I enjoyed another action-packed week. Indeed, I ate Cheetos and weedeated. (Or is it weedate?)
Regardless, prior to last week, I had not eaten a Cheeto since I was 16 years old. As I am a tad older than 16, let’s just say that was a few years ago.
Although I’m not blessed with an award-worthy memory, I can recall snippets of that day. Specifically, I can recall stopping by my homeroom at lunch and sharing a bag of Cheetos with friends.
And I definitely remember waking up the next morning with a debilitating headache and making Cheetos-flavored sick in the bathroom.
The funny thing about making sick, well, at least for me, is that I tend to avoid food after it has taken a round trip through my upper digestive system. Those of you who are a certain age will probably remember those TV dinners that were packaged in aluminum containers and featured cubed carrots, among other “food.” I quit eating those when I was 8 years old. It is no coincidence that I consumed my last old-school TV dinner the same night I experience my first migraine.
So, why did I tempt fate and eat Cheetos?
As I’ve mentioned before, I splurge on lunch size packs of chips. Since it’s dern-near impossible to find the large bag of plain Lay’s that includes the aforementioned lunch size packs, I’ve turned to the variety packs for my chip fix. (What do you expect me to do? Waste the accompanying bags of Cheetos?)
Still, it was with much trepidation that I sampled a Cheeto for the first time in a few years. I shan’t have worried. It was delicious. So much so that I ate several Cheetos.
It the Cheetos hadn’t supplied me with enough excitement, I decided to weedeat. I had dern-near finished when the weedeater ran out of string. If this had happened early in the chore, I would have put away the weedeater and returned to the yard at a later time. (What’s that? You’re wondering why I didn’t simply change the string? Oh, it’s cute that you think I possess the skills to change weedeater string, but I depend on the kindness of others when the apparatus requires new string.)
Anyway, as it were, all that remained to be weedeated – or is it weedate? — was one smallish-sized patch. I immediately decided to retrieve my garden shears and finish the job. But then I remembered that I lent the shears to my sister. I was, however, in possession of my hedge trimmers.
So, I retrieved the power tool, plugged it into the outlet, crouched in the yard, and cut that grass. It got the job done, too. I would have celebrated by cracking open a bag of Cheetos. But those bags of deliciously-messy chips were long gone.
This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.