Elderly Oatmeal

Bacon.

There are few things in life that I love more than bacon, those being:
(in order of importance)

-Sleeping
-My kids
-My husband

Yes, I said that I love sleeping more than my own kids. You did read that correctly.

But let’s get back to the subject on hand, that being the deliciousness of bacon. When I go to a breakfast buffet, I am fervently hoping and praying with every fiber of my corporeal form that there is a giant heaping pile of greasy, delectable bacon waiting for me. As I pick up the tongs, I nervously glance around to see the faces of other hotel guests as they watch in utter disgust while I serve myself an entire plate of bacon.

“Everything is good in moderation, even moderation.”
-Some idiot

Alright, alright. So whoever said this isn’t exactly an idiot, because this statement, while completely generalized, is indeed very true. But it’s so difficult to do with bacon around. Bacon has a flavor like no other. I don’t want bacon in moderation, but I also do not want to be 400 pounds. But I do want bacon for breakfast, brunch, lunch, snacks, appetizers, dinner, dessert, and fourth meal. I want to brush my teeth with bacon and shower with bacon. I want go grow bacon dreadlocks. I want to sleep with a blanket made out of bacon. I want to wash my clothes in bacon grease. I want bacon deodorant. I’m going to tat “BACN4LYFE” on my face, because Wilkedogg don’t give a shit who knows it- I love me some bacon.

I’m gonna take this too far and say, with 100% honesty, that if bacon were a person, it would be Jesus. Yup, I just did that. Why? Because bacon will save your food from the sin of tasting bad. Bacon is your food savior.

You can be eating soup, and immediately you say aloud, “Oh my god! Does this have BACON in it?!”

Yes, bacon friend, yes it does. Which is why it’s the shit, am I right?

How do you make a salad better? Throw some bacon on that bitch. BOOM. You just ate it all, didn’t you? I knew it.

This sandwich sucks. How do I make it better?
BACON, DUH. Throw a toothpick in it and now you’ve got yourself a club sandwich. Who cares if you can’t make it to any club meetings or pay the club dues? You’re eating BACON. On your sandwich. And this shit is delicious.

What should we eat for breakfast?
I will slap your face, hypothetical person, if your first thought to this question isn’t BACON.

What would make these shish kabobs even more delicious? Wrap everything on the skewers in bacon. Yes. Yes yes yes. One thousand times yes.

There is even a bacon chocolate bar. It is fantastic and I love it.

All this bacon talk got me wondering how bacon is made. My Google history now looks like this:
-Tayor Lautner, shirtless
-Guys with beards and tattoos
-How do we know what color the dinosaurs were?
-Cowboy Caviar recipe
-Bacon

Did you know, that here in the good ol’ U S of A, there is what’s called “Bacon Mania”? Cue me singing that Drake song. AND I SAY HELL YEAH, HELL YEAH, HELL YEAH, FUCKIN’ RIGHT, FUCKIN’ RIGHT, ALL RIGHT. Bacon Mania?! Bacon toothpaste, mints, doughnuts, cupcakes, Air fresheners. BACON VODKA. Hahahahahahhaa what?! Who wants to get hammered off some delicious bacon vodka? That’d be me. I do. Bacon shots, all around, am I right?! God I love bacon!

At Wendy’s there is a Baconnator sandwich. SIX STRIPS OF BACON ATOP A DELICIOUS BURGER. Sold 25 million in the first week. I am a proud part of that 25 million.

“Loving bacon is like shoving a middle finger in the face of all that is healthy and holy while an unfiltered cigarette smolders between your lips.”
-Sarah Hepola

If I ever get the opportunity to meet Ms. Hepola someday, I will shake her hand. And then discuss our love of bacon over coffee and a plate of bacon. She nailed it. Bacon is filthy and disgusting, and oh so AMERICAN, am I right? Hepola also states:

“Bacon is our national meat. The pig is not an elegant animal, but it is smart and resourceful and fated to wallow in mud. A scavenger. A real scrapper.”

Yes, bacon comes from pigs. To all you animal enthusiasts, I realize that the treatment of pigs is not exactly what you would call “favorable.” This does bother me, for a little bit, until I taste that sweet, sexy crispy bite of bacon and ignorance fills my brain. I’d like to imagine the pigs that MY bacon comes from, have been hugged and kissed and snuggled and loved by all the farmers. The exact farmers who read them bedtime stories and give them their favorite blankies to sleep with. The very same farmers who play hopscotch and Mario Kart with their pigs while they let them know their destiny, that of becoming delicious bacon for us to eat. The pigs then high-five these farmers, and go on to fulfill their bacon fate.

For all you vegetarians out there, do not fear. Throw some Faken on that bitch. Fake bacon tastes just like the real thing. Which makes you realize that you love the taste of bacon, love the taste of meat, and all your hopes and dreams of veganism float out the window in a poof of bacon-y scented air.

Sorry about that.

Have some bacon to make you feel better.

THOUGHTS ON SONGS by Andrew Wilke

YEAH! Usher featuring Ludacris and Lil’ Jon

“I remember thinking, ‘This song will never get old.’ And I still hold true to that. If you turned that on right now I’d be like, ‘YEAH, YEAH, YEAH, YEAH’. In fact, turn it on right now.”

HEAVEN Los Lonely Boys

“I remember listening to this when I worked in the Anchor factory all summer long and wanting to shoot myself in the face.”

LOCKED UP Akon

“Oh, the one by Sisqo?”
(No, Akon.)
“Same difference.”

SUPERMAN Eminem

“This song makes me feel unsafe.”

STILL FLY Big Tymers

“I love that song. Reminds me of myself. Even when things aren’t perfect, I still feel pretty cool. I still feel like gator boots, wit dem pimped out Gucci suits.”
(No more Patron.)
“AIN’TGOT NO JOOOOOBBBB, BUT I’M STILL FLLLLYYYYYY!”

This Fantastic World by Maria Rosario Longobardi

There is a different world
A sideways world
A magical world where extraordinary people live
You can’t see this place
It isn’t even real, this fantastic world
But you can fly there in your thoughts
And imagination
Through books and stories of haunted castles and waterfalls and enchanted forests full of witches and dragons and hungry ogres and lonely giants and all sorts of people
Ordinary people who become extraordinary heroes of their own stories
Stories that always have a happy ending.

A…..story.

When was the first time you chemically altered your hair? I’m sure you all remember the stylist spinning you around to face the mirror, the reveal of a new look. Maybe it was a job done at home with the help of a friend, you whipping back the soaked towel to find out what damage has been done.

“Erm….uhh….you look good, girl!”

“Are you serious Brenda?! What have you done to my HEAD?! I hate you forever! Now Billy will NEVER ask me to prom! Arghghghghghghgh!!!”

The first time I dyed my hair was right before prom. I remember the foils, the smell of bleach, the nervous wonder of what my hair will look like. My pom coach, Wendy, worked at this cute little salon and assured me I would look like a total babe. She did a fantastic job, and I was a huge fan of my lit- up locks. Cut to years of salon- going, bleaching, money spent and hours lost.

All in the name of being blonde, am I right? When I met Andrew, I was a blonde. Little blondie Leash, running around Ricks bein’ all hammered. I was DGAF all the way. All the way up until 4 months later, when I got pregnant.

(cut to me, glancing at the pregnancy test that I took in the bathroom of my apartment that reeked of urine and vomit from all the “theme” parties we had been having)

“OH SHIT.”

I’ll save that story in its fullness for another post.

I realized quickly that motherhood provides very little time for extracurricular activities, those being:
Sleeping
Showering
Going to the bathroom
Brushing your teeth
Going to a salon to dye your hair

Keeping up with your appearance whatsoever, basically. I was just too TIRED, you feel me? So….so….tired. Exhausted. My hair looked like a stray cat had taken a dump on it, eaten it, and then regurgitated it back onto my head. Instead of keeping up with the foils, I decided to head back to my natural hair color, that being a “mousy” brown, if you will. Since Andrew is a man who is filled to the top with goodness and sweetness, he was supportive.

“I just like staring at your beautiful face, I don’t care what color your hair is.”

“Save it Andrew! I just had a baby two weeks ago and I’m fat and tired and ugly and I hate you! Go stare at the tiny waitress some more, why don’t you?! I used to look like that before you knocked me up! Damn it!”

So maybe I was a little crabby.

I lasted three whole years as a brunette. My hair was healthy and shiny. My dollars and hours were not wasted at salons. I even felt more responsible. When we moved to Rockford, it didn’t take long before I felt the bleach calling. I asked Andrew what he thought.

“YES Thank GOD please do it. I met you as a little hot blonde. Please do it. Go today even. Just go.”

“Wow, what happened to ‘I don’t care what color your hair is, pretty face, blah blah….’?”

“That was before we were married. Now I can tell you how I really feel. Here, there’s a little salon in downtown Rockford. I’ll call for you.”

This “little salon in downtown Rockford” is so expertly titled BANGZ. With a Z. Bangz. With a Z. Hey autocorrect, quit adding an S to the end of that because it’s with a Z, alright? BangZ. With a Z. One more time….WITH A Z. Should this have been my first clue that this place was going to suck ass? Maybe. But I’m a huge fan of funny stuff, and BANGZ (with a Z) was cracking my shit up, ya dig?! Bangz with a Z. Get outta here wit yo’ wacky spelling! BangZ with a Z, shoooooooot.

I laughed all the way up until I left the salon with my hair the color of Volkswagen yellow. Mustard yellow, Plochman’s-style. French’s even. YEL-LOW. Dehydrated pee yellow. YELLOW! Coldplay saw my hair and they were all, “‘Cause it was alllllll yellooooowwwww.” My head was damn yellow. My coworkers at my brand new job nicknamed me “Goldilocks.” Damn it BangZ! With a Z! Come on, YELLOW?! Did you grab the bottle that said, “YELLOWZ” on it or something?! Insert wet fart noise. Never again, Bangz. With a Z.

Here’s where the story I want to tell you actually begins. This one’s a doozey. Are you ready, readers? Get ready. You can’t make this shit up. You just can’t.

After my Bangz (WITH A Z) disaster, I promptly made myself an appointment at the Douglas J in Grand Rapids. My coif had to get fixed, post haste. As soon as Andrew walked in the door, I grabbed my keys to head out on this stormy Tuesday night. The severity of how white trash I looked blinded me from checking if I had any gas, if my cell phone was charged, or if I even knew exactly where I was headed, seeing as I had never been to Grand Rapids yet. Do you sense some foreshadowing, friends? I bet youz do. With a Z.

Windshield wipers going at full speed, directions somewhat in my mind, I sped down the highway. Exit 86 , was it? 85A….? Better call Andrew.

“Hey, can you Google Douglas J for me? I can’t remem-“

Bleeeeeeeooooooopppp.

RIP cell phone.
Cue gas light flicking on.
Cue fogged up windows and rain beating down.
Cue pissed off Goldilocks and immeasurable amounts of cussing.

One- way streets led me to the corner of Wealthy Street and Division. There is a gas station right there, and wouldn’t you know it? I needed gas. I was now ten minutes late for my appointment, no clue where it even was, and I figured someone inside would be able to help me out. Sorta like I “figured” Bangz (with a Z) would be able to dye my hair. HA HA! Oh Alicia, what the f word is wrong with you sometimes. Seriously.

My friend Kory Beets told me that you N E V E R get gas from this place. Never. Even if your car is completely out and won’t even start, you roll that hoopdie to the next gas station up the street. You ghost ride ya whip another MILE before you ever get gas there. I wish I had been told this before I ran through the pouring rain to get inside.

I took my place in line behind five other people. I glanced at the two cashiers who didn’t seem to be helping anyone, they were just staring at a group of people who were talking loudly by the door. And by “talking loudly” I mean obnoxiously arguing over God knows what. I directed my attention to the fight. Shall I paint you a picture, you friendly friends? I shall.

Three of the people were standing by the gum, with their arms crossed. All of them seemed to be giving a look of “Are you fucking kidding me?” in the direction of a 60- year-old woman who was ever so eloquently screaming at them. This woman was a PEACH, let me tell you. Her hair was pulled into a giant frizzy rattail braid that stopped at her knees. She was wearing a flannel button-down shirt, men’s cargo shorts. It was pretty clear that she was not wearing a bra. As she squalled at them with impeccable grammar (LOLZ with a Z) , I noticed the icing on the cake. Her entire left leg was a tattoo of the confederate flag.

THE CONFEDERATE FLAG.

How much money would you pay to have been a fly on the wall of the tattoo parlor the day this crazy b word walked in?

“Hi, how can I help you?”

“YEAH I WANT A TAT!”

“You’ve come to the right place. What would you like?”

“THIS!”

“Umm….just so we’re clear….that is a picture of the Confederate flag.”

“I KNOW WHAT IT IS!”

“Of course you do. Where do you want it?”

“ON MY LEG!”

“On your leg. Where exactly on your leg? Your calf? Your ankle?”

“ON MY WHOLE FUCKIN’ LEG!”

“……..”

Hamster off the wheel, am I right? Holy crap. Anyway, this crazy was talking mad smack that night in the gas station. All of sudden, she screams:

“YOU THINK I BE JOKIN’? I GOT A KNIFE STRAPPED TO MY CHEST, YOU (insert terrible, filthy racial slur)!!!”

As the three people lunged at her (as I would’ve too, for that word she screamed), I saw a flash of nasty boob as she lifted her flannel to reveal that she was indeed not joking about the knife strapped to her bra-less chest. Picture me, in line, with my hair all yellow and my hands over my mouth. What. The. F. Is. Happening. I started crying, because I was certain death was eminent. As if I were watching a movie, the cops busted through the door and arrested the brawlers who were entangled on the floor. It all happened so fast.

When I got up to the register, they just stared at me. Both cashiers were completely unfazed, because this shit probably happens all the time. Flustered, shaking and crying, I sputtered,

“G-g-gas on pump th-th-three. Do you know where North 131 is? I need to go home.”

When I walked in the house, Andrew said my hair looked 100% better than before. “Really honey? That’s hard to believe seeing as I DIDN’T EVEN MAKE IT TO THE APPOINTMENT.”

God bless him for trying.

To conclude: DO NOT GET GAS FROM THE STATION ON THE CORNER OF WEALTHY AND DIVISION. Or, do. It’ll at least make for good storiez. With a Z.