I know, me apologizing. Shocking.
Fresh green beans sauteed in olive oil, fresh lemon juice, and a little sprinkle of salt is my contribution to the T-Day festivities tomorrow. Some years I make mushroom pie too, but I have diminishing expectations for the holidays this year, so the family will have to be content with the 500 other dishes on the buffet.
I went to Whole Foods early this AM, but it was already packed with power Moms and d-girls, which partially explains why, in the crush at the counter, things got weird.
After I got my three pounds of fresh green beans, I picked up a few other things that smelled good, including a bagette that was fresh from the oven. Steam rose in rosemary scented curls off the crunchy crust. How could I resist?
I didn't expect to buy so much, so I didn't have a basket. Everything was balanced precariously in my hands.
This is where the apology comes in.
Dear Sir in line in front of me at Whole Foods - I did not mean to sexually assault you with my bagette. It was an honest mistake. Of course, when I looked down and realized that it was pressing against your muy papi ass, which was plated up so nicely in those tight, faded jeans, I immediately pulled it away. As my face reached approximately the temperature of the sun, I mumbled an apology that probably sounded more like a really bad pick up line than a heartfelt mea culpa. So I'm sorry. Truly, deeply sorry.
Signed - the women wearing the black t-shirt and red face, who was holding an impressively long, thick, hot bagette.
BTW - how long was that thing rubbing your prostate before I noticed? I'm wondering, because you didn't say a word. Nor did you move. Nor did you glance back at me. Just sayin'.