Monday, May 31, 2010

More for me

posted Fri, 10 Aug 2007

The other good news is that I happened upon the Carnival Skittles. Sometimes, these things happen when you're not looking for them. I was in the Hannaford's in Waltham, just checking out the free samples (watermelon, fresh mozzarella and blueberry pound cake) and the prices (normal, unlike The Peoples' Sincere Mostly Organic and Fair Trade Rich Customers Socialist Co-Op in Cambridge, where tomatoes cost $3.89 a pound and they weren't even organic) and seeking a diet soda. After I checked the meat counter and the ice-cream case for samples (none), I made my way to the cash registers and grabbed a root beer from the refrigerator case. I was just giving my money to Olga when I noticed an endcap display with about five bags of Skittles on it. When I looked more closely, I realized these were the long-sought and coveted Carnival Skittles, with candy-apple, red licorice and cotton candy flavors.

I grabbed the bag and threw it onto the conveyor, even though it was the one-pound size. In retrospect, I should have sought the smaller bag, but I was so excited at my find and so sure someone would snatch it from my hands that I acted hastily.

I didn't start eating right away. I waited until just before SH picked me up for our trip back into Cambridge, then had a handful. They were good, but nothing worth writing home about. (Although, apparently, worth writing to the world about.) I decided to save the rest for a sugar emergency and threw them into the car.

After a few minutes of driving, even as a passenger, through Boston, where road signs and lane markings are for sissies, I decided the emergency had arisen. I opened the bag and was preparing my mouth for the yellow candy-apple Skittle (why don't they make that one bright red -- you know, candy-apple red? Whose idea was it to color the candy-apple flavor yellow?) when SH said, "Those smell awful."

I have recently learned that those words or anything similar are SH code for, "I do not want such items in my presence. I cannot bear the consumption of said items in my presence. If you insist on eating those things, I will refuse to kiss you as I hate the flavor of that sort of candy so much I cannot bear to taste it secondhand."

This epiphany came about as a result of my chewing gum while we were driving around town looking for the perfect fan. I'll admit that I have rather odd gum-chewing habits -- I chew only until the sugar is gone and then I spit it out, which is why I usually only chew alone. But my standards had slipped and I had chewed more and more frequently in SH's presence, thinking he didn't mind.

Only he did. But rather than tell me outright, he tried to hint about it: "That stuff stinks." (It doesn't.) "I don't chew gum." (No, but you'll eat tendon?!) Etc, etc. It wasn't until I spit out the last pellet of some sparkly gum with flavors like raspberry-grapefruit (I spit into a container and I am very discreet) that he lost it. Actually, the precipitating event was when I leaned across the seat to kiss him.

"Don't kiss me!" he snapped. "You taste like gum and I hate that stuff."


All you had to do was say so. It's not like gum chewing is a habit I'm proud of anyhow.

I shrugged and said, "OK."

Then he continued, listing all the times I had chewed gum in the recent months (I told you he's The Rememberer) and how much he disliked it.

"OK," I said. "I get the picture. I won't chew gum around you any more."

Yet he persisted in listing my gum transgressions. I HEAR YOU!!!! I SAID I'LL STOP!

Honestly. Why don't men come with dictionaries? I need the Man-Woman dictionary so I can figure out what SH really means when he says something.

But now I have begun to crack the code. I'll become a closet gum-chewer and Skittles eater again. I don't suppose the world will miss my doing these things so much. As long as he doesn't decide he can't stand chocolate, I'll be OK.

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