I wrote this post weeks ago but then I got distracted and never published it and now I can’t remember the ending but I’m super-hurty from an arthritis flair-up so I’m posting it like it really all happened yesterday. I am the worst blogger ever.
So yesterday I spent the day with Maile, Rachel, Laura and Karen to help with Karen’s book signing and it was a strange whirlwind of sweatshops, igloos, tv appearances and possible house invasions and right now I am completely, inadvertently high so this post might not make any sense. As always, it’s ripped entirely from twitter and my journal. You can totally skip it if you want.
9am: Arrived at the local NBC set to watch Karen being interviewed about her book. I’m sitting in the green room with Maile and Karen and some guy from a fitness club and he’s all “I’m here today to teach people how to dance the zumba” and I’m all “Those robotic vacuum cleaners?” and Maile’s like “No. That’s the Roomba.” Then I decided to just be quiet but I noticed that the sign leading to the bathroom was also leading to the sound stage and I was thinking how fun it would be to sneak in there accidentally and Karen just gave me this look like “WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE?” and I was all “I like your sweater” because I was trying to distract her. Then the anchor came in and lead us on to the set and they let me and Maile (it’s pronounced Miley) stand in the back with Karen, and I introduced us as Karen’s entourage and I was going to say that I’m like a groupie except that I don’t do blow-jobs but Karen looked a little tense so instead I just said it on twitter and then everyone on twitter was like “Poor Karen. You’re a terrible groupie” and I was all “You guys, I would totally give her a blow-job if she like NEEDED one. Because I care. But she’s fine.” And then everyone was all “Well, have you even asked her?” and they had a point so I leaned over to Karen who was waiting for her cue and I was all “You don’t need a blow-job, do you?” and I said it while shaking my head “no” like I already knew what the answer was and she was all “What?!” but she had to whisper it because they were back on air and I was all “I’m just checking. For twitter” and then she just stared at me and she was like “I’m. fine.” And I was relieved but part of me didn’t even believe her because she looked stressed but possibly it was just because I threatened to flash her in the middle of her segment. But I totally didn’t. I love that girl.
Maile, Karen and my cell phone camera which needs a flash. True story: I'm wearing my pajamas here. PS. Arthritis makes your hands swell up so much that they look like they need to go on a diet. Awesome.
Then we went to eat and there was a tostada on the menu and Karen was all “What’s a tostada?” and I was like “Uh…it’s like a chalupa. Obviously.” And then she said (I’m not exaggerating) “Oookay. What’s a chalupa?” And I’m all “Are you fucking KIDDING ME?” and no. No, she wasn’t. Also, she’s never eaten an enchilada. For real, y’all. It was like having lunch with an Amish person. Except that I’m pretty sure Amish people can eat enchiladas. I don’t actually know that much about Amish people. But I do know that being a grown-up and never having eaten an enchilada is a goddam tragedy.
Then we didn’t have anything to do and Karen was getting kind of testy about the whole chalupa thing so we asked Maile to take us to her factory where she makes her Epiphanie Bags except that it was more like Karen said “Put us to work in your factory” and I was all “I’ve never seen a sweatshop!” and Maile was like “It’s not a sweatshop and I’m not letting you work there” and we were like “WE WANT TO WORK IN YOUR SWEATSHOP”. So we did. Karen and I made 114 cardboard boxes and I was all “This is awesome. And you can pay us in wallets!” but then turns out that Maile doesn’t even make wallets and so I stopped working and instead I built a giant igloo out of all the cardboard boxes AND IT WAS AWESOME. I totally want to get paid in igloos from now on.
I look depressed in this picture but that's only because I couldn't figure out how to get my awesome igloo out of Maile's tiny sweatshop doors.
Then we went to Karen’s booksigning and I don’t really remember anything about it because she had it in a bar that specializes in chocolate martinis. Also, instead of olives they used roofies. Probably. Then we went back to Maile’s house and she has one of those artistically beautiful houses that makes you think that she must not have children but then you find out that she has LOTS of children and you kind of hate her a little but then the next morning I went to turn on the bathroom sink and THE HANDLE FUCKING BROKE OFF IN MY HANDS. And I just kind of sat there in a paralyzed panic watching the water pour out and I was trying to reattach the handle but it wouldn’t work and I considered just running out of the house but I knew that they’d know that I was the only person irresponsible enough to flood an entire bathroom without telling anyone so instead I called to Maile and I was all “Is it possible that I just got incredible hulk super-strength?” and she was all “Um…what?” and I was like “This is for you” and I handed her part of her own sink and she was like “Oh. That was already broken”. Then I felt relieved and also a little bit disappointed.
Then I went home but when I pulled up I saw that the front door was missing and instead there was a big black tarp covering the opening and there had been two home invasions in our neighborhood so I was all “OMG WE’VE BEEN ROBBED” and I kept calling Victor but he didn’t answer even though the car was in the drive and so I dialed 9 and 1 and then snuck around back to look in the windows and I saw a stranger in our house but I didn’t know if it was a robber or a policeman and then I screamed and fell down a little because just then Victor tapped me on the back and was all “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING OUT THERE?” Then Victor explained that the stranger in our house was there repainting the front door and that he didn’t answer the phone because he was too busy trying to figure out why I was creeping around the backyard peeking into my own windows. Also, he said I was very obvious and made a terrible stalker. Awesome.
Maybe next time write something on the outside of the tarp like "Your murdered family isn't in here. I'm just painting your door. Also, I totally know what chalupas are. EVERYONE DOES." The last part is optional.
If I was a better blogger this would have an ending that wrapped everything up succinctly and with verve but I’m on a lot of pain medication so please just pretend that happened, okay?
PS. I just spell checked this post and spellcheck was all “‘Chalupa’? Did you mean ‘chalk’?” It’s also telling me that “tostada” is not a real word. Conclusion: Spell-check is racist.
UPDATED: Apparently I owe Karen an apology because based on the comments the majority of you people have never even seen a chalupa and several readers from Mexico have pointed out that chalupas don’t even exist there. So I’d like to apologize for my incredibly insular viewpoint that was even more wrong than usual. I promise to never use the c-word to insult anyone again. Unless it’s that other c-word that is not food-related. I reserve the right to keep using that one.
Comment of the day: I first heard of the Chalupa in 1996 when the registers at the local Taco Bell started displaying the message “Try our new Chalupa!” The problem is that my local Taco Bell didn’t start selling Chalupas until 1999. So for three years I was left to wonder, “What the eff is a Chalupa?” Every month I would ask the manager. Every month he would solemnly shake his head and say “I don’t know, son. I just don’t know.”
Then in 1999 my girlfriend went to the bathroom for like a half-hour and right when I started to get really worried she came back out. With a Chalupa. I was like “What the hell is that?” and she was like “It’s a Chalupa.” and I was all “What the fuck is a Chalupa, and how did you get one in the bathroom?!”
It turns out that there was an outside door in the bathroom and she had just gone to Taco Bell, but I’ll never forget her Bathroom Chalupa. ~ Adam Jones