(Quick catchup for those of you late to the party -- I quit smoking 1/1/09.)
On the armrest of my titty-pink Escort is a little rectangular depression. I think it may be there to keep change for tolls in, but it's just the right size and shape for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
So, of COURSE I named it the Fag Hole. It has been the Fag Hole for eight years now. So my decision to quit smoking presented me with a dilemma -- what do I call the Fag Hole when it no longer functions as a Fag Hole?
Today, I'm eating yet another salad at the Country Cottage. With the salad comes twelve crackers, two to a package. But there's a problem. Crackers don't go with salad; crackers go with soup. I think it's in the Bible. You can look it up.
I still had four packages of crackers sitting on my dashboard from the LAST salad I ate there.
And OBVIOUSLY I couldn't just let the waitress throw the crackers away unused.
So I took them with me when we left.
When I got to the car, I tossed the crackers on the dashboard. They went everywhere. And I mean EVERYWHERE. I'm pretty sure that if you looked in, say, the sands of Zanzibar or in Paula Poundstone's buttcrack, you'd find some of my crackers there. I gathered them all back up.
That was when I discovered that if I stood the crackers on their side and put them in crossways instead of lengthwise, there was just enough room for all ten packages in the Fag Hole.
And that, boys and girls, is the story of how the Fag Hole became the Cracker Hole.