A Dingo Ate My Bagel



I never met a pastry, I did not like. And as a result, I spent most of my 20s as a pastry whore. It’s not something I’m proud of, but unfortunately it’s my cross to bear.

Thankfully, a few years ago my overbearing concerned mother took notice and staged a pastry intervention. She was brief and straight to the point as most Southern women are. “Your ass is spreading” she snipped. “If you keep eating those bear claws people are gonna think I had twins.” Mother-1 Bear claws – 0.

As much as I hated to admit at the time, she was on to something. My sweet little ass wasn’t looking to sweet and in an effort to combat “ass spreading” I went on the defensive.  

Step 1 – contact dealer trainer

Step 2 – buy Aderol sessions.

Twelve weeks later thanks to gym nazi errr Lancelot, my trainer, I was in possibly the best shape of my life. Like, didyouhaveworkdone – shape. I traded in twenty five pounds of fat for muscle. That was two years ago.

Cut to present day – Specifically this morning. 8AM.

One of the perks of working for yourself is that you dictate the office snack pool. What I say goes. And I say Tuesday is Bagel day – damn it. Bagels are the new black. I love them all, but my absolute favorites are the berry-palozzas, rockin’ rye and there’s ye ole faithful open sesame.

I did the troops a solid and picked up a box of assorted goodness and cream cheeses and showcased them in our kitchen under the track lighting. I even put a little note next to the box that said “Eat Me.” I grabbed a berry palozza for myself and slathered on a glob portion controlled serving of cream cheese. Carefully coating every orifice, I was sure to wipe the excess in a sweeping motion.   Dirty bagel. You like that don’t you?  I’d had a wetty for this bagel since the last time we’d met and it was time for it to return the favor. Seriously, I actually dreamt that we hooked up in a seedy waffle house under the bridge.  And it was amazing – the flavors exploding in your mouth … massaging your palette … taunting you … leaving you wanting more with every bite. Yes, I fantasize about food occassionally (don’t judge me). And the best part, no surprise baby bagels four weeks later. Just a quick dirty romp at my desk. Wham-Bam-Thank you Bagel! I couldn’t wait reconnect with my not so guilty pleasure.

Tap.Tap.Tap. I knew who it was before I rose from my chair. Reverend. The good reverend, is a college friend of my suite mate and ordained online minister. He’s a brilliant man, and yet he’s how can I say this without being offensive … bat.shit.crazy. This is a man who screamed “I’M NOT YOUR HOE!” at a deaf mute homeless man that asked him for money via an impressive liturgical mime. Who does that? Not only could he not hear you, but he’s homeless. And a deaf mute. I honestly think he may have an extra chromosome. Reverend is always in the midst of a “life and death situation.” Always. He also bears a striking resemblance to a dingo with his unusually long head and beady eyes. On the plus side, he’s an excellent dresser and always smells like mac and cheese, which I find rather comforting. Still- he’s insane and I’ve found the best way to deal with him is not to deal with him at all.

“Jazz hands!” he says coming in for hug. “Jazz hands” is his nickname for me and I honestly have no idea about the origins of this- whatsoever. “Jazz hands I’m in the midst of life and death situation over here – what do you know about waffle irons?” What do any of us know about waffle irons? They make waffles. “They make waffles” I said trekking back to my office. “Well let me ask you this … blah blah bla bla … blah –” he goes on to say more about it which I tuned out. “Awesome” I say. “Listen, I’ve got a conference call, but help yourself to a bagel.” Famous last words.

Our office turns into the set of “The Real Housewives” in the morning so I opted to take my call in a safe place, the conference room. I grabbed a note pad and a bottle of water and sequestered myself for the next 30 minutes. I returned to my office, which reeked of mac and cheese and bat shit craziness where I observed the following:

  • A million little remnants of what I assumed was my bagel
  • A crumpled blue napkin
  • A Sticky note with a drawing of what looked like a cat/rabbit holding a top hat ?!?

Of course he was long gone by the time I discovered what happened. But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out … A dingo ate my bagel!






About The.Pretty.One

"I will never be the woman with the perfect hair, who can wear white and not spill on it.” - Carry Bradshaw The Pretty One is the youngest daughter of a former 70s pageant queen and her first husband, a wealthy financier. A former debutante and southern belle, this Steel Magnolia is anything but. A visionary, she is the owner and creative mind behind a successful boutique communications and event firm. But what I really want to do is dance ... and blog.
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