Tacos, Camels, and Pickles

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I detest tapioca pudding.  To use the word “detest” is to give more credit to this dessert than I feel it deserves.  The texture should never … ever … be allowed in the mouth of any human. Never and Ever.

Piccata, on the other hand, is a word I can embrace.  Any word describing, in Italian, the act of inserting strips of fat or bacon into meat before cooking should … at all times … be allowed in the mouth of any human being.  Always and forever.

As captain of this blog today, I declare the above to be true – beyond reproach.  Truer than “no round squares” and “no square circles”.

Now, unless you are the captain of this blog (doubtful), eating chicken piccata (questionable), or sliding vanilla tapioca pudding down your gullet (ugh), there isn’t a chance you have any idea what I’m writing about.  Frankly, I don’t have much of a clue either. However, “don’t have much of a clue” IS better than none at all, so I’ll take the helm and steer this puppy into uncharted waters if that’s ok with you?… 

I love words and numbers.  The title today is: “Tacos, Camels, and Pickles”.  These are words, but there are hidden numbers as well: 5, 6, then 7.  Easy, peasy – the number of letters in each word. (You went back to count, didn’t you?) No other order makes sense in a mind where O comes before C comes before D.  Unless, to be accurate, you suffer from C-D-O where all the letters ARE in the correct alphabetical order which, in itself, presents a paradoxical complication since then we have: Compulsive Disorder Obsessive. We may as well say the earth is the seventh planet from the sun if “pickles”, then “tacos”, then “camels” if the order doesn’t really matter. But it does. It has to. Has. To.

Trust me, as your captain.  Your land legs will return. Embark on a jaunt with me as we explore what I consider to be a mismatch of the highest order.  This is a short trip from here to there and back.

An unseasonably warm day in December gets me outside of the house – especially on Saturday when I need, badly, a schedule book for 2020.  Having multiple responsibilities requiring a delegation of time, scribbling here-and-there notes, names, and obligations in a book is a necessity.  In my, ahem, “younger” years, there existed enough reserve brain multitasking matter to accomplish any tasks without the need for the written word, save the occasional sticky note on the ‘fridge or car dash.  As things exhaustively stand now, an overpriced, bound, cheaply made reminder of how fast time is passing me by seems to be the only option. 

I present the box store.  Specifically, the “office” box store.  Additionally specific, the “office supply store”.  Very different from Amazon, of course. Ah, Amazon.  The “A to Z internet mega-behemoth get everything delivered to you in smiley boxes that talk” store.  A few clicks and my same schedule book would be wonderfully plopped on my porch in three to five days … for half the price … by a drone, maybe, and possibly filled in with all my appointments for the year.  I chose the former. Touch then buy today. That kind of a day. Also, I needed a drive, fresh air, and food for lunch.

I like this particular box store.  Easily navigable because the aisles are clearly marked in large block letters for the elderly, the layout hardly ever changes, and the associates are kind.  If there’s ever a time when I need a job – like now, it could be argued – finding myself in tan khaki pants and a red polo shirt is doable. The money I’ve spent here, back into my pocket and invested wisely, would be a nice little retirement.  Alas, I have a nice collection of binders, clips, computers, doodads, gizmos, jiggers, widgets, contraptions, electronics, and containers. Not to exclude pencils, pens, stickers, empty toner cartridges, papers, envelopes, markers, poster boards, tabs, and highlighters.  

What I don’t have, nor will ever have from this particular store, are ….. SOCKS.  

Yes, socks.  I’m baffled as to why socks are on sale in an office store.  Is there ever a time when a sockless executive enters this store thinking, “I can’t believe I left home not wearing socks! Suit? Check. Tie? Check. Both shoes? Check. ….” At what point in this person’s morning does it NOT occur socks are missing?  Furthermore, after realizing said feet are naked except for the imported leather Berlutis, this person, then, must get in his or her car, drive past J.C. Penney’s, Macy’s, Boscov’s, – name a store – and intentionally park within walking distance of this “office supply store” hoping they stock …. Socks.  

Oh, and here’s the sockless kicker:  the socks are NOT dress socks. Said professional slunks up to the display rack to find, in horror, socks of various, colorful, yet totally inappropriate design.  The guterall emptiness of an immediately apparent wasted trip. What is seen? Tacos, camels, and pickles along with various other pre-adolescent, toy store, bouncey ball themed footwear. To boot, the rack where “sushi” themed socks sold out (“why” I ask in amazement) remains bare, so if raw-fish-motif toe coverings are desired … Mr., Miss, or Mrs. Professional is, well, screwed.

Who is the customer?  I need to know. Perhaps a part-time job in this store is the right job for me if only to see one person buy one pair of these socks.  I’d like to be the sock stocker stalker. After satisfying my curiosity, I can quit to go back being a regular customer – spending my retirement savings on additional doodads and gizmos.

These socks certainly are a mismatch of the highest order.  As left is to right, they are perfect pairs unto themselves.  Between reams of paper and letter sorter options, I see no connection, however. Camels don’t eat tacos or pickles that I’m aware. Unless Mexican fare has changed recently, pickles don’t go inside tacos. I certainly didn’t need to see any of this today.  All I wanted was fresh air, lunch, and a schedule book.

You now have permission to disembark.  Before I, the captain, unhook the velvet rope at the head of the gangplank, I must explain the tapioca pudding and chicken piccata I have so graciously prepared as your departing gift.  

There could be some kind of hustle a-foot.  A CON, if you will, at this store. If there is a corporate game at play – a hidden camera “let’s see who pays attention to these socks” contest – designed to lure unsuspecting, but curious datebook buyers, I have my toes in the cotton waters. Let’s play.

Take the first two letters out of each word, Taco (TA), Camel (CA), and Pickle (PI) to get “TACAPI”.  Organize them in alphabetical order, of course: AACIPT. From this, take each letter of “CON” one at a time and add it to those six letters to form three individual words: Captain, Tapioca, and Piccata. Start a blog trying, desperately, to tie in a picture of socks with said words. Confirm success in brain.

Even in the insanity of this mixed up word play I found quite amusing to create, it still has more insight and wisdom inherent than selling bright yellow, banana colored, ankle-biter, food printed socks to absent minded professionals.  Just a captain’s opinion. Enjoy your meal.

I still hate tapioca pudding, btw. Yuck.