Yesterday began with my dog eating something on the sidewalk that was so disgusting I refuse to describe it in detail. Let’s just say, spitting in public ought to be outlawed.
She did this while wearing a green polka dotted hoodie. So I suppose it would be better to say, yesterday began with humiliation. Standing on the street, connected by a baby-pink leash with bone rhinestones to a dog that is often mistaken for a pig, I watched in helpless horror as she dove into her happily found treasure. It took some time for the image to de-brand itself from my brain, but fortunately for me-yesterday was Chinatown day.
Thanks to a close Vietnamese friend, I have been shown the wonders of the thirteenth district in Paris. Certainly not known for being chic, Chinatown is home to some of the best grocery stores in the city. Of course, you have to know what you are looking for-which I didn’t before she gave me the much appreciated tour. In addition to finding incredibly cheap produce and mounds of exotic adventures waiting in illegible packaging, she also showed me the home of what I will always refer to as-delicious 33.
I refer to it as its number on the menu of a small-yet incredibly popular restaurant. I have absolutely no idea what it is called in Vietnamese, French, or English. All I know is that it is number 33, and it is amazing. At eight euros-it is a gigantic noodle bowl filled to the brim with beef that has been slow-roasting with carrots and spices, then topped with various fresh veggies, and lots of chili. It is by far one of my favorite dishes of all time. Which is why I was not going to let Indy’s indecent behavior ruin my lunch yesterday.
But have you ever actually focused on getting something out of your head, and realized you couldn’t? I spent the entire lunch so focused on not being grossed out by her vile antics from earlier, that I found myself discovering other focal points of revulsion.
The waiter sneezed. A normal human action-yet all I could think was ‘great, and you’re going to grab my food and I’m basically buying a ticket for this years viral infection amusement park’.
The obese man next to me chewed ridiculously loud while breathing through his nose. Probably not that loud in all reality, but it brought back images of what my friend Trey calls ‘mealy noises’. These include the noises made when someone rubs their eyes and you can hear the eyeball sloshing around the socket-and loud mouth-breathing. There are more, but I will spare your appetite further details.
My brain does tricky things. It spent the entire lunch bringing forth disgusting images as I silently pleaded with it to just relax and let me enjoy my meal. Which by the way, is still so good that not even my twisted imagination could bring down the gloriousness that is dish 33. Believe me, that’s saying something.
Let us just hope that today Indy decides to take the lady high-road and spare me further ammunition.