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I found Jesus. He was in the dairy aisle.

April 2, 2010

When I’m not forcing celebrities out of the coffin while simultaneously stalking and extorting them, my life is rather hum-drum. My day job – well, technically, it’s a night job – is at a newspaper in Boston. My shift ends around midnight, and afterward I occasionally run errands in the wee small hours of the morning, which happens to be when stoners, bar-hoppers and condom-forgetters also are stocking up on necessities. I tend to overhear conversations, ranging from amusing to asinine. While standing in line at Shaw’s the other night, this was taking place behind me:

Woman: I can’t.

Man: Please?

Woman: If I stay over, I won’t get any sleep.

Man: I’ll be good. Promise.

Woman: I have a paper due in the morning.

Man: Please come for a little while.

Woman: What did I just say?

Man: I thought you wanted the cheese and crackers?

Man: (after long pause, with hint of desperation) OK. Fine. Maybe just the cheese?

The big cheese

At this point, I was fairly certain I had become privy to this duo’s drunken foreplay ritual, in which she plays hard-to-get and cheese and crackers is code for the whole shebang, whereas plain cheese is a quickie. Either way, I was about to blurt out: If you don’t want his cheese, there’s someone else in this line who hasn’t had cheese in a really long time. And she misses cheese. And it’s one of her favorites. And she’d be completely OK with skipping the crackers and going straight to the cheese, because crackers can be too filling, when all you really want is the cheese anyway. Even when the cheese is just so-so, it’s still cheese. Satisfying, mouth-watering, creamy. Unless you’re a vegan. Or lactose-intolerant. Or a nun. Then you have to fill the void with a substitute. Such as Tofutti. Or non-dairy creamer. Or Jesus. I’m like a camel when it comes to cheese. I hoard it when I can, and that propels me through these desert days. But now I’m fantasizing about both the chunky guy sporting a Celtics jersey and his dowdy girlfriend, as well as the supermarket clerk, the bag boy and the cabbie loitering outside playing scratch tickets in the parking lot, and that’s how I know that if I don’t shore up some moldy, curdled goodness soon, I will qualify by default for the Sisterhood. Then I’ll have to lie about being raised Jewish. And being gay. And not at all being receptive to marrying the son of God, and depending on the day the institution of marriage, unless it turns out Jesus really is cheese. Cheesus? Huh. That actually might not be so bad. This weekend is Easter, and churches will put up their “He Has Risen!” signs, and the grammarian in me always wonders, Why are we talking in the past-perfect? And he has risen … to what? The occasion? Note to self: Don’t mention doubts to Cheesus. He wouldn’t understand. Or hasn’t understood. It’s probably best to stick to the verb tense my future husband is comfortable with, because marriage is about sacrifice. Sometimes, you have to let him have his whey. Because he died on a cross for our sins. Well, not my sins. Other people’s. Very sinful people, apparently. And then he melted off the crucifix and became cheese. Or something. I’m a little hazy on the details. God, they didn’t teach us anything useful in Hebrew school. Had not taught us? I’m *so* confused.

I turned around to further scrutinize the source of the aisle banter, only to watch as the beau, who had his arm possessively draped over his squeeze, grabbed her boob near the “N” in West Virginia that was plastered in an arc across her gray sweatshirt. “Stop honking it,” she said unconvincingly. I was totally sure the cheese was on, until I glanced down at the checkout counter and noticed they were purchasing two items: water crackers and Swiss. Stumped, and more than a little turned on, I abruptly left the line, returning a few minutes later with a wheel of nutty, aged gouda.

If Swiss miss and mister could have their cheese and eat it too, dammit, so could I.

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10 Comments leave one →
  1. R2D2 permalink
    April 2, 2010 10:25 AM

    You’re right, the Jewish carpenter we are all vying for, is named Cheesus. Just ask my mom. With her Israeli accent, that’s exactly how she pronounces it! (We have made fun of her for years for it!) Also whenever she’s upset, she calls out to him. I thought Jewish people didn’t believe Cheesus was God, but apparently my secular Jewish mother turns to him in times of need. Go figure. Do you want to pray together to Cheesus this Easter together?

  2. MirtoP permalink
    April 2, 2010 1:02 PM

    You can keep your Cheesus. I’ll stick with my Gouda. He has awakened.

  3. Melanie permalink
    April 2, 2010 5:10 PM

    Jess, you truly has outdid yourself. Truly. You’re hitting all the right notes. Your sarcasm and humor are a finely honed machete blade. It reminds me of when my cat, Diablo — who by the way, died a virgin, as far as I know — was really, really hungry. And he would become ON. Much more cat-like than normal. Like, you know how when you’re a vampire, and all their senses are heightened? That was him. When he was HUNGRY. Speaking of vampires, I’ve noticed that you’re more of a night creature and shun the day; that you hardly eat or drink; and that you don’t wear argyle. I believe that means that you owe me $60,000.

    • April 2, 2010 5:32 PM

      I’m not sure what you’re implying, Melanie. But let me put a stop to the speculation right now. I wear argyle.

  4. April 2, 2010 5:50 PM

    I used to know a gal who called appetizers appeteasers in what I thought was just her cheesy way of being cute but its all making sense now….

    Turns out she was just a naughty little minx who wanted some Swiss and watercrackers!!

    DAMN, I let another innuendo slip past me

  5. Obiwan Ben Buckley permalink
    April 3, 2010 11:34 AM

    Once upon a time in the throes of a rum-and-Coke-fueled hallucination I imagined encountering the Virgin Mary in a VW Rabbit on Commonwealth Ave. I asked her for some cheese, but she said, “You don’t have enough money.”

  6. April 4, 2010 10:08 PM

    No booze? Just lactose and grains? I’m REALLY curious how Swiss could have such a mesmerizing effect on someone. It’s like when vampires do that trick with their eyes that makes you do whatever they want, I guess Swiss has such an affect on some people…maybe that’s how Ellen keeps Portia? I’m lactose intolerant, no “honking” here.

  7. April 5, 2010 8:57 AM

    Maybe there is some kind of convention you can attend: http://cbs11tv.com/local/Cheesus.jesus.inside.2.1011719.html
    ‘”Cheesus” is about two inches tall. Despite missing a right arm, the Bells see a body, hair, robe and even a tiny face.
    They say it is a reminder of their blessings from God; but primarily they think it’s a funny Cheeto.
    Various incarnations of “Cheesus” have shown up before; in Houston, Missouri and on the internet site YouTube.
    The Bells’ Cheeto ended up on the front page of the Preston Hollow newspaper. The big question, what to do with it now?
    Dan says his first reaction was, “Let’s put this on eBay. How much do you think we should ask for it? It could be 25 cents, could be 25 dollars. If it’s only 25 cents, we’re just going to eat it.”
    For now, they are keeping “Cheesus” in a plastic box.’

  8. cutlinecrafts permalink
    April 5, 2010 4:14 PM

    THANK YOU for clearing up my “hoodie” issue. (That sounds kinda funny. Heh.) You are right — Ellen must be a vampire. How did she get hotter and older?? That is my goal in life. Which is perfect since I’m almost 30. I’m going to wake up on my birthday and be HOT. Sweet!

  9. July 18, 2010 3:49 AM

    oh god you just reminded me of my FAVORITE SANDWICH EVER, the Cheesus by the Grilled Cheese Grill in portland… another thing to blame portland for, as i can’t get to it, having moved to new orleans…
    ::shakes fist at sky::
    (the Cheesus, btw, being comprised of a hamburger patty sandwiched between two grilled cheeses… heaven, i tell you.)

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