“Best Backpacking Meals—You Won’t Believe You Didn’t Think of This!”
Everyone I know is portioning out the ingredients for Mediterranean Pizza Flatbread and wrapping shit in damp paper towels so it’s fresh when they get to camp and piling up sticks for a makeshift dutch oven so they can make cinnamon rolls in the morning. Continue reading “Something smells fishy”
I am starry-eyed over the notion of buying in bulk; I can’t wait to get those peanut butter-filled pretzels home to weigh and repackage them. It’s my commitment to calorie density that led me to this startling revelation: I love Costco. I don’t want to love it; I am filled with existential dread at the thought that I’m just like everyone else, pushing my giant shopping cart (or, for a really big trip, a pallet—eek!) up and down the aisles of this monument to excess.
I hate shopping. I hate the mental gymnastics of figuring out how much I have in checking (this would be less problematic, I realize, if I were more responsible with money, but here we are). I hate trying on clothes in the harsh lighting of the tiny fitting room, which is perhaps why I’ve been wearing essentially the same three outfits for literally years (my wardrobe can be recombined in endless permutations, and by endless, I mean maybe like five). I really hate grocery shopping, because I resent that I should have to spend money on something so boring and basic, and also because I despise cooking, so it’s like salt in the wound. Shopping is the worst. Continue reading “In the land of giants”
When, at long last, I spotted the Colorado River from my perch atop the Poison Spider Mesa, I waxed poetic to my new friend about the singular pleasure of a Milt’s malt, and how I believed I was finally ready to take my relationship with Milt’s to the next level: Would I finally take the plunge and order tots AND onion rings?
In 1987, the New York Giants beat the Denver Broncos in Super Bowl XXI, and Giants quarterback Phil Simms kicked off what has become perhaps one of the best-known phrases in marketing history.
“I’m going to Disneyland!” he exclaimed.
Thanks to a tragically short attention span, I don’t really follow professional sports, and I’m certainly not one of those steel-trap folks who can tell you sport-trivia from decades before they were born. But this phrase rings true with me. Continue reading “Ode to a Cheeseburger”