But Not a Grape

Monday, April 16th, 2012

I don’t usually post much about my relationship with mikey. Some things are just nobody’s business and I’d hate it if he blogged about how I had a hormonal meltdown over a bad pedicure yesterday and stomped around the house like a spoiled asshole godzilla. Some things are just… privileged.

But a conversation about German food with Kathy just now had me thinking about one of mike’s little peccadilloes… he’s a picky eater.

This sometimes poses an issue for me, The Girl Who Will Eat Just About Anything But Marzipan. It can be frustrating when your other half won’t stray from their four food groups: Pizza, Burgers, Mexican Food, and Pasta.

No fish (which isn’t uncommon), but also no fruit, none. No fresh fruit, no cooked fruit, no fruit in dessert. Nyet fruit. Except blueberries, but only if they’re in muffins or pancakes. Like, once a year I can get him to chug down a blackberry yogurt, but the rest of the time, it’s a fruit-free zone. Also, no vegetables — well, a few: corn, mushrooms, broccoli and sometimes green beans… if the planets are aligned and we’re having steak.

Now, to his credit, the things he does like, I happen to like, too. (Mmmm… mexican food…)  But I also have a more varied palette, so I get sick of those things pretty quickly. And I’m also fairly adventurous and love to try new restaurants, go out for sushi, explore ethnic cuisines… that’s not really his jam.

Mike doesn’t care for Asian food, either, on the whole. Since he’s Filipino, this sometimes gets him flack, but it’s just not his thing.  He likes enough of it, though. Lumpia/egg rolls, super-crispy won tons, teriyaki chicken, and chicken fried rice = yes. Everything else, from the Philippines to China and everywhere in between and likely surrounding = no.

Sometimes I feel bad for him. That sounds terribly condescending, but it’s because I care.  He’s a grown man, he can choose what he wants to eat, but some things are just so freaking good and the fact that he won’t try it or think he won’t like makes me a weep a little inside for all the deliciousness he’s missing. I want to enrich his life with dark chocolate and halibut! But not together, I’m not that adventurous.

He will occasionally give something a go if I harangue him enough about it or if it’s close enough to something he does like. And sometimes, he will concede that he likes something new. It’s not often, but I consider it a tiny victory. There’s a culinary end-zone dance going on in my head when this occurs.

What I find totally perplexing is the things he will eat, while excluding yummy goodness like roasted zucchini, grapes, strawberries or butternut squash.  Things like asparagus — now, I love asparagus, but as far as veggies go, it’s polarizing.  It’s not really a “starter vegetable”.  I’d say it’s more in the “advanced vegetables” category along with brussell sprouts and eggplant, so for that to be one of his favorites? I find that surprising.

Also, liverwurst. LIVER. WURST. It’s got “worst” right in the name, yet he likes it. Go figure.

Shrimp chips. He knows how I feel about these. I’ve grown accustomed to them over the years — in the beginning, the mere opening of the bag would send me gagging, but now I’ve learned to filter out the smell.  For those not familiar with Asian snack fare, shrimp chips are these cheese-puff like things, but instead of technicolor orange cheese flavoring on the outside, it’s a powdered shrimp flavoring. (I think Walkers makes something similar in England, but in potato chip form.)

Mmm… powdered shrimp. #heave (Yes, I just hashtagged. It’s compulsive.) Mike says it’s a throwback to his youth and despite not liking most Asian food, he loves shrimp chips.

So, as Kathy says, “But not a grape.”  He’ll eat liverwurst and asparagus and artificially flavored shrimp cheetos, but not a grape. Not a grape.

I endure these little quirks.  They’re not deal breakers. Besides, he puts up with my habit of never putting the toilet paper tube back on the holder. And finding my hair in places least expected. And my sneaky razor theft. And my inexplicable rage over too-short toenails.

So, when I consider those things and the fact that he kills the spiders and drags out the trash cans without bitching, I guess I can eat another slice of pizza.

Categories: Life, quirks

Target, You Got Some ‘Splaining to Do

Tuesday, March 16th, 2010

I love Target. No, really.  I LOVE Target. I could go there once a day and see everything in the store 40 times and not get tired of going there. It’s soothing, it’s comforting and oddly seductive. If Target were a person, I’d marry it, jack my hair like Kate Gosselin and become it’s baby machine.  I. love. Target.

What I don’t love is the “new” Target store brand, up & up™.  Target Home products, their former store brand, used to be so good. I could buy any Target knock-off of the fancy brand and know, quite certainly, that it would be just as good.  Since they re-branded their store brand to up & up™, everything’s gone down & down.

Take, for instance, the toilet paper — I used to buy the blue label Target Home brand premium paper, compared to Quilted Northern Ultra.  Not the pink one, compared to Charmin Might-As-Well-Be-a-Towel Ultra Premium, just your garden-variety mid-range bathroom tissue.  It was totally the same as the name-brand, as advertised.  I bought the same brand for years… and a lot of it. Not because I have some weird bathroom habits or I’m a hoarder, but because I have a very staunch 6-roll minimum rule in my house.  At 6 rolls I have to start reminding myself to buy more — if I go below 6 rolls, I’m down to the last square on the roll before I remember to get more.

Sometime, last year I think, they changed to up & up™ and when it came time to buy Ye Old Faithful TP, it was replaced by what I assumed would be the same product in a different wrapper — more like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.  This paper is a mere suggestion of what it once was.  It still says “Compare to Quilted Northern Ultra”, but it was like they took one-ply paper, peeled it apart and called it two-ply.  It was like half-ply. I wouldn’t TP a house in this paper, let alone my business.  After enduring it for a full 12-pack, I grudgingly bought yet another 6-pack because it was that or Scott Tissue and sandpaper ain’t my thing.

The next time, I bought the actual Quilted Northern Ultra and found it to be the toilet paper I knew and loved. I just have to get over paying a little more for it. But, in my opinion, I’d rather pay a little more for a quality product.  I believe ‘generic’ store brands can be awesome — take Costco’s Kirkland brand, for instance. Fabulous, especially when their vodka is rumored to be Grey Goose.  It just seems like when Target changed brands, they may have changed manufacturers.  So far, I’ve not tried an up&up product that’s been decent — not the “compare to Glad Forceflex” trashbags (flex? yes. force? laughable.), not the “compare to Ziploc” sandwich bags (the bags separate from the zipper constantly or the zipper is inside out), and certainly not the toilet paper.

I’m curious to know if anyone else has experienced this, or if perhaps my ass is just spoiled.

Categories: Life, quirks, thoughts

Aw, Snap

Friday, January 2nd, 2009

A while back, I mentioned that I frequently bust a rhyme. It’s not intentional or anything, it just happens. Some people couldn’t just let me go on being mellifluous and they had to point it out to me, so now I’m acutely aware every time I rhyme. Like right then.

One thing I’ve always been aware of, though, is that I snap. You heard it here first… unless you’ve ever danced in my vicinity.  And in that case, I can only hope whatever you heard was drowned out by the music.  Every so often, for no reason whatsoever, while dancing to upbeat music… I’ll snap.

I’m not talking about a “hey-girl-drag-queen-oh-no-she-di’int-3-in-a-Z”  kind of snap  or even the timeless ‘When you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way” style.  This is just your garden-variety “I dance like a tool” sort of snap. I try not to call attention to it because whenever I do it, I immediately wonder if I dance like an old white dad.

I’m not a belly dancer. I don’t flamenco. There is absolutely no reason on this earth — other than the fact that I find freestyle dancing somewhat socially awkward and an act I do only after several somethings with rum in it — that I should snap.

You may be picturing some sort of Elaine Benes snap-kick-thumbjerk dance move, but I assure you it’s nothing so grotesque.  It’s usually just a passing movement, generally when my hands are “down low” and it’s totally involuntary.

It could be worse. There was that time I may or may not have walked like an Egyptian.

Categories: quirks

Just Call Me J. Diddy

Thursday, October 2nd, 2008

Apparently, I rhyme. Not all the time, but sometimes I rhyme. This was something I never knew about myself until a friend pointed it out.  When Kathy was here, even she agreed.  I just naturally rhyme; it’s not something I foresee. I can’t do it when I write, it’s like I’m trying too hard. It comes off trite, like a greeting card.

But I do it when I talk and I have no idea why. Is it because I sing? It’s not like I try. Should I have been a writer? I guess I already am. Should I have been a rapper?  I don’t have big enough pants.

Ok, that last one was a stretch.

But I guess I really do rhyme when I talk and now I can’t stop hearing it.  I have to acknowledge when I rhyme now… “I was rhyming.” like anyone else gives a shit.  But I guess people do, who knew? It’s not like I notice when others rhyme, it’s not my business. I don’t have the time.

See? Right then I wasn’t even trying.  *sigh*

Categories: quirks

Cookie Coup

Wednesday, August 13th, 2008

I noticed last night that in commercials for Oreo cookies, the people in different commercials all eat their Oreo exactly the same way: twist open, lick once, put back together, then dunk and eat. I don’t feel Oreo is best representing a wide cross-section of Oreo eaters. It’s like they’re trying to set some kind of Oreo-eating standard.  I have never in my entire life met anyone whose Oreo Process™ was that.

Oh, I don’t doubt they’re out there — those who absolutely must eat their Oreo just like they do in the commercial. But what about the artists? The rebels? What about those who just bite into it as-is?  What about those who (*gasp!*) couldn’t give a damn about the “creme” filling?  What about those who consume sans milk?!

Personally, my Oreo Process is as follows:

  • Nibble off the top cookie in little bites like a mouse.
  • Scrape off the “creme” filling with my bottom teeth in small bits. Never lick.
  • Nibble bottom cookie at my leisure.
  • Store on my thighs for Winter.

I’m not saying it should be done like this, per se. I just don’t understand why Oreo feels they have to force their belief system on the rest of us.  We’re buying and eating your cookie, Nabisco. What more do you want from us?  Our souls?

Categories: quirks