Pretentious

Sunshine likes to eat peanut butter and apples. I don’t get it, but ok.

I’m getting psyched up to go to the big box store for a supply run. Sunshine asked if I had brought any apples home from work. My response just drove home that pretentious feeling I’ve been having about myself lately.

My job is to sell fruit and veggies. In order to sell produce at work, we give free samples to everybody. Once they taste how good our stuff is compared to what they get at the big box stores, we generally wind up with loyal customers.

Before we start giving out samples, we do a lot of tasting. I’ve seen the boss throw out entire shipments of watermelons because they don’t meet his standards. He will try and find someone who will use them for something: feeding livestock, composting, target practice, something. Just this week, a whole shipment of mangoes went away.

Side note: my boss has some seriously high standards for produce. What he calls a “bad” watermelon is still often way better than what can be found in the big box stores. He’s picky as hell. Which means that the shit we sell is superb.

If you ever want to hear anything pretentious, just sit in on a taste-testing session at my work. Or become the fly on the wall inside our heads. It can get a bit pretentious.

Like the aforementioned apples. I’m such a bitch.

Before I started this job, I had already gotten ridiculously picky about apples. I wouldn’t eat any apple that wasn’t an ambrosia apple. Well, my boss got his hands on a new variety of apples: sugar bee. I forget how it came to be that I actually tried one; the boss probably asked my opinion. I was actually impressed with those sugar bee apples. They’re not an ambrosia, but I liked them enough to take some home. Sunshine really liked them, too. Unfortunately, sugar bee apple season is over. So when Sunshine asked if I had brought home any apples, what came out of my mouth was some snobby shit about the flavor being “meh” and the texture being terrible.

It got me to thinking about our taste-testing sessions at work. We critique the melons. We discuss flavor, sweetness, texture, and appearance. I’ve often wrinkled up my nose at watermelons because the texture isn’t right, even though the flavor is exactly right. We get a lot of people wanting black diamond watermelons, and I don’t get it at all. I have yet to taste a black diamond watermelon that was even slightly good, and I feel like a fraud when I sell them to people even though people insist they want one.

Inside my head is even worse.

Like blackberries.

We have a pasture filled with wild, organic blackberries. They are pretty much divine. So I have some pretty exacting standards for blackberries. Most of the blackberries we get at work are just gross to me (mind you, the customers love them because they are light years beyond anything they’ve encountered in big box stores). I taste a floral note to most of the blackberries available out there, and I don’t like it. Sometimes, the floral note almost tastes like a chemically induced floral note, which I abhor.

Cantaloupe. I hadn’t eaten a cantaloupe in decades until this job. I was always disappointed by the ones I bought. Well, I was never disappointed by my boss’s cantaloupes. And then he introduced me to Pecos cantaloupe. He created a monster. I refuse to buy any cantaloupe that isn’t a pecos, not even for Sunshine. The Pecos cantaloupe has such a thick, rich, stereotypically cantaloupe-y flavor; they are also so sweet that it’s like cantaloupe flavored liquid sugar.

I can’t stop thinking how pretentious it seems to dismiss entire varieties of cantaloupe, and an entire type of watermelons, and all apples except one or two strains, and entire categories of foods (blackberries, strawberries, etcetera) because I’m such a picky bitch.

Now, I’m off to eat a slightly green banana. Because the yellow ones are too mushy.

Somebody please save me from myself. Because this sort of pretentious nonsense is going to wind up starving me to death.

Advertisements

Lurch

Sometimes, I feel like Lurch out here. As in, we seem to constantly lurch from crisis to crisis. Sometimes, a crisis leaves a permanent reminder, like the hip issues I was left with after the great septic system debacle.

This week’s crisis de jour is The Fucking Internet Fiasco. Mr B decided, less than a month ago, that he was going to cancel both internet accounts and install one new one for everybody to use.

Side note: nevermind the fact that we had two separate accounts because one account left everybody fighting each other for bandwidth (which isn’t exactly a community building experience), and we’re also going to ignore the fact that he did thus without consulting anybody but the voices inside his own head. That’s all ranting best reserved for some other day.

So there we were, about a week and a half into this demolition derby experience of fighting each other for bandwidth, when Mr B decides to order up another internet provider. Without consulting anybody but the voices in his own head.

Here I am, one day later, with no fucking internet service except the one tiny little bar of 4G mobile service that my smartphone is clinging to for dear life, praying to the internet gods that it’s enough to get this post out. I have almost reached a point of complete and total insanity that involves ending my Netflix and Hulu subscriptions and not paying any internet at all, leaving Mr B to pay for this shit all by himself.

I’m starting to give up hope of ever having steady reliable internet service, and can only hope that getting my own account in my own name prevents this from ever happening again.

When I found out about this latest move by our great leader the dictator Mr B, the top of my head exploded. I still haven’t found it. I’m pretty sure it’s somewhere between here and Jupiter, so if you see a strange glowing object in the sky–don’t panic, it’s not an alien invasion, it’s just my still-smoldering head making its way home to the rest of my body.

I can’t wait to see what man-made crisis we lurch to next.