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?
Interviewing for jobs is bullshit.
I mean, you’re standing there, nervous as shit, and apologizing to the silk plant to your right for bumping into it because you know the secretary is secretly taking notes on you and OH EM GE is that a camera above you or have you been watching too much reality television?
On my last job interview, well before I’d gotten pregnant with Alex, I was doing the rounds and applying for all sorts of jobs I didn’t really want. I figured the interviews were “good experience,” plus, I got to wear a suit. I like suits.
I’d applied for a job working for a major US health insurance company. I’d be doing some claims processing, going over the necessity for certain treatments, and, I later learned, (ALLEGEDLY) taught to work the system in order to ensure that the members got what they needed when they needed it.
It was the only job I’d been applying for that managed to pique my interest. The rest of the interviews went like this:
Aunt Becky: “Hi, I’m…”
Person Interviewing: (interrupts): “Do you have a pulse?”
Aunt Becky: *blinks*
Person Interviewing: “I mean, OBVIOUSLY you have a pulse, you’re here, right? (nervous laugh)”
Aunt Becky: *blinks*
Person Interviewing: “Can you start on the Ortho floor this afternoon? We’ve got a ratio of 8 patients to one nurse and no nursing techs. You’ll be working an 18. SOUND GOOD?”
Aunt Becky: *blinks*
Person Interviewing: “Here’s your uniform.”
Aunt Becky *backs away slowly*
Person Interviewing: “You can wear jeans! JUST GO TO THE ORTHO FLOOR PLEASE! J-CO* IS COMING!”
That’s the way my interviews had gone. And as much as I’d loved to have worked an 18 on a floor without techs with 8 whole patients who weren’t quite ambulatory, I had enough respect for my back to turn it down.
So my job at the insurance company, well, it was what I’d wanted. Mostly. I didn’t want to work weekends or holidays. Working an 18 would leave me injecting myself with normal saline just to stay awake. I love people. I don’t love sick people. Shitty career path, huh?
First stop on my interview train was to a computer where I had to type shit. I think they wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to type, “I HAVE A BOMB MOTHERFUCKERS” or something. Last I checked, everyone our age types at like 8097 words per minute. Side effect of the computer generation.
Once the computer, which was made in approximately 1902, green words and all, booted me off, I waited for my round of interviews. I checked the room for cameras, but didn’t see any. Delusions of paranoia much?
Eventually a spry looking lady came to get me. She introduced herself as the person I’d be working for, which made me breathe a sigh of relief – she seemed both sane and high energy. Great combo.
She led me to a small meeting room and began chit-chatting with me while we waited for the other person to show. Apparently, at Super Huge Insurance Company, two managers did the interviewing. I immediately suspected a good-cop/bad-cop routine.
The second manager sauntered in, and I immediately read her as a bitch. Between the way she walked, the way she sneered when my manager spoke, and the haughty smile she gave as she tossed her bleached-blond hair back, I could tell that, had she been my table and I her server, she’d have run me around every time I got near her, only to stiff me and complain to my manager in order to get some free coupons.
My heart sunk. I thought about all those ortho people I’d have to lug around and shuddered instinctively.
Before we began, my manager assured me that the questions were unique – there were no “wrong” answers. We went back and forth between the standard interview questions, “how would you handle XYZ?” “Where are your pants?” “How would you describe yourself in three words or less?”
Bitchy blonde lady asked me one, “What happened the last time your boss made a decision for you to carry out – but it was something you didn’t want to do?”
I wracked my brain. Generally when my bosses told me to do something I didn’t want to do, I deliberately disobeyed. No wrong answers. No wrong answers. So I can keep talking and it won’t be WRONG. I love this game!
They stared at me. I began to sweat – I couldn’t tell the about the beers I’d snuck in the back coolers or the times that I didn’t charge my friends for keg beer. I couldn’t tell them about sprinkling a ton of red pepper flakes into the dipping sauce of a particularly rude table. Um. THINK, Becky, THINK. Or BULLSHIT, Becky, BULLSHIT.
“Well, there was this one time (okay, that sounds good, like you know what your saying. Good work, mental high five!), that my manager Peter, he, um, (BECKY, STOP SAYING UM. IT’LL CLUE THEM IN THAT YOU’RE FULL OF BULLSHIT) well, he asked if anyone was stealing blocks of cheese. He kinda looked like a detective, ready to catch the cheese thief, but that’s mostly because he looked like he’d stepped out of the set of a 1920′s movie (STOP ADDING DETAILS, MORON). When he asked me if I knew who’d been stealing cheese, I said ‘I didn’t know’ even though I MAYBE knew. (God, this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever said.)”
I looked at the two of them, ashamed, knowing I’d blown that. But NO WRONG ANSWERS! PHEW.
The blond one glared at me, rolled her eyes and spoke, “You’re wrong.”
My mouth dropped open as my face turned electric red. Not being much of a blusher, it made it that. much. worse.
She continued, “I don’t think that’s what you meant.”
Okay, now I was just confused. Rather than respond, I simply stared at her. My manager got all flustered and quickly ushered me out the front door where I realized, once and for all, that I was not being filmed. My reality-show dreams had been dashed.
And there was no way in fuck that I’d gotten that job.
That afternoon I got the offer letter.
I started the following week.
*J-CO isn’t to be confused with J-LO. J-CO is actually the Joint Commission, accredits and certifies health care organizations. They’re also pedantic and annoying as shit when they come for inspections (as, I hate to admit, they should be).
Now I’m not a hoarder. I’m not even very sentimental.
(you’ll note that I am decidedly NOT a hoarder because every time someone comes over, I try to send them home with everything from Orchids to children)
I watch Hoarders as inspiration to clean my fucking house, and I’ll tell you that it has worked to curb any impulse buying I may or may not have experienced (so, so sorry, The Target, for breaking up with you like this. I know I should have done it more personally, but hey, you read my blog).
I’m also not attached to my stuff. Not most of it, at least. I’d throw down some fisticuffs if you threatened Big Mac II or my iPad. It’s not, however, because they remind me of “greener days,” and “happier times,” but because they allow me to work. Or try to get more than one star on those stupid Angry Birds game. Which is more complex than actual work, but I digress.
My Son: *carrying around a baby doll*
Aunt Becky: “Why are you carrying around that doll?”
Ben, My Son (Not the Guy on my Couch*): “We’re playing Oregon Trail at school and Sam needed a boy baby.”
Aunt Becky: *thinks about how awesome it would be to make the doll have “dysentery.” *
Ben: “It’s for school.”
Aunt Becky *still bitter that the i(can’t)Phone version or Oregon Trail is neither gory or has fun as it used to be. These are probably related events*. “Oh? What are you doing with it?”
Ben: “I told you. Sam needs a baby boy.”
Aunt Becky *grumbles* “Like THAT clears it up for me.”
Ben: “I have to bring it.”
Aunt Becky *looks at the stained baby and recalls how she’d lovingly gotten it for her then-five-year-old son Ben who was about to become a big brother*: “Ben, no. You can’t take it.”
Ben: “I HAVE TO TAKE IT.”
Aunt Becky: “Why?”
Ben: “SAM NEEDS A BABY BOY.”
Aunt Becky: “So you’re going to bring it to school and probably forget it there, right?”
Aunt Becky: “NO.”
Ben: “But I’m GONNA GET LATE POINTS!”
Aunt Becky: “The doll’s for Sam, not you. If you need something to signify a baby that badly, take a stuffed animal instead.”
Aunt Becky: “You have your teacher call me and tell me why you need to bring this particular doll in.”
Ben: *stomps off in the way only a histrionic 10-year old can.*
Aunt Becky (to herself): “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
Two adult male voices chime in simultaneously: “Waco.”
Turns out, Pranksters, I wasn’t quite ready to let go of that baby doll; the one he’d once named Seth.
*my BFF who moved here to start a new life.