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I Will Have A Rotisserie Chicken And OhmyGodyoureallyneedtoshave.

It was damn hot today.

The kind of hot that makes you regret you saw clouds in the morning and foolishly put on denim.

The kind of hot that makes your black steering wheel feel like you thrust your hands into hot molten lava.

The kind of hot that makes you gasp when you step outside of an air conditioned building.

The kind of hot that makes you mumble expletives every time some joker asks "Hot enough for ya? Heh heh heh"

The kind of... well... you get the point.

I knew the loft would be a mere 3 degrees cooler than the surface of the sun so I opted to stop in at the deli for dinner tonight.

I walked in eyeing the rotisserie rolling with golden amber birds. Perfect. A nice little roasting hen, some fresh slaw, a juicy slab of watermelon and a lovely lemon drop or two would make the perfect dinner.

So I approach the counter to request my bird and Holy Moses, Counter Girl had a mustache.

Not just a hint or a few stray hairs. We're talking full-on pubescent-boys-all-over-the-world-would-be-jealous moustache.

I hate it when something like that happens. I mean, you lose all focus of where you are supposed to look. I am a "look you in the eye" type person but my gaze kept averting itself to her facial hair. It's like when someone has a large pimple on their face and you know they are trying to hide it but you can't help but stare at the monstrosity and they know you are trying to pretend you don't see it but you just can't help but focus on the large red dot on the tip of their nose.

Only, I don't think Counter Girl cared so much. She clearly was not trying to hide the moustache and clearly did not care that people could see said 'stache.

Now, being a Whore of Mediterranean/Middle Eastern descent, I am all about understanding the problems that women of my heritage face when it comes to excess hair. But I am also all about understanding that there are products on the market to make sure that Jane Doe does not walk around being mistaken for John Doe.

I know I should not judge. (Though I freely do on a daily basis) I mean, maybe she liked the facial hair thing. Maybe it didn't bother her in the least. Maybe she was proud of ... Oh, Hell... she had a damn moustache, who can like that?!

After what seemed like an eternity of me staring at her moustache, I finally said, "I Will Have A Rotisserie Chicken",and then mumbled, "And OhmyGodyoureallyneedtoshave."

"You would like a chicken and what?",She asked.

"Oh, uh, I just said 'oh my God to work in this heat you must be really brave.'"

"Yeah, is it hot enough for ya? Heh heh heh."

I am totally going to mail her an anonymous package of hot wax and razors.

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Posted by Foodwhore at June 8, 2004 09:20 PM