So Are You Gonna Cook Me Some Chicken, Or Not?

I have decided that it’s not actually talking ugly about someone if you a) do it right in front of them so they can hear you and b) if you are completely right. I tried to buy some chicken. That was “some chicken,” not “a chicken,” as in an entire live chicken, but I can see how you might be confused since I once actually paid for part of a  llama with real live money. Anyway, I wanted to buy some chicken, as in cooked pieces from the deli. But alas, it was not to be…because the chicken pimp was stupid.

NOTE: I’m not really sure her official title within the company is actually “chicken pimp.” I made that up. Because she’s stupid. Now, instead of being a mildly-trained deli food service technician, I have decided she’s a chicken pimp because she sells chicken. If I were to sell people, I would be a pimp. Ergo, she’s a chicken pimp.

I wanted wings. This always cracks my mother up, because when she was growing up on the cotton farm, the wings were the “poor people parts.” Rich people ate the white meat, poor people bought the wings. Nowadays, you will pay more in a fine establishment for a wing than she would have had to pay for an entire chicken as a kid.

Technically, I didn’t want the wings. People who eat wings by gnawing on the tiny bones always look like a caveman who is just thrilled to death that he didn’t have to fight a mammoth for this meal. They’re ridiculously tiny, almost like that scene in Big where Tom Hanks is trying to eat the decorative baby corns like they are corn on the cob. Nibble, nibble, nibble, gnaw, suck, slurp. Wipe, if there’s napkin handy.

My daughter, however, LOVES wings. Loves ’em like a caveman. So I went to the deli in the grocery store where they pimp out the cooked chicken, and asked if it was possible to purchase some wings that didn’t have any sauce or seasoning on them and even bothered to explain that it was for a darling little girl who has severe food allergies.

PIMP: Yeah, sure, we can do that. We just have to cook them and then not put stuff on them.  (Already that observation made her magna cum laude of chicken pimping.)

ME: Awesome! My daughter will be so excited! So, can I get about half a pound?

PIMP: We would have to cook them fresh.

ME: Yes. Yes, you would.

PIMP: We got all these wings to sell first.

ME: Oh, I see. So you can’t cook me some new ones?

PIMP: We can, we just can’t open a new bag of wings until these are gone.

ME: So what you’re saying is, you can’t cook me some wings.

PIMP: No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying, these have to get sold first.

ME: Then you can cook the new wings.

PIMP: Well, I can cook them any time. I just have to get rid of all these first.

ME: So, no. You can’t cook ME some wings RIGHT NOW to take HOME. RIGHT NOW.

PIMP: No, I can totally cook them. After these are all gone.

ME (turning to my other child, whose eyes had already glazed over by this point): I don’t think this person knows what “cooking them right now” means.


ME: I asked for wings. She said yes. But then she said no. And then she said yes. And then she said no.

HER: SHHHHHHHHH! She’s standing right there!

ME: So what? I don’t think she can hear me.

HER: Of course she can hear you! She’s two feet away and she’s looking at us and everything, and besides, you are not even pretending to whisper!

ME: But if she did hear me, she will just instantly think that she didn’t hear me. Then she MIGHT think again that she did hear me, but it will be okay since she will immediately think that she didn’t hear me.

HER: Oh my gosh, you have to stop talking. She’s, like, rolling up her sleeves and coming around the counter!

Sadly, I did not get some chicken, non-mammoth caveman wings or otherwise. Luckily, I didn’t get a beat down either, which is really good because I’ve heard those pimps can really bitch-slap you good.

I Had Dinner with the Poet Laureate of the United States

I know what you’re thinking: “How in the hell did someone as carnie-folk-bizarre as Lorca get herself invited to eat dinner with someone as classy as the Poet Laureate? There’s no way.” Well, you can just stuff it with your snooty self. I did, too, have dinner with the Poet Laureate and it was even at her private house and everything. So there. The really weird thing is I kind of only just now remembered that I had dinner with the Poet Laureate and I only remembered that I’d been to her house after I just typed all that.

See, when I knew her, she wasn’t the Poet Laureate (let’s see how many times I can type Poet Laureate in this blog post), she was just my Poetry professor in college. Anyone who has any delusions about my writing talent and my love of poetry can read my blog post about being forced to enter an erotic haiku writing contest. Needless to say, I did NOT do well in Poetry (and I did not win that contest).

But at the end of the Poetry class, we all got to have dinner at the professor’s house. I only got to tag along because I was technically still enrolled in the class and because I waitressed at a restaurant that made kick-ass hot wings and I could get them at a discount. Yup, I brought hot wings to the Poet Laureate’s house for dinner. She made these funky Middle Eastern dishes and I contributed hot wings to the soiree. Betcha can’t get guess whose dish got gobbled up first.

The great part about this professor being named as the new Poet Laureate of the whole country is that I know some really awesome dirt on her that I could potentially sell to all the tabloids who want to bring down the Poet Laureate in shame. Okay, I’m willing to concede that there probably aren’t that many tabloid staffers who know that we even have a Poet Laureate, let alone who she is and what she did. And I also concede that the only really juicy story I have about her is that she wore this brand new cerulean blue shirt on the first day of class and that it reacted somehow with her deodorant so it turned the armpits of her shirt hot pink. I wish I had thought to go digging through her drawers while I was at her house for dinner…

Isn’t it great how I didn’t even TRY to make it look like we’re really standing together in this photo? But I promise, we’re totally standing together…