My TMI’s have been pretty lame lately; maybe I need to go get waxed again or poop my pants. *Sigh* pooping my pants…I haven’t done that since I was in diapers. Not that I’m bragging, but I’ve got that shit under control. Literally. I hope God doesn’t bitch slap me now with the swine flu H1N1 virus, leaving me curled up in my bathtub in a puddle of my own vomit and feces. Now there’s a lovely image…
When I was younger, I had a real problem with food. Not that I had an eating disorder (I don’t possess the ability to deny myself anything for too long), but I had very definite likes and dislikes; actual food was kind of disgusting. I could notwash dishes because the thought of touching someone else’s crusty plate made me dry heave. My sister put ketchup on a bologna sandwich once and I threw up. Mayonnaise? Forget about it. I ate my sandwiches turkey sandwiches with mustard or nothing at all(well, after I got out of the peanut butter and butter sandwich phase), and my salads without dressing. And you can forget about cheese. The only foods that were allowed to touch were rice and corn (a delicious mixture–try it sometime!) and the meat/mashed potato/gravy trifecta of awesomeness. Outside of these exceptions–where the fuck do you think you’re going, broccoli? Don’t even think about touching the scalloped potatoes. You don’t want to make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry…
My mother is a saint.
College life changed all of that. I was never a fan of cafeteria food, but a poor college student cannot live on saltines and cranberry juice alone! Well, at least this one couldn’t. Gradually my food repertoire expanded to include all manner of food produced for the masses: I even ate cafeteria fish sticks, which is pretty much the lowest of the low. After watching my suite-mate shamelessly collecting and finishing off other people’s pizza “bones” (crusts), I overcame my aversion to other people’s food and was hard pressed to find anything I couldn’t imagine as edible, given the right condiment.
Fast forward a year; I was living in Wilmington, working as a waitress at a barbecue joint. My mom and her new boyfriend (now husband) were in town on a date, and stopped in my restaurant to have dinner see me. I hadn’t yet met my mom’s boyfriend, Brian, so I was excited to see him and size him up. They came in the door looking like two twin drowned rats, having purchased matching sweat shirts from Bald Head Island after getting rained on. Desperate to impress Brian, I tried to be as jovial and friendly as possible. I walked them through the menu, brought them their food, and made sure they were enjoying everything, all the while running my mouth (probably about stupid and inappropriate things, like how Hemo’s poop had really been stinky lately, or how my neighbors ripped off our balconey railing).
My mom and Brian were slowing down, and Brian still had half a rack of ribs in front of him. “I’d hate for these to go to waste,” he mourned, “but there isn’t any way I could take these with me.”
“Oh they won’t go to waste,” I assured him. “I’ll take them to the back and we’ll eat them. I’m starving!”
“‘We’?” he asked.
“Yeah, you know…myself and the other servers. Technically, they are mine, because you guys are my table, but I don’t mind sharing.” I then went into a long disertation about the complex rules of what food was considered “safe” to eat, and what food we just dumped.
“You know, like if you could imagine yourself making out with that person, you could totally eat their leftovers. Not that I would make out with you [insert nervous laughter], but you know, you look pretty disease-free, so maybe even if I didn’t know you I’d eat these ribs. If you had, like, sores all over your lips or chewed with your mouth open–no way. That’s gross. But especially if you know the person…we have a couple of regulars, and they always leave one or two wings on a plate. We fight over them!”
It wasn’t until I saw the look on his face–a mixture of shock and disgust–that I realized that I had said too much. I had managed to gross out a man who had 3 teenage sons at home.