Arrest-room

On one of the episodes of "Enter the Chasm"- the podcast I was creating and co-hosting, I discussed one of my biggest pet peeves. Due to technical difficulties, this portion of the show never aired, but I still felt it was an interesting enough topic that I would instead write about it here.

What's my latest pet peeve? Bathroom attendants.

I know, I am horrible, and I apologize to anyone reading this who makes a living doing this job, but I can't stand walking into a bathroom with an attendant there. It's like walking into a coffee shop and having an employee walk you to your table, stand there, and ready to wipe any crumbs from your muffin off your table. And then expecting a tip. I can wipe off my own muffin, thank you very much.

I guess I've gotten particularly annoyed lately because I seem to keep running into them. About a year ago, I went to see a show at Rams Head Live. After dropping dough on parking, getting a ticket to the event, and buying a bottle of beer (Budweiser, for God's sake) I realized my funds were dwindling. I finally had to make a quick trip to the bathroom and as soon as I pop in, there she was. Complete with a big basket of toiletries and fresheners, she stood waiting, soap pump in hand.

I silently groaned, but what could I do? Nature was calling and I was already in her lair. Once inside the stall I sorted through whatever bills I had left- only to discover the smallest I had was a five.

Now I believe I have also made it abundantly clear that I am a rather cheap person. So the thought of forking over a $5 for someone to squirt some soap and hand me a paper towel seemed not only indulgent, but insidious.

Still, I am also a fearful, timid, and guilt-ridden individual, so the thought of trying to quickly squirt my own soap and grab a towel, sheepishly sneaking out without dropping money into her little glass jar made me even sicker to my stomach than my Budweiser.

So, with teeth-clenched, I walked out and let her hurriedly satisfy my sanitation needs. And then, making sure she saw the five spot I was handing over, placed the bill into the jar.

She seemed pretty grateful, so that took some of the bite out.

On another occasion I walked into the bar bathroom and spotted another bathroom attendant. This time, she had put up several signs all around the sinks explaining how she makes next to nothing, except for whatever she gets for tips. God damnit- I sunk another $2.

Finally, on a most recent trip, I walked into the cramped bathroom of a Tex-Mex restaurant down in Power Plant, and again, there was a bathroom attendant. Son-of-a..

All these previous times I had been guilted and prodded to just bite the financial bullet and tip these ladies.

Maybe it was the particular mood I was in; maybe it was the 3 Dos Equis coursing through my veins; or maybe I just felt it was time I took a stand and said "no more".

Or maybe it was just the fact that I had gone to the bathroom without my wallet.

In any event, I allowed the nice lady to squirt my soap and once I had rinsed off, hand me my towel. I dried my hands, tossed the paper towel in the trash, and bolted for the door.

I never looked back.

Peeling the Layers

Since I'm sorta new to the whole "cooking" game, I still find it interesting what I discover about myself and food. Through handling food and preparing it by my own hands, I am able to reveal facets about myself I never knew or thought were impossible. I like cheese- did you know that? Not all kinds yet, and I'm still texture-picky, but by making dishes I have found an unrealized love of cheese.

And I like onions. Onions, however, do not like me. Because every time I meet a fresh onion, I wind up looking like a character from a slasher-film in her final showdown scene- my eyes tearful and hand clutching a knife, trying to eliminate the enemy.

In other words, onions make me cry. Terribly. Painfully. I have realized from recipe to recipe that for some reason, my eyes are highly and helplessly susceptible to the burning sensation the smell of onions gives off.

I first thought it was a novelty. I had always heard that cutting up onions can make people cry, so it wasn't all that shocking when I started tearing up. What I had not factored in was WHY they made people cry.

It buuuurns, it BUUURNS. I remember the first time; proudly leaning over my new cutting board, nice new sharp knife in hand and trying to mimic the quick slicing I had always seen on Food Network, when the board became blurry. My nose began to run. And suddenly I began wincing.

It felt like I had just dumped a whole bottle of soap detergent directly into my eyes; the burning was incredible. I stepped away, trying to rub my face without letting my hands actually my skin. After several moments of blinking so much I looked like I had an odd tick, the burning subsided at last.

From then on, I knew the drill; the second that initial bite hit my eyes, I quickly moved over to the kitchen door and breathed in the fresh air. It worked sometimes- other times I was too focused and stayed in my place, and by the time I stepped away it was too late; my eyes burning so bad I couldn't tell which tears were from the onions or the pain.

So when the recipe for tonight called for chopped red onions, I was ready. As soon as I began peeling and slicing, the painful burn began to penetrate my eyes. In that second I walked away and breathed the fresh air. I had to repeat a few times just to get the onions ready, but it worked! I left them on the cutting board while I made the other parts of the dinner, tears still inside the ducts.

A short while later, I was sitting with Joe at our kitchen table discussing something, when my eyes began to itch. And then water. And then burn.

What the hell? I thought. I chopped those damn things over 10 minutes ago! As I tried to wipe away the tears that were now starting to stream, Joe asked if I was alright.

"Yes!" I said, "it's those damn onions! I haven't touched them in almost 20 minutes! How the hell could they burn my eyes now? And from here!?"

Finally, with a few swipes of my sleeves, the burn subsided. I guess those onions will find a way to get me one way or another. No sense crying about it....

Eye Contacts

Don't you hate it when someone is walking towards you and you don't know how long to hold the eye contact?

I was walking down the hallway at work today and was about to pass a coworker. I glanced up, and rather than doing my usual quiet "hello" and small nod, which I usually employ for people or coworkers I'm not too close with, something possessed me. He's a nice guy and we've hung out in a group for after-work happy hours, so I guess my mind was trying to process something a bit more congenial.

Meanwhile, my eyes were still locked with his. It wasn't until he finally broke in with a "Hey" that the spell was finally broken and I responded with a "hey", too. As we finally passed each other I began cursing myself, imagining what my coworker was thinking of my dumbstruck, open-mouth appearance, as if I was short a few chromosomes.

I do the same kind of eye-contact stand-off every day when I first come into work. I always pass the security desk on my way in, and normally the person behind it is too busy to notice my coming. However, there is a lady security guard who, when not on her phone, usually notices me. If I'm not paying real attention I might keep my head down, kinda diverting any eye contact at all.

But typically, I mindlessly look up and find myself in an another eye-lock. I wait, and wait, and the finally mutter out a "mornin'" when I can't stand the pressure anymore.

Maybe I should just start wearing blinders; anything it takes to escape the minute instances of social discomfort.