It is annoying that work is getting in the way of blogging, as I am almost constantly offering myself a running commentary on life in my head, with the intention of typing it all and putting it up here.  Resident Assistant training season is gearing up again, though, and I am busily preparing for my tenth year in the mouth of its madness.  So alas, much of the running commentary I must keep in my head.

This is probably better anyway.

This past weekend, Peter and I took a brief respite from work and dorm life to see our goddaughter get baptized.  The baby is sweet and so chubby and amazing and WHY DO I LIVE IN A DIFFERENT STATE?  Anyway, because Peter and I are cheap, we took the bus from Boston to the middle of Pennsylvania, which made for 24 hours of our four day visit being taken up by bus riding.  This, in itself, is fine.  I have a high tolerance for pain and for people (see:  residence life).  There is one thing, however, one scourge on the back of every public transport trip, that I can not stand.  Something I hate. 

Buses always stop at Roy Rogers.  The most wretched fast food restaurant ever.  Nothing good can come out of a Roy Rogers.

I was told once that bus drivers stop at Roy Rogers because they get free food and some sort of kickback.  I don’t know if this is true.  But if it is, at least then I can understand why they would stop there and why Roy Rogers restaurants are allowed to continue to exist.  Against my better judgment, I got a hamburger (I use this term loosely) and a milkshake.  I ate said hamburger, longing for the microwavable white castle burgers that these burgers distant superior.  And the milkshake?  Peter didn’t even like it.  Peter.  The man who will, if left to his own devices, subsist on nothing but month-old ice cream for weeks on end. 

“This is a Roy Rogers milkshake,” I said.
“This is terrible!” Said Peter, after taking a big sip.
“Uh, yeah.  I just said that.” I rolled my eyes at the fact that he simply doesn’t listen.

Once again I have learned that I should not give Roy another chance.  Because he will just slap me around again and make me queasy.  There is no changing him.

There is a bright spot on the culinary front, however.  Today the cafeteria at my new institution of employment opened, as did my meal plan.  Oh, glorious, pre-prepared food, how I had forgotten thy sweet nectar.  Out of self preservation, I forgot that sandwiches made by the hands of another taste better.  I had forgotten that French fries could be served every midday.  But lo, today you returned unto me with French onion soup in thyme broth, chicken nuggets and spinach penne.  I love you, school cafeteria.  Forgive me for taking you for granted those many years ago.

I have taken to writing haiku to mark these moments:

Loathsome Roy Rogers,
your food made from squeasel meat-
Why don’t you just close?

Cafeteria
Oh, I love your silver trays
How they shine like stars!

Yup.  That pretty much sums up the last few weeks.  Bon appetite!