I’ll admit it—yours truly is truly frugal. When it comes to a grocery run, nothing says fiscally responsible like a saunter through the 99-Cent Store supermarket section. Granted, everything is on the verge of edible expiration, but Dateline tells me those dates are little more than a suggestion. My rule of thumb when thumbing through bargain bin fruit? “If it ain’t soggy and brown, I’ll choke it down!”
That said, occasionally I do find myself out and about with an emergency need to feed, and exceptions to my one-buck budget must be made. Thus was the case last Wednesday night when I met a blind date at Marix for dinner. Horrors of all horrors, I found myself on the corner of Flores and Santa Monica without my trusty low-carb tortillas in my Louis Vuitton man-purse!
Let me explain: When dining out Mexi-style, I sneak my own high-fiber tortillas south-of-the-border. With all the taste and none of the carbs, can you blame me? Granted, it might be creepy on a first date, but pride is around the corner and my waistline can’t handle a splurge! If we’re being honest, I’d met this guy through the “where gays go- to die” online wasteland otherwise known as Craigslist. His ad was entitled “Smother and Cover my Burrito,” so needless to say, appearing to be a classy queer was a non-issue.
But back to the edible issue at hand—my tortillas! Where to go? What to do? I found salvation via the bright lights of Gelsons. Overpriced and far too fancy for my economically prudent tastes, I’d never been in the store, but I wasn’t going into this hot mess of a potential hookup without my metaphoric burrito double-wrapped!
Here’s where the real gossip begins, because it’s here I encountered my top-of-the-list number one celebrity crush! Before me in the frozen food aisle stood a blond-haired, blue-eyed bubble butt that has long set my small screen on fire with each and every one of his shirtless, six-packed scenes. Watching him sift through microwaveable dinners, every ounce of my ever-hardening self wanted to fall down on one knee and beg for his well-manicured hand in homosexual marriage—until the praying mantis that he referred to as his girlfriend stumbled over.
With knees for elbows and elbows for knees, she was a sickly stick of a woman with bleached blonde hair that would make a flatiron cry and a pitchy voice to make dogs howl. I never thought it possible, but immediately I lost interest in my former number one, for if he could fall asleep next to that double-X-chromosome mess, surely he’s clinically insane. I’m through dating men like that!
Flash forward five minutes. Low-carb tortillas in hand, I’m attempting to check out but there is only one lane open. Lo and behold, standing in said solitary line is Mr. Celebrity and The Stick. With a full cart of groceries, I wait (and wait and wait) for the checker to scan while they stand there hand-in-hand.
The total? $238. Mr. Celebrity’s credit card? Declined once, then again, then again, then again—and then they bolted from the store, leaving the checker with over 15 bags of unpaid groceries! Never before have I been more horrified by a bubble-butted man!
Until, that is, I met up with my far too nipped and tucked, Botox-riddled blind date at Marix, who spent the next two-hours explaining to me why he had Kim Kardashian tattooed on his bicep.