Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Consciously Rising Above Paranoia (CRAP)

I'll admit it: I'm a hypocrite.

I said I'd never work in food services, and here I am with my hands wrist deep in organic chick peas (which are neither "chicks" nor "peas"... discuss). I mean, my entire life I have been sort of irrationally disgusted with half-eaten or partially eaten food. The thought of putting my delicate hands into the leftover muck left by others was enough to send me running for the hills with tears streaming from my eyes, snot dripping from my nose, and my arms waving frantically like a marionette on crack.

EH! How disgusting! How vile! I'm not quite sure what is the most revolting aspect of touching the food. Truly, it's harmless. It can't hurt me. I know that. But, I can compare touching Somewhat-Hardly Imbibed Trifles [SHIT] with that feeling when I pick up dog poop with a plastic bag or paper towel: Even though my hand never comes into contact with the frightening substance and I am otherwise fine, there is still that revolting feeling that sends shivers through my body. Oh man. I hate it when I have to do that. Some people are so natural at it! I envy them. They're all "It's natural! No big deal. I just pick it up, as if... (they look softly into the distance) as if I was simply plucking an enchanting flower from an azure meadow. Bend. Pick. Done." And I'm all "EWW!! IT'S WARM!"

Where was I? Ah yes...

Oh enchanted world that hath beset these troubled times upon mine depraved being. Why dost thou forsaketh me! For what have I done to deserve this... this... culinary quandary! I think, therefore I am. Henceforth: I touch, therefore, I am employed.

Example: Today I had to "clean the sinks" at closing. Oh god. Such a harmless title, and such a sinister understatement. They were completely covered in SHIT. SHIT everywhere.

And now I present to you, the climatic song at the end of the First Act of SHIT the Musical entitled, "Moving On (I Don't Care)" In this song, Mateo, the good-natured but seriously confused Puerto Rican immigrant, gets over his irrational fear of SHIT:

On the chair
On the bowls
In my hair
In the stove
SHIT everywhere!
SHIT everywhere!
Watch me stare!
It's covered in SHIT and...
I (crash) DON'T (crash) CARE! (a sustained F)

Tomorrow should be fun,

No comments: