Dad here; when mom and I were first married and had not yet acted on the directive to be fruitful and multiply(well, we had acted, but the act had not borne fruit), she was determined to “change me” into a more civilized person. One of these changes involved me not drinking directly from the orange juice or tea container in the refrigerator.
My reasoning was that as it was my our home, and only she and I lived there, and that she had no qualms whatsoever about taking a hit or two(or three) from my Big Gulp, so drinking from the pitcher should not be an issue. This became an ongoing battle for some time, with me trying to sneak a drink without dirtying a glass only to have her materialize, wraith-like, to always catch me in the act.
One night she went to bed early, and I spotted a half gallon milk jug that she had evidently forgotten to put back in the fridge. It was approximately half full of tea, the sweet kind I assumed, as any other is merely brown water. Knowing her propensity to catch me in the act, I knew that I had to act quickly to capitalize on my opportunity, so I snatched up the jug, and got a huge slug down my throat before realizing what you had probably already surmised; it wasn’t tea…
It was bacon grease.
Fast forward some years, and we’re at a Mexican restaurant. The only “food”, and I use the term loosely, that I hate worse than cottage cheese is sour cream, as those two words should never be used in the same sentence. “Sour” and “cream” together implies that something went horribly wrong in the manufacturing process, the same reasoning as any dairy product having the word “curd” on the container.
But I digress…
I specifically ordered my burrito sans sour cream, and of course, it was delivered infected with a huge dollop of it. Rather than sending it back, I discretely scraped it off onto my napkin.
Have you ever forgotten something that you really, really, REALLY needed to remember? Well, I did. And sour cream being the color that it is(white) and the napkin being the color that it was(again, white), I received no visual warnings to reinforce my failing memory, and I wiped my mouth with the napkin. Which pushed this gelatinous mass of lukewarm dairy byproduct directly into my gaping maw. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen Mom laugh so hard as I sputtered and hawked and spat, any attempt at manners tossed to the floor and a Mexican hat dance performed on their remains.
And then there was that time that she put Miralax in tea(who DOES that, anyway?), and left it UNMARKED on the kitchen table…
So, just this week, I had to pick Oba up at the airport. As she’s diabetic, I received orders from She Who Must Be Obeyed that I should feed and water her(Oba, not Mom) immediately upon arrival. We hit a little plate lunch spot out by the airport, and all was well with the world…
…until I requested honey for my hot roll.
Evidently, the waitress forgot. I could see the squeeze bottle of honey on the counter, so close but yet so far. Finally, my impatience got the best of me, and I ninja’d over, snagged the bottle, and scuttled back to our table.
Now take a look at the attached photo; can you tell which one contains honey…
…and which one contains vinegar?
Now you know why I’m convinced the universe hates me.
