Ugly Cakes - Reviewing their Snickerdoodles.

By now you know I'm a jerk.
If you've ever gone out to eat with me, you REALLY know I'm a jerk.
Especially when it comes to food. I'll eat anything, but I'll whine and complain about the sauce being wrong or something most of the time. I'm a man of discerning tastes, people. A snooty, snobby Foodie.

Figured I'd review something edible. So I messaged Ugly Cakes for an order.

Two days later the sky parted, and an angel landed. I think her name was Lindi or something, doesn't matter, what matters is, she brought Snickerdoodles. Ugly Cakes is a local venture, brand new, consisting of Cindy the Baker and her daughters.

Though I've enjoyed some of Cindy's baking before, years ago, she's since taken it much more seriously. I had to know if this was for real.

I handed the angel a twenty. She took it with a gracious bow, then flew away on a unicorn leaving me and the Snickerdoodles together at last.

I held them close, looking over both shoulders, and ran up to my apartment.
With the door locked, and the blinds closed, it's just me and these cookies now.

Sure I've done well lately, losing 18 pounds by eating healthier.
But clearly, little things like being attractive and living longer mean NOTHING when I smell these cookies.
I'm so entranced by the scent, so thoroughly seduced by this bag of sin, that I nearly missed the adorable packaging. I was going to expand more on this, but I can't take it anymore. I need a Snickerdoodle in me right now.

Ripping open one of the bags, it seems Ugly has blessed me with a number of generous extras. I ordered a dozen, but got somewhere between 16 and 18. (In hindsight, I'm not certain of the original number, because I ate them too quickly to stop and think.)

Unwrapping the first Snickerdoodle, it sits heavily in my hand. It's big, it's round, it's soft. Bits of warm cinnamon and sugar smile with tiny bursts of light. The cookie seems to beat in my hand, as if it has a tiny heart that loves me.

I take a bite.
My entire body shivers. The room brightens for a moment.
There's nothing like this in a store or restaurant anywhere.
These weren't just baked. These were meticulously created... by someone who probably has superpowers.

This wasn't just eating a cookie, it was living an experience. An event everyone should have in their life at least once. Like the first time being stoned, or the first time making love.

But we're on a diet. Each one of these surely has more calories than a normal person needs.
Shut up brain, you don't know what happiness is.
But I do. I've found it. I've found happiness, and I have 14 fleeting moments of it left.

Now 13.
Now 12.
Now 11...

The Angry Barber

I’m walking out of Safeway, had to made a quick deposit at the Wells Fargo. In the window’s reflection, I notice I look terrible.

Figure I’ll get a hair cut. That should fix it.

So I walk into the Great Clips next door. Why Great Clips? Because I’m a guy and who cares.

I’ve been to this place before, I remember the slender young barber up front. She’s got the same long auburn hair, same vivacious personality. She’s warm and inviting, like every day is the greatest day to be alive, and cutting hair is freaking awesome. She did a great job last time, too. But she has a customer at the moment, the only other one in the shop. I’m moving forward to greet her when a low voice greets me instead, from far away.

“Velcome. Vhat ees phone number.”

The voice's source appears from behind a divider, this woman is old. Very old, with ghostly white hair and a Nazi’s cold glare.

I tell her my phone number.

“Thees way,” she says to no one in particular.

I follow her, figuring this lady is just as good as the young girl. They’re both professionals, right? How could I lose? Sure this one’s not nearly as pleasant to be around, but hair is hair. I’ll be fine.

She picks a seat on the opposite end of the room, as far away as possible from her bubbly coworker.
I sit in the chair and she wraps the haircut apron thing around my neck too tightly.

“All right well I’d like a-“

“I see the vay you look at her,” she cuts me off, in an angry whisper.

Her voice was deep and foreign, a thick accent somewhere between French and Russian. Think Natasha from Rocky & Bullwinkle, with a tinge of feminine Dracula. Her face shows long hours, from a job or a lifestyle of disappointments.

“What? Who?”

“You vanted her, deedn’t you? The young girl. The preety von. I see the vay you look at her. But no. You get me. You get me and you hate eet.”

“I don’t, what no, no! I-"

She grabs my hair tightly with both hands, and pulls my head in close from behind.
I freeze, gripping the chair hard under the apron. We watch each other in the mirror.

“Every day ees the same theeng. They vant her, they ask for her. They like her.”

“Hey listen I’m sorry I-"

“Shh, shh. Don’t speak. I know vhat you vant,” she whispers into my ear.

I watch her boney fingers, the kind of fingers that enjoy long skinny cigarettes held in an even longer skinnier cigarette holder. She weaves them through my hair, closing her eyes.

Then leans in and smells my head. Yes, she smelled my head.

“Hmm. Yes. Your hair. Eets so theeck. Mmm. I saw eet and I knew vhat eet needed.”

“You what?”

“Shh, shh. Quiet.”

She massages my hair some more, so I just sit there.

The phone rings, interrupting her moment.

“Don’t. Move.” She says to the mirror.

I don’t move an inch. Just swallow, wide-eyed, in the mirror.

I wish I was in the young girl’s chair. Where the light is. Where it’s safe and happy.
Where I am, it’s dark, far away, vulnerable, lonely and scary.

Dracula lady returns, this time with scissors in her hand. She starts cutting my hair.
Okay, we’re gonna be fine. I’ll just let this lady do whatever she wants and everything will be f-

“So… are you seengle or?”

“Uh, yeah. Starting to regret that now bu-"

“Shh, shh. Yes. Good. Don’t be stupeed like her and get married so young.”

“Oh I’m not single on purpose or anything I-"

“Shh, shh. No. Stay seengle. You are vhat, een your early thirties?”

“Actually I’m twent-"

“Shh, shh. You talk too much. You are perfect age. Yes,” she rubs my hair some more with her eyes closed, “You are perfect age. Still handsome. But your eyes. They’re… so much older.”

“Wha-“

“Shh, shh.”

She cuts my hair some more, but the pace is quickening. I listen to her breathing speed up, her face twists into a grimace. Snip snip snip snipsnipsnipsnip!

There was hair all over my face, so she blew on it. It wasn’t a cool breeze, this blowing, no, it was a sloppy wet speckling of cranberry-flavored spittle.

Now there’s spit on my face, and falling hair is gluing itself to it.

We both overhear the distant chatter from the other barber, who’s laughing and joyously telling her equally chatty customer about her wedding plans.
Each word from the sunny coworker seems to burn Dracula lady. Like holy water on a demon, it irritates her somewhere deep inside.

There’s no apparent planning in her snipping anymore, there’s clearly rage in each snip now. Her gaze is somewhere else, angry, frustrated. Chunks of my hair are flying, and my scalp has been jabbed a couple times with the scissor tips.

I have to do something. I have to fix this. Don’t just agree with her sadness, that could be too obvious, too patronizing. She’s old, she’ll smell bullshit. No, be sincere. Challenge her, but in a loving way. I grip my chair even tighter.

“Hey… hey… it’s going to be all right,” I say to the mirror, as if she’s holding not scissors, but a gun.

She stops cutting, and our eyes meet again in the mirror.

“Let’s. Let’s uh, let’s talk about you. Something seems to be bothering you. Tell me about it.”

She bites her lip, her eyes glossy.

“It’s all right. You’ve had a long day. Go ahe-“

“No von understands. My husband, he’s worthless. Thees… thees life. Eet’s meaningless. I should be free, I should be young again. I’ve wasted my chance. Don’t waste your chance,” she whispers harshly.

“It’s never a waste.”

“Yes eet ees. Eet’s a… eet’s not how eet was supposed to be!”

“However it happened, that’s how it was supposed to be. That’s the only way it could have been.”

“You’re wrong!” she crosses her arms.

Silence in the room. Apparently the other couple heard that last bit.
We watch each other in the mirror for a moment, waiting for the others to resume chatting.
When they finally do,
“Are you sure? You can’t always change things. Change the way you look at them instead,” I whisper, "You'll be okay, I promise."

“…No. No I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore,” she says, barely audible.

The air thickens, tense and cold. I let it hang us both for a moment, then

“Hey, I don’t know if you noticed, but my head looks like sheet.”

She laughs, hard.

“Oh my, eet does. Oh my boy. You don’t need haircut anyway. Your hair ees handsome.”

Half my head is still long, the other half missing chunks here and there.

“You wanna just buzz it off at this point?”

“Okay I buzz.”

She buzzes my head, calmly this time.

“So. You come back, two weeks?”

“I think I’m gonna. Gonna grow my hair out, actually. Starting right now. Think I’m gonna yeah grow it out.”

“Eef you change mind, you come back to me?”

“Sure.”
She smiles, and tenderly towels away all the hair on my face and neck.

She rings me up, I tip her $5. She smiles and waves to me as I leave.

This is what happens when you try to save a buck on a haircut.

Pictures and a Bit from my Standup!

Got some cell phone pics from an audience member. Since there was no video or sound recording, here's the bit that was photographed. This was a younger crowd, college aged. Especially the type that likes to go to clubs and hump on strangers. So I gave them what they deserved- humor catered just for them.

Andrew Gets Completely Worked Over.

I'm foggy, on my way to Lotus for a night shift, and darn it I'm out of smokes.
So I pull in to the Chevron right off Chaparral and the 101.

Head down, I walk towards the automatic doors and they open.

Whoa.

This gal is really pretty. Right in front of me.
I go to robot around her, like I didn't notice her, when

"Hey, have I seen you here before?"

I look behind me, then back at her "Who me?"

"Yes, you silly."

"Uh, I don't... I don't think so?"

She smiles some perfect teeth. She's just shorter than me, long dark hair, some mixture of Italian or Hispanic, I can't tell and I don't care.

"Yeah I remember you! You're cute," she bites her lip a little bit.

I glance around, making sure this isn't a hidden camera show.

"Ah- wow thanks. Yeah I uh, I come by here to uh, get cheap cigarettes sometimes."

My face grimaces at my own words, she giggles an angel's giggle.

"Oh you smoke?"

"Unfortunately."

"What kind?" she leans in.

"Camel lights."

"Oh me too! What's your name?"

"Andrew."

"I know a lot of Andrews, what's your last name, sweetie?"

"Uh, Centrella."

"I'm Elisa," she smiles and gives me a dainty handshake.

"Hey Elisa."

By now she's brought me off to the side, by a stack of sodas. Customers pass us going in and out of the store. Elisa is very close to me now, looking up at me, and she smells good. I see our reflection in the window behind her, I look terrible, further exaggerating how attractive she is.

"So... do you... live around here, Andrew?"

"Down the street, yup."

"Oh cool! But hey, I'm sorry, I know you were probably busy. I didn't mean to stop you," she says, nibbling her lip again. Her lashes seem to get longer with every blink of those big brown eyes.

"Oh yeah, I was on my way to work. It's okay though."

"What if I don't see you again?" she asks. I'm lost in her eyes at this point.

I stammer.

"I hope I don't sound too forward but... you think I can maybe get your phone number?" she asks.

"Sh-Sure!" my mouth says, then it tells her my phone number.

"Great. Thanks," she says flatly, pulling out a small clipboard from behind her.

She jots down everything she just learned about me, seems I'm one sucker of many.

I can't move. I can't believe it. I watch her hand me a coupon for Camels, saying something about something.
My hand takes the coupon, and I stare at it.

She laughs, clearly the victor.
I'm jolted back into life when her phone rings.

"Sup," she answers, her voice is different now, all business. She's looking passed me, as if I'm not there anymore.
"Yeah, I'm at 92 people so far. Cool, yeah, all right. Almost done. Pfft of course. Yeah okay see ya."

She returns to her post in front of the doors, waiting for another easy kill.

I don't even buy cigarettes. I just walk out.

The Epic Conclusion: Jack in the Box Part 3.

I’ve let myself marinate for five days without a salad, and alas, I’m too lazy to cook and the chub seems to be returning as a result.
Plus I need some cheap laughs, so I figure I’ll visit the circus at Jack in the Box one last time.

I’m hoping to see Lazy Eye and Samantha when I walk in, but none of the regulars are working tonight. Instead it’s empty behind the counter.
The dining room is quiet, no music. Only hidden sounds of food being made.

I hear the door open behind me, and the clang of a skateboard.

Holding it is a very slender teenage boy. He’s got a tiny Element t-shirt on, with skinny jeans barely clinging onto his little waist. His skater hat is also strategically askew in its placement on his head. The whole ensemble is a perfectly planned attempt at seeming careless.

A new face approaches from behind the counter- ‘Manny’ his nametag states.

“HeycanIhelpyou,” Manny tells the monitor screen.

I take a moment to drink in Manny. Manny is a mouth breather. His eyes are far away. At best, his mind is asleep while his body moves as a robot in routine.

I could order something Manny has heard of before, but instead I use the secret phrase that unlocks Entertainment Mode.

“Hi, I’d like a grilled chicken salad, please.”

“Grilled chicken sandwich you wanna combo.”

“Oh no fries with my salad, thank you.”

“We don’t make salads with fries.”

“I know.”

Manny stares. The skater kid stares. So I stare too.
Then I try again.

“I’d like a grilled chicken salad. The salad kind of salad, please.”

“Kay grilled er crispy.”

“Grilled for here.”

“Here er to go.”

“For here.”

I have the $6.20 ready for him so he doesn’t say the amount due.
Manny rings up my order, walks behind the metal wall, and reappears with a salad.

“Dang you guys are fast.”

Manny mouth-breathes, and puts a Southwest Crispy Chicken salad on the counter.

“Hey that was pretty close!” I say, happy.

Manny picks the salad back up and stares through it, then puts it under the counter, and goes back behind the metal wall again.

“Fuckin sucks. Hate that shit bro,” Skater offers.

“Oh it’s okay, I mean it only takes two se-“

“Here you go,” Manny cuts us both off with a new salad.

“Whoa! See? That was so fast!” I say to Skater, pointing at the new salad.

Skater stares. Manny mouth-breathes.

“Well done,” I tell them both with a firm nod.

I eat my salad, it’s just as I ordered it. Skater gets his burger and leaves.
I’m sitting at the first table by the entrance, halfway through my meal, when the door opens again.

The smell of very, very fresh marijuana wafts in with two college freshman boys.
They have huge smiles on their faces, one’s smaller, wearing a tank top and a sunburn. The other has curly hair and rosy cheeks.

“Hey guys!” I wave.

Tank Top hears my voice, checks the ceiling first, then the floor.

“I’m over here!” I tell him, three feet away.

“Oh hey man! What’s up? I’ve NEVER seen you before!”

“Whoa me neither!” Curly exclaims.

“I know, huh? The odds are like, one in seven billion that you’d ever meet me! It’s like you just won the lottery a hundred times,” I congratulate them.

Tank Top’s eyes widen, “Dude did you hear that,” he smacks Curly’s arm, “We just won the lottery!”
They both laugh too hard.

“Let’s buy whatever we want then!”

Now they're both trying to make sense of the menu behind Manny, who’s still mouth-breathing.

“Hey you know what you guys should get?” I ask from my table.

“What?” they both respond in unison, turning towards me.

“Salads.”

Manny’s mouth closes.

With paranoid eyes, the two stoners whisper to each other too loudly.

“I didn’t know they make salads here.”
“Me either.”
“What do we do?”
“I don’t know man. I don’t know.”
“Whoa when did we get here?”
“I don’t know man. I don’t know.”
“I say we try a salad. It could be cool, man.”
“Yeah plus we won the lottery. We should get a salad huh.”
“Yeah let’s get one. Well one for you and one for me.”
“Ok cool.”
“Cool.”

Manny’s gaze and mine battle a silent war in the background.

“Whoa wait. This is Taco Bell right?”
“Who’s that guy?”
“I think he works here.”
“Can he make salads? Does he know they make salads here?”
“I don’t know man. I don’t know.”

I stand up and join them.

“These gentlemen will have a grilled chicken salad a piece. On me.”

I hear giggles of relief from the boys.

Manny sighs, then robots the order into existence, and gives them both a salad within seconds.

“Whoa, thank you man!” Curly can't believe it.
Tank Top gives me a bro handshake.

“No problem, happy to help,” I tell them, laughing at their permanent grins.

Ah, youth.

I return to my seat and finish my salad, listening to the boys discuss what they’re going to buy with their lottery money.

Clearing my tray in the trashcan, I wave to them on my way out the door. They both grin back, overly satisfied with the food filling their cheeks.

Jack in the Box, Part 2. Oh, there's more to this!

I’ve never written a sequel before, but this Jack in the Box is a rabbit hole that goes so deep. And the situation so impossibly odd, I had to write it down the moment I got home. If anything, to make sure it really happened.

Refresh yourself with the previous post if you haven’t already.

Wow, all right. Here we go.
--
I remembered the salads being pretty decent, and it’s a much more normal time of night, around 9:30pm. So I figure at the very least, I won’t get the same ambiguously gendered person messing up my order. But just in case, this time I opt to walk inside. I figure the possibility for error is much smaller this way.

Letting myself inside Jack in the Box, the room is quiet. I’m the only one here again, with Rick Astley (ha, I know!) playing just audibly overhead.

Eventually I’m noticed by a small Hispanic man. He’s thin, with a mustache, and his front teeth seem to be a home repair job.
I breathe a sigh of relief. At least I know he’s a man.

“Hi. Hi. Can, can I help… yoosir.”

“Yes I’d like a grilled chicken salad.”

He nods, then stares at his computer. He’s lost, finger dangling over the monitor.

“Ensalada… ehh…ensalada…”
His brow ruffles.

“Oh and the nuclear launch codes.”

He nods again, and keeps staring at his computer.

“No, no Pedro. Don’t worry I’ll get this,” I hear a feminine and yet masculine voice say.

It appears from the left. That same it from before. It’s here. It’s working again. And it’s just me and it.

Fuck.

Pedro thanks his lucky stars, bows to it and me, smiles and returns to making food in the back.

“Sup,” it says.
Same spiked and buzzed hair. Same everything from before.

“Hey… uh. I’d like a grilled chicken salad please.”

“Crispy or grilled.”

“Grilled, for here.”

“For here or to go.”

“For here.”

“Okay six twenny,” it says, glancing toward the drive thru window.

My hand goes to reach for my wallet, but I stop it. I have to know. I have to know now.

“Listen. Hey, I’m sorry. I just. I just really need to know if you’re a guy or a girl.”

“What?”

“Actually. What’s your name?”

“Sam.”

Crap. I look at its shirt, it just says ‘Sam’.

“Oh okay cool. So uh. Samuel… Samantha…?”

“Sam.”

We stare at each other in silence. A duel, a standoff. If we were outside, surely a tumbleweed would have blown by.

“… It can’t be just Sam.”

It removes its headpiece, gives a nod to an unseen coworker in the back, and turns back to me.

“Why not? Dude, what does it matter if I’m a boy or a girl? What are you, a bigot?”

“Yes, and I need to put people into categories. Boy, girl, asian, rapist, war monger and so on.”

Sam scoffs at me, as I see a larger man approach from the side. He’s got a different colored shirt on; clearly he’s more powerful around here.

“Camera’s off,” he tells Sam, “We got a problem?”

Sam thumbs to me, “It’s that fuckin salad guy I was telling you about. He’s here and he’s being an asshole to me again.”

The supervisor nods with a stern grimace, then turns so he’s facing me.

“Oh! Wow…” escapes my mouth. I wasn’t expecting what I saw.

“Oh, so now you’re making fun of me too huh? Fuck’s your problem man? First you order salads, who the hell orders a salad here. Then you get off calling her names and laughing at me too, huh?”

I should have just apologized and left right there, but I didn’t. Instead, for some reason, that filter between my brain and my mouth completely vanished and this popped out:

“Well most the time when I see a lazy eye you know I gotta play that game where it’s like ‘okay pick an eye’ and I talk to that eye. But with you it’s like, shit man, one eye’s checking the back door and the other one is sizing me up. I mean I’ve seen my share of lazy eyes, but that one hasn’t worked a day in its life. That is the laziest lazy eye… I’ve ever seen. Lemme tell ya.”

That wasn’t the right thing to say.

His lip quivers, then he bites it. He’s angry now.

I make sure there’s enough distance to where he couldn’t lean forward and grab me over the counter.

“F…fffuck. You. Bro,” his lips overly enunciate each word. His good eye is wide open with rage.

“Okay I’ll make a deal with you two. Forget the salad. Forget salads for a while. Just tell me. What is that,” I point to Sam, “Is that a boy, or a girl.”

“Why does it even-” his hands turn to fists, but then he stops, “Sam’s a…a… Sam is… hmm.”

Now he’s confused. I’ve confused him. We’re both confused now, looking at Sam together.

“Sam es my seester!” Pedro yells from the back.

Me and the supervisor burst out laughing, as Pedro’s silly head pops out from behind the fryer with a huge smile.
Sam isn’t happy, which makes it even funnier.

“I knew it! Well I kinda did,” I holler, making the supervisor double over the counter. He’s laughing so hard, for a good minute or more.

“Oh man. Ohhh man,” supervisor wipes his eyes. “Dude I’ve wondered that for so long. So long, dude. You have no idea.”

“I hate all three of you!” Samantha says, crossing her arms and heading to the bathroom.

Me and supervisor laugh some more. Then finally, now apparently friends, supervisor puts his hand on the computer and asks me,

“All right. Whew. Okay. So what did you want?”

“A grilled chicken salad.”

“Crispy or grilled?”

“Grilled, to go.”

“Okay, for here or to go?”

“To go.”

“Okay six twenty.”

Big Mistake at Jack in the Box.

I’ve been sent on a mission for two salads, to a nearby Jack in the Box at 1:30am.
Certainly this should be easy.
Pulling in, there are only two employee cars in the lot, and none in the drive thru.
Perfect.

I move up to the order screen and wait a moment.

A small voice greets me “Hey man, whatchoo need.”

A bit colloquial, but it’s late, I’ll let it slide.

Then I make a huge request, too detailed, a big mistake.
“Good evening. I’d like a Club salad with crispy chicken, and a Southwest salad with grilled chicken.”

There’s a pause.

“Kay two grilled clubs. First window.”

“Oh I’m sorry, no it was one Club salad and one Southwest salad.”

“Crispy Southwest with a Club, kay. Twelve twenny, first window.”

“Are you… are you messing with me?”

“Drink with that?”

“No thanks.”

“Kay, window please.”

I don’t move. Wondering if this guy is trolling me, or stoned, or if this is what happens when you order salads from Jack in the Box.
They aren’t busy. If they were, I’d be okay with inaccuracy. But it’s just me.

“All right, let’s just start over, okay?”

No response.

“I want two different salads. The first salad, write this down, is a Club salad. Like all salads from here, it comes with the option of grilled or crispy chicken. This Club salad, check this out, will come with crispy chicken.”

“...One Club salad, okay first window.”

“Nope, there’s more to this. Okay stretch first. Here it comes. There’s also going to be a Southwest salad. This salad, holy shit, will have grilled chicken on it.”

There’s a full minute of silence. I wonder if the guy quit. I’m about to leave when
“Okay I think I got it.”

“All right, man. Well I’m coming up to your window.”

“Okay.”

I pull up. There’s no one in there. So I wait.
Finally, an ambiguously gendered Hispanic person appears.

It’s got spiked hair on top, shaved on the bottom. Heavy set, there could be boobs, but I’m not certain. They could be man boobs. Or gloriously restrained female ones. This person has a soft face, like a girl’s, but moves like a man. It’s got one faux diamond earring on the left ear.

“Sup,” it says to me. The voice is equally ambiguous.

“Hey.”

“Okay so what did you want?”

My right hand grabs a cigarette. I light it, take a long drag and stare back at him/her.

“A Club salad with crispy chicken. And a Southwest salad with… grilled chicken.”

“Oh, you sure?”

“Yeah I’m sure.”

“Aight one sec,” it tells me, then vanishes.

It left the window open, and I could hear what sounded like pots and pans being dropped. A fumbling hurry, with two voices arguing in Spanish.
He/she reappears with a bag.

“Aight. Twelve twenny.”

I hand my card over, wondering what’s in the bag. I do enjoy surprises.

She hands my card back with a forced smile. I think it’s a girl. Well, pretty sure it’s a girl.

Returning home, I’m excited to see what I got.
I got two salads that were opened and the chicken switched. The Club had grilled, and the Southwest had crispy. CLOSE ENOUGH!

And they were actually pretty tasty. :)