Save the Rainforests. But don't eat in them.

Of all the reality shows, I’m pretty sure I could never be on Survivor. Real World? Sure, if I hadn’t already aged out. Laguna Beach? Definitely, if I had plastic surgery. The Apprentice? I’ve got more business sense than Martha and Donald’s candidates put together. But Survivor? No way. Why? Because of the obscene lack of food, of course.

I require food about every three hours, if not more. No, I’m not pulling an Eva Longoria “I eat pizza all day long and then for dinner I stuff my face with hot dogs but I’m still so skinny.” It’s not like that. I can’t eat crap every three hours. I just need to eat something.

What happens if I don’t eat? Oh, it’s not pretty. Let me take you back to sometime in the year 2000. It was a weeknight. (Let’s say Wednesday. I always hate Wednesdays. Oh, great. Today is Wednesday.) Frank and I went to Grapevine Mills mall to look for some shoes for him. I was hungry so I kept asking when we could eat. I could feel my blood sugar lowering and I started to become irritable: “Those shoes are ugly!” I snapped.

Finally, we decide to go to the Rainforest Café which is in the mall. We have to wait for a table which I’m not pleased about. On a Wednesday night? It’s a school night!

Have you been to this place, the Rainforest Café? It’s dreadful. And I told Frank this that very night after we finally got a table around 9pm. “Look at these prices!” I exclaimed, “Ten dollars for a chicken sandwich which doesn’t include fries! All for this great atmosphere, which means a monkey screams at me through my meal!”

By the time they brought out our food I was so hungry that the elephant sounds and constant rain were pounding into my head and making me dizzy. All I wanted to do was take a bite of that $10 chicken sandwich. But when I try to pick it up, there are all these burnt chips in front of me. I hate those burnt chips! That’s what they give you when they want to make a point that you should have paid the extra $4 for fries. They’re not even edible!

Let me preface my next action by saying at this point I had lost my mind. I’m having an out-of-body experience. I just want those chips out of my way so I can take a bite of my chicken sandwich. So I start to brush them off the plate with my hand. But they don’t just land on the table; some of them start to fall on the floor. But I don’t care. I keep brushing them away, pushing them harder and harder until they’re all on the floor. I hate those chips! I hate the Rainforest Café! And will those monkeys please shut up? I don’t look up at Frank. I just start digging into my chicken sandwich.

When I finally look up at him he says, “Can I ask you a question and you won’t get mad?” I say, “No.” He asks anyway, “HOW OLD ARE YOU?”

Since I had some food in me, the anger had subsided and the guilt set in. I leaned down to start picking up my mess but I noticed something. My purse was on the floor and it was open. I think you see where I’m going with this. Frank didn’t suppress his urge to laugh.

So now I’ve decided I’m in charge of my own blood sugar. If that means carrying granola bars in my purse (not the chip-filled purse) or eating a snack before going out to dinner (in case of the long wait) then I do it.

All I know is that I don’t want to have anymore restaurants where my picture is up as “crazy chip throwing lady.” One is enough. And as a crazy screaming monkey is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again.