Last week, our fridge was found barren and my housemates and I (okay, Judy and I. Thom hasn’t resurfaced from Diablo III quite yet) were frantic to find something to eat for dinner. Because I’m pretty much as good as it gets in terms of housewife-qualities, I decided on meatloaf because I knew wifey #2 had been craving it for months (insert crude joke about Judy not getting any meatloaf since Diablo III came out).
We raced to the grocery store, desperately clinging on to our integrity while grazing our way through Costco, and came home, high from the excitement of prospective meatloaf. The rush of adrenaline, combined with her cute, adorable, nubby fingers, caused Judy to drop an onion while getting out of the car and it rolled underneath, smack dab in the middle of the chassis. Deflated, we crouched down and stared at the onion longingly. Because I’m a lady, I asked Judy to “put a blanket on the Grand Canyon*” as I got on all fours and pleaded to my elbows to grow an extra 2 feet. They sent back a “Child, please. Have you heard of stretch marks? Have you seen your thighs? Why do you hate us?” memo.
I didn’t mean to do that to you, body. The fried chicken just has a siren call I can’t resist. Please forgive me.
Judy stared at me as I had this internal emotional break down. She asked if I was thinking about that scene where Dumbledore asks Snape “All this time?” to which he responds “Always.” I lied and said yes. As far as she knows, that’s the only thing that makes me cry on a regular basis. It’s not like I cry when I hear “Hey there Delilah” or anything. Anyways, Judy gave me a knowing nod and lightly tapped her heart with her fist, signaling that though she understands my pain, I need to get over my PMS moment and quit freaking out the nearby children whizzing around on their knockoff Razor scooters. We’ve seen Hunger Games. If those kids sense any sort of weakness, they’ll pounce on us faster than an Asian tourist whipping out their camera for a “foodie Instagram” photo.
All hope seemed lost. I couldn’t reach the onion. Trying to disguise my search for some Kleenex, I mutter something along the lines of “let me check to see if I started growing onions in the back of my car and forgot about it” and pop open the trunk. The clouds instantly parted and the sun shone down on my old lacrosse stick like a spotlight. (I dabbled in a bit of lacrosse when I was in college, no big deal.) It was as if the heavens were speaking to us, saying “Don’t give up. Your meatloaf needs onions.” I’m pretty convinced that all I had to do was stick out my hand and the lacrosse stick shot towards me like Mjölnir.
By the hammer of Thor, Judy and I had a delicious, onion-filled meatloaf.
And the rest is history.
You’d think after that lifechanging story, I’d reveal my level-8-secret meatloaf recipe.
Well, sorry to disappoint, but laughs and intensely sexy mental images of me playing lacrosse are all you’re going to get out of today’s post. Call me old fashioned, but I think something as ambiguously named as “meatloaf” needs to retain as much mystery as possible. Would you ask the lunch lady how she made Thursday’s mystery-meat-meatloaf? No. Of course you wouldn’t. Because you respect the fact that she went through the trouble of naming it mystery-meatloaf.
I may not be a lunch lady, but I do eat lunch, and I am (relatively) a lady. So I ask you to respect the meatloaf code. In turn, I will promise to thank you, my readers, one day when I’m giving my Oscars speech (which I will accept on behalf of my soon-to-be best friend Natalie Portman, who begged me to go to the “silly aw(k)ards ceremony in her place because she’d rather be in Africa simultaneously ending poverty and curing AIDS.”).
So the moral of the story is: keep a lacrosse stick in your trunk. You’ll save your wife from an onion-less meal, and it increases your chances of hooking up with a lacrosse boy by 378%.
Have you seen lacrosse boys?
I’ll leave you on that note.
*in case you’re typically the “last person to laugh at a joke,” “put a blanket on the grand canyon” refers to el crack de la ass.