Chopped

Here's what's haunting me. The onions. The chopped red onions. To be more specific, the cute little container of chopped red onions. It's true, I prefer to let others chop my red onions, and my white ones, too. I don't mind paying extra. Better someone else should weep while chopping onions. Let their eyes burn, not mine. This is one of the SJG's top luxuries in life. You won't catch me shopping for Prada, but already-chopped onions? Absolutal. In this way, I'm a little lazy and a bit extravagant. But how can I enjoy my lavish lifestyle when the much-covetted onions have vanished?

Somewhere between the market and my sprawling, Sherman Oaks country estate, the ready-to-go onions had up and gone. Such a loss, you have no idea. I had so looked forward to sautéing them, too. But where were they? I searched the perimeter. I investigated plenty. Those lil diced devils weren't in the fridge where they belonged. They weren't in the front seat of the car, the back seat of the car or the trunk of the car.  Under the seats. Under the car. Negatory. Not there. I re-checked the shopping bags. I checked the fridge again. Cabinets and drawers. I looked and re-looked. I went cray-cray. And yet, I came up empty. I'm sure there's some sort of hidden message here, some metaphorical significance. I'm supposed to peel back the layers one at a time, right? Figure out something, don't ask me what. Until I do, I'll just assume the universe is once again eff'ing with me. Either that, or the grocery gal charged me for the onions and gave them to the person behind me. I'll be D, as my daddy would say. Someone got a freebie, thanks to the SJG. In which case, you're welcome. I believe I've done my final mitzvah of 2014. I can now sit back and rest on my chopped laurels.

Chopping the laurels