I have food issues.
I like to think of them as sort of cute lil quirks, you know, the sort of thing that makes me endearing rather than annoying, but having lived with a foodie (The Guy On My Couch) and a pseudo-foodie (The Daver), I’ve come to realize that my food issues are more on the oh-my-God-you-are-so-weird spectrum. But hey, at least I have kicky hair.
See, while I happen to love fruit, I can’t look at canned fruit. In fact, the smell of canned fruit makes me heave histrionically. Actually, most things in cans repulse me. I’d rather go hungry than eat canned food. Which means when the Zombie Apocalypse happens, I’m gonna die. Immediately. Well, if I’m not raptured.
Hey, it’s possible.
(so is John C Mayer being un-douchey, the sun rising in the west and squirtable cheese in a can.)(…WAIT A MINUTE)
Anyway. Food issues.
They include a distrust of cream based salad dressing (especially thousand island, which appears to be the direct creation of Satan’s bunghole) and other creamy things in a can. Especially mayonnaise. The very thought of mayonnaise may ruin my appetite for mere moments at a time!
Mayonnaise is just so…so…WRONG.
A couple of months ago, The Guy On My Couch agreed to make me spinach and artichoke dip without the artichokes because who the hell likes those? (apparently most people who are not me). As I was off scouring the sale-rack for half-price Pop Rocks, The Guy On My Couch sneakily purchased a tub ‘o’ Mayo. I didn’t see it until we were in the car because he was being all stealth-like about it – he knew I’d overrule him and put back the mayo.
One morning, before he had a real job, I asked him to make the dip for breakfast.
Aunt Becky: “Hey, can you make the spinach dip now?”
The Guy On My Couch: “Sure.”
Aunt Becky: “You can’t put mayo in it.”
The Guy On My Couch: “Just…don’t come into the kitchen.”
Aunt Becky: “Why?”
The Guy On My Couch (shuffles feet around): “There’s a zombie in there.”
Aunt Becky (runs for the mustard): “Oh my GOD, REALLY? BATTEN DOWN THE MOTHERFUCKING HATCHES!”
The Guy On My Couch: “Um….yeah!”
Aunt Becky: “You’re going to put mayo in the dip, aren’t you?”
The Guy On My Couch: “LOOKIT THE SQUIRREL OUTSIDE. ISN’T HE HILARIOUS?”
Aunt Becky: (glares) “Nice try.”
The Guy On My Couch (preens): “THANKS!”
Aunt Becky: “On second thought, let’s go get donuts.”
Now that tub of white goo that looks mysteriously like spooge has sat in my lazy Susan for months, unopened. I’m sure as shit not going to open it up and grab out a nice big spoonful and if someone were to do it in my presence, I’d probably sit there making barfy noises until they opted to go into the other room. I’d, of course, follow them and continue heaving.
(my six word memoir? “Not just stupid, but annoying too!”)
The problem is this:
Aunt Becky wanders into the kitchen and, upon gazing lovingly at the box of Equal, notices a white tub of goo:
“OMFG, I CANNOT BELIEVE WE HAVE MARSHMALLOW FLUFF AND NO ONE TOLD ME!”
*Grabs can and spoon*
“FUCK, it’s MAYO. DAMMIT.”
Rinse, repeat, every two or three days. God BLESS you Topamax for wiping my short-term memory. So glad I can still recall every phone number I’ve ever had but cannot manage to remember where I left my pants or how to update my blog.
I’m aware that the “smart thing” to do would be to dump the mayo once and for all, but no one has EVER accused me of being smart unless they were being particularly sarcastic, which, who could blame them?
Now if you don’t mind, I have a tub of Marshmallow Fluff waiting for me….
….oh right. Never mind.
So what’s going on with YOU, Pranksters? What’s YOUR six word memoir?