Even though my blog is composed nearly exclusively of self indulgent blither, I manage to sleep at night by hoping that somewhere in all my musings is a nugget of truth and hope for someone out there.
Wait, no I don’t. Nevermind.
At any rate, today’s post is nothing but nonsense. I’ve got two completely unrelated things that I’d like to talk about and since it’s Friday and it’s my blog, I’m just gonna talk about them. (Plus the last week has been confirmation that no one really care what I talk about. Six survey responses? Really? You know I can tell when people have been here. Two hundred people enjoyed the fruits of my….er….labor and only six people answered the survey question? Dis. a. point. ing. (And not a single question for next week’s Ask Caroline. That was short lived.)
Cheese: The American Conspiracy
Adults: Know Your Percentile
I have a problem with cheese, specifically American cheeses. Not specifically”American cheese”, which isn’t even a cheese, but the cheeses that we, as Americans, eat recreationally. I’m not speaking of those divine puff pastry clad Brie wheels, or a sprinkling of Feta, or even my most despised goat, but cheese. White cheeses, shredded “mozzarella”, and all the other cheeses that we’ve concocted for consumption around here. I think we’re being fooled. It doesn’t taste like anything, except the other things it’s hanging out with. Essentially it’s high calorie glue. Yet time and time again I feel that I need cheese. Without cheese nothing will taste right. Pizza will be nothing but toppings and crust. Burritos will be pointless, quesadillas obsolete. I need cheese. But then I eat cheese and I can’t help thinking that I didn’t taste the cheese. I didn’t really even notice the cheese at all. I consumed an additional 150 calories without even noticing. Not worth it, my friends, not worth it.
Take Velveeta for instance. Why do we eat it? You wave a square of V in front of anyone’s face and they assume you’re challenging them to a Double Dog Dare. It’s like eating Spam. (Imagine a Spam and Velveeta skewer. I just did. Almost yiffed on my keyboard.) No one in their right mind eats Velveeta unless it’s gluing something together. Like Rotel. Don’t you think that we could create a calorie free, tasteless glue that would do the job without killing us and blocking our small intestine? I think so. It’s no wonder no one with a palate eats Velveeta shells and cheese unless it’s with a lot of salt and pepper. It’s flour and glue! It’s the cooked version of those picture frames you made in preschool.
I know that I’m stirring the proverbial pot, but let’s think for a second. My “famous” Super Bowl queso dip is divine. It’s got Velveeta, sausage, onions, garlic, sour cream, black beans… it’ll kill you soon as look at you but it’s delicious. But the truth is that a pile of sausage, onions, garlic, sour cream, and black beans would actually be freaking delicious, it just wouldn’t stay on a chip. (Plus the chip would have to be make of reinforced steel.) And it’d be impossible to keep warm. Add some V glue, though, and you’ve got a party favorite. No one is walking around talking about how delicious my Velveeta is. (Almost every time I’ve gone to type Velveeta I’ve type Vulva or Vagina. Gross. And Freudian.)
I recently stopped ordering Cheese in my burrito at Boloco. They’re using MontJack or something useless like that. After I got over the emotionally hardship, I realized it didn’t make a damn bit of difference. Didn’t even notice it. And I think I’m thinner already.
That’s all I have to say about cheese.
You know how new parents are all into their baby’s percentiles? At the very least it’s totally obnoxious, but always entertaining. I’m pretty sure it’s the poo-flinging quiet kids who synthesize oxygen and save the world. So, yay for your percentile kid, too bad it doesn’t mean shit.
But I do think we need a percentile chart for adults. Only for weight/height though. The silver lining to this obesity epidemic is it’s ability to make marginally thin people seem anorexic. I feel certain that if I were having a fat day and I could look at a chart that told me that even at my heftiest I was in the 99th percentile of weight I’d feel pretty rosy.
I can’t be sure, but when I was thinking about it the other day I figured out that if we did that chart it’s likely that I’d be in the same percentile as models and hosts of shows on E!. What’s even better is how upsetting it would be for them. Here they are depriving themselves every human delight to stay svelt and they aren’t even a PERCENTAGE POINT better than little ol’ me. Because in the grand scheme of life, those 6 lbs don’t make a damn bit of difference.
I mean, hopefully it would be insightful and inspirational and help solve the obesity crisis, but even if it didn’t it’d still be fun.