I'm writing today about a benign subject owing to a sense of unease gleaned from the discovery that people have lately (and in some cases, repeatedly) found my page via the following searches:

• freakishly large boobs


• armageddon 2012


• Seniorsizzle.com


• Satanic cufflinks

Among other unsettling things. (The Etiquette Grrls, for one, about whom I have a slightly amusing story, in which my best friend Shandy, being acquainted with one of these soi-disant mavens of proper social behavior, sends a gift to commemorate the birth of her child, and receives no thank-you note. Hence their unofficial nickname, The Etiqunts.)

At any rate, I want to be sure that today's entry doesn't add fuel to the Seniorsizzle-and-Diorshow-Ice-Pearl-mascara Google fire.

In commemoration of giving up reliance on mainstream religious doctrine for Lent, I stopped at the Widow's Walk for a sandwich. I hate the Widow's Walk. I hate their slow and indifferent service, their odd mixture of sandwich ingredients, and the fact that the quaint little building they occupy would make an ideal artist's studio for me, Violet, were they not mucking it up with their sandwichery.

A few months ago, running late getting back to work, I stopped at the Widow's Walk and, unfamiliar with their menu but figuring it couldn't be too complicated, ordered the chicken salad. Upon opening it back at my desk (i.e., too far away to hurl it back across the counter) I discovered that the chicken salad contained three million giant raw onion strands, and that further, the bread had been spread with honey mustard, for a lovely sugar-in-the-gas-tank appeal.

The combination was revolting, but I chalked my poor choice up to improper planning, and tried again a couple of weeks later. This time, I went for the tuna salad, and was thwarted by multicolored bell pepper shards and again, the appearance of raw onions, which apparently everyone loves and loves, except me, because they taste like leaded gasoline.

I vowed to avoid the Widow's Walk, but attended a meeting they catered, and had to settle. Trying for the least offensive sandwich, I ordered the fresh mozzerella and tomato sandwich. Ta-da! No onions! Also? No discernible flavor whatsoever. It was like a paste sandwich, made up solely of differently textured objects, in layers.

And so this brings us to today, when you can probably guess where I got lunch. To their credit, the lunch girl remembered my name, but to their discredit, the beautiful sandwich I ordered, composed of fresh basil, lettuce, genoa salami, and goat cheese, contains miles and miles of miniscule onion strings, all coiled up like springs under the lettuce, waiting to assault. Did I say "no onions" at the beginning of the transaction? No! I sure didn't! It's like I want to be miserable. Mmm. It's so fun, this misery.