parking lot being perfectly fine and mine being utterly destroyed thanks to karma. Lucky for me it seems God and/or Mother Nature is numb to my sarcasm and I made it home safely.

I had to wait an entire week to get my hair cut after that. The tornado sirens went off AGAIN, but my stylist promised to keep cutting until the power went out or the tornado hit. Now THAT is dedication to a job.