P.B. and Me

I was at work a few weeks ago and had a deep profound realization. No, it had nothing to do with what I was "working" on (I daresay there's little room for epiphanies while verifying thousands of international names--yet this job quite literally pulled me from the brink of total financial disaster and for that I am thoroughly grateful).

While listening to the radio everyday around 12, I wait for the sound of the "Crank it Up!" that signals the 12 Noon Hairball. Like one of Pavlov's dogs I know that sound means I get to sift through my ghettoriffic blue plastic shopping bag containing my lunch.

By the way, lunch is an overstatement. I've been trying to shed a few pounds so what I actually have is an assortment of snacks--basically just enough food so I don't start chewing on pens or the keyboard.

I pulled out the smaller plastic bag which held a plastic fork (I realize I am single-handedly putting back all the carbon footprints everyone nowadays seems to be trying to minimize, but I tend to have the same mentality best explained in a quote by Drew Carey, "F*** the grandkids, I'm cold now") that was covered with peanut butter.

Now you have to understand, peanut butter (which shall henceforth be referred to as "p.b.") and I go way back. Somewhere in middle school I acquired an aversion to cold cuts, condiments, etc. Basically anything normal people eat for lunch makes me physically ill. I remember a time with my first boyfriend when we went to visit his grandmother. She wanted to make us lunch (which is always a case of awkwardness for me and have since learned to avoid lunch at people's houses). Mike tried to explain to her that I wasn't a big "cold cuts" fan. Her suggestion? "I'll cut up that meat pie." I sometimes make the mistake that all people don't have my brain so I was thinking 'Oh a meat pie, whew, that'll be served hot.' When she went to the fridge and cut a chunky wedge of an ice-cold meat product I thought I was going to vomit in my mouth. I actually did get close once because I kept swallowing mouthfuls with huge gulps of water and nearly choked.

Thankfully there was p.b. God (or whomever your preferable deity) bless p.b.! I was relieved to actually have found something to eat at lunchtime. I can say without fear of exaggeration that I ate the same thing for lunch everyday from K-8th grade. Even at home, my family always laughed at my predictability: chips or something equivalent, a piece of fruit, cookies, and the all-important peanut butter sandwich. I was like a sociopath, meticulous to each detail. My sisters thought I was weird, my parents thought I was endearing (I hope).

Even whenever things got weird or distant between us, my dad knew my habits. I'd come home, make my version of Lunchables and he'd make his. It was like a bridge for us, made of creamy p.b. Aww thats either cute or depressing.

And this is what came to mind as I sat in my swivel chair at my desk. I hadn't yet mastered a way to logically transport p.b. without it getting on everything. The fork idea was short-lived. I sat there with a celery stick trying to scrape every last smear and I suddenly realized how I must look from the outside. Hunched over trying not make a mess, a celery stick held carefully--I probably looked like a crack-head trying to get a final hit off their spoon or however that whole thing works. Oh well, addictions are addictions I guess.

But unlike crack, p.b. has only enriched my life more. Not that I would ever/have ever done crack. But I'm still sure it doesn't enrich your life. You know what, let's get away from the whole crack-thing.

So yes, it is my obsession. P.b. makes everything taste better, it can be warm or cold, it's a cheap filler, and can be eaten for breakfast, lunch or dinner. I love how you can still smell it on your hands, and how it can be both salty and sweet, crunchy and smooth.

Ahh p.b...you're stuck to more than the roof of my mouth...you're stuck to my heart...