Sunny-Side Up Your Ass

Let me take you back. To a particular day in my life that I’m not very proud of. A moment where I let life get the best of me.

It was a Wednesday. I remember because I woke up in the morning particularly pissed that it was a Wednesday. What a shit day, Wednesday; who does Wednesday think it is, right in the middle of the week like that? Right in the way of my weekend plans. Mondays get the bad reputation, but Wednesdays are the true enemy in my eyes. Why? Because if you have a bad day on a Monday, everyone accepts it as, “poor thing, she’s having a bad day; it’s Monday!” But if you’re having a bad day on a Wednesday, you’re fucked. “Get it together,” they’ll say, “It’s Hump Day!”

Well fuck your Hump Day! There’s nothing worth celebrating about two days keeping me from my weekend. And don’t you get me started on Tuesdays! But I digress.

Right, back to the story.

It was a Wednesday. 2010. Late July. One of those disgustingly humid days when you sweat behind your knees and leave perfectly embarrassing imprints of your ass sweat on every surface you sit on. It was such a hot, muggy day and I couldn’t be bothered to eat, mostly because it would use too much of my energy to cook. And cooking implied heat, and heat implied more sweat. I wasn’t interested. I let most of the day pass surviving only on ice pops and my anger which was slowly reaching a boiling point.

There was a marathon of Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern on the Travel Channel. Perfect. My day was sorted. If you’ve ever seen it, you’ll know how remarkably interesting yet infuriating it is. The concept of the show is lovely: white American male travels the world and tries bizarre foods. What’s not to like, right? I’ll fucking tell you.

It’s not the foods that are frustrating or disgusting. The foods are interesting. It’s how good ole Andy insultingly describes the taste of said foods, in front of the people who just slaved over a hot stove making him beloved family recipes. I recall one episode in particular when he described a dish as tasting like “city park benches and dirty sidewalk curbs.” Excuse me, what? “It has that delicious moldy vomit taste.” Park benches and moldy vomit? We all know what kind of guy Andy must have been in college.

But I couldn’t look away. I kept watching the show. But it pissed me off with each passing second. It was creating a rage monster inside that not even a sewer could hold.

My tummy started to growl. Maybe it was the heat talking, but the disgusting descriptions were beginning to sound almost appealing. The ice pops weren’t holding me. It was time to make real food.

I looked in the pantry. Oatmeal? Nah. Soup? Definitely not. I moved to the fridge. Eggs. Yeah, why not. Easy enough, quick, and I love a good egg with the runny yolk. Over-easy.

Over-easy eggs always give me a hard time. No matter how hard I try to be gentle, I always seem to crack the yolk, making a yellow mess in the pan and not on my plate.

I heated the pan. I cracked the first egg. Beautiful crack. I cracked the second egg. Brilliant. I wait and then at the perfect moment, I execute the most impressive and satisfying double-egg flip one could ever imagine. This Wednesday was looking up.

Or so I thought.

I plated my food, set the plate on the table, and sprinted to the bathroom. I had to cook with my legs crossed because those ice pops went right through me.

I sat down on the toilet and let out a delightful No. 1. I glanced up at the toilet roll to see that my brother didn’t replace the paper. No worries, we usually keep a spare in the top drawer under the sink. I checked. No luck. Annoyed, I waddled with my pants around my ankles to the other bathroom down the hall. Attractive image, I know.

While I was washing my hands, I heard my dad walk through the front door. I didn’t think anything of it. I fiddled with my hair in the mirror, forcing my then curly hair into a braid and out of my face in this painfully hot weather.

I started towards the kitchen. I heard the clinking of silverware. No! I ran to the kitchen only to find my dad eating my eggs. MY eggs. My perfectly flipped eggs. I nearly lost it. At that point, steam must have been shooting out of my ears and nose and every cavity of my body.

My dad looked so pleased that I made eggs for him. “Thank you, Victoria! I wasn’t expecting to have lunch waiting for me!” Sweet, clueless man. He didn’t deserve my wrath, he didn’t know any better. So I kept it in.

I said to myself

No big deal, Victoria. Just make more eggs! Really, it’s no big deal. No harm done.

I was right.

I hate when I’m right.

I headed to the fridge and grabbed the carton of eggs. I opened it to see only one lone egg left.

ONE EGG? I’M BASICALLY STARVED TO DEATH! LOOK AT ME! I’M WITHERING AWAY TO NOTHING! ONE EGG? I thought to myself. Woah. Cool it. One egg is fine. Honestly, who did I think I was making two eggs in the first place? One egg is more than enough. 

I was right.

I hate when I’m right.

Like before, I heated up pan. I cracked the egg. The very last egg. The egg dropped into the pan and, FUCKING YOLK EVERYWHERE.

I BROKE IT.

THE LAST EGG.

I WAS WRONG.

I FUCKING HATE WHEN I’M WRONG.

Pissed off, I threw the pan into the sink and stormed off to my room. Behind me I heard my clueless dad say, “hey, next time can you make my eggs sunny-side up instead?”

Fucking Wednesdays.

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