Really? You’re Writing About a Salad? Yes. Yes I Am.

In an effort to post something every week, sometimes I have to write about stupid stuff. Like, really stupid stuff. This is one of those times.

Life is mostly made up of mundane events. Grocery shopping, commuting, balancing the checkbook…

...belly dancing on a bearskin rug. You know, boring stuff like that.

Let’s take lunch. More importantly, my lunch. Like most annoyingly healthy people (and by people I mean women, of course), I eat a salad for lunch. Not some limp little iceberg lettuce crap, either. It’s a beautiful concoction of spinach, topped with chicken, tuna or turkey. It’s then delightfully sprinkled with feta cheese and blue cheese. Lastly, it’s piled with peppers, peas, broccoli, carrots, tomatoes, cucumbers, and sunflower seeds. Other than my morning coffee, it is the highlight of my day.

Look at it. LOOK AT IT.

But the most important part of my salad is the dressing. Lately I’ve switched from the delicious yet highly fattening Caesar to the equally delicious (seriously) fat-free Italian.

But then…something happened. One day this week I happily made my mountainous pile of yumminess and poured on the dressing…or what I thought was my dressing.  Unaware of anything amiss, I sat down and took a huge bite.

Little does she know the frosting is made of puppies.

I didn’t spit it out because I’m 35. And I was in public. At work. (And I think you can probably figure out the last thing was the real reason I didn’t spit it out.) Some horrible monster had mislabeled the dressings and I had doused my salad with…mango chardonnay dressing.

And if you’re saying, “Hmm, that actually sounds good,” you are probably a scarecrow on his way to Oz. Yes, it sounds good…over ice. How about next time you have a salad, pour a wine cooler over it and see how good it is.

It tasted like this guy's breath. Probably.

I ate it, because I paid for it and I was hungry, but I didn’t enjoy it. At. All.

The next day I didn’t want to make the same mistake. I read the label carefully and harrumphed. “Fat Free Italian, eh?” So you claim. I ladled up, but before I dumped it all over my precious, precious salad, I held that sucker right up to my nose and took a big sniff. Mmmm. Italian deliciousness.

It's the Fabio of dressings.

Oh, and by the way, there was someone behind me waiting their turn who totally saw me sniff a ladle full of dressing.  Judge me all you want, Guy Crinkling His Nose in Disgust. I sniff because I care. 

P.S. Today when I went to get my dressing, it was mislabeled again. (Luckily, I have learned to recognize my dressing by sight as well as smell so I wasn’t bamboozled again.) What  evil mastermind could possibly be responsible for this? How high up does this thing go?

I'm guessing this high. AT LEAST.