Smoothie Queen

I really wanted to write a post yesterday. In fact, I drowned in the waters of Pinterest searching for some inspiration for you. But all I found were way too many drool-worthy graphic rugs for a fictitious home office in a fictitious home. So, totally productive, of course, just not very blog-worthy. Except that here I am, blogging about it.

Clearly the content ain’t coming. Just around the bend, I have some secret posts collecting dust waiting to be read by the world. Or by my mom. Whatevs.

In the meantime, I’ll tell ya about one of the recent developments in the Noa household: smoothies. That’s right. We’re super mega hard core party animals and are gang bangers nuts about our new homemade smoothies. Perhaps to an unhealthy level, suggested by these [obviously pre-planned] texts from my husband yesterday:

"Would it be possible to bring me my lunch?”

“It is in fridge.”

“Maybe smoothie?”

As you already know, I’m an excellent wife and put a halt on my incredibly important task of pinning motivational running mantras to make my husband a smoothie. Now, I haven’t mastered the proportions or blending levels just yet, so I’m not going to do something silly like write a recipe. Who would ever trust me to write a recipe, anyway? That’s all kinds of disaster and personal injury lawsuits waiting to happen.

However, I did spend a solid year in high school (and one 50-hour, paid-cashmoney-under-the-table week in college) working at Smoothie King*. So basically, I am a bit of an expert on how to correctly unpeel a banana, pretend like you’re studying the labels on the supplements when you don’t feel like working and gain 10 pounds polishing off the leftovers of every smoothie you make in an 8-hour shift.        

Here are the random ingredients that typically get tossed into one of my specialties. Clayton and his 7% body fat get a scoop of sugar in their smoothies; me and my love handles do not.

Yogurt
Milk
Bananas
Frozen Raspberries and Blueberries
Muscle Milk Chocolate Protein Powder
Chocolate Syrup
Peanut Butter

They’re always way too thick to drink, so I use a spoon. And the world’s largest coffee mug.

IMAG0489 See, I told you it was slow around here.

*I was also fired from the King. By my former-stripper-turned-boss whose sugar daddy gifted her the store. If you read this story two years ago when I told it, well, read it again now. I think I use different adjectives.

We had a customer who came in nearly every day after working out at the gym next door and injecting himself with a heaping dose of steroids. He would order the same thing and added every extra supplement we had, with the exception of the Fat Burner. One day I charged him for all but one of the supplements, a whopping $0.50 savings for him and a loss of about $0.03 for Smoothie King. So. Scandalous. Somehow Bossy Pants found out, fired me in her head and did not tell me the good news. She simply didn’t put me on the schedule. When I came in to check my non-existent schedule, she asked me about it, I said that I did in fact commit the crime in question, and she fired me. But the best part was that she said, “Normally we wouldn’t do this, but we’re trying to change things around here, and we needed to use you as an example.”

It must have been helpful to make an “example” of the employee who had already informed them she was leaving for college (a foreign concept to both managers) in about two weeks. How convenient. I was bitter from the whole situation—apparently screwing the co-owner in the office was of little concern but free Muscle Builder is grounds for termination—until about six months later. I came home for a weekend during my freshman year in college and made a trip to SK. Knowing how ridiculous my being fired was, I didn’t have a problem asking if I could pick up a few shifts during spring break. Of course they said yes. After all, I was the only employee who dusted shelves on my down time and didn’t steal from the tip jar. The owners stayed classy and paid me in an unmarked envelope of cash. And of course I claimed it on my taxes.

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