Mundane Minutiae, Vol III: Spaghetti and Meatballs

A couple of weeks ago at work I was preparing to put my lunch in the microwave when a guy made the comment "Lasagna with a side order of lasagna, huh?" (The Tupperware container I was using had compartments, and they were all filled with pasta.)

"Yep."

"Nothin' like homemade food though, right?" he said.

"Indeed."

And that was the end of the conversation.

I was thinking about that conversation while I was walking home from the bus stop when I got to thinking about how I like Italian food, but only the common kinds. I like spaghetti, lasagna, and chicken parmesan, but you're not going to find me going much further than that.

Certain people like to kid me about my "pickiness" when it comes to food, chiding me by asking "Well, how do you know you don't like something if you haven't tried it?"

The truth is I don't know, but what does it matter? I know that if I order the chicken parmesan that it'll more than likely be good and I will enjoy my meal. What's wrong with that? (You're boring, you're not willing to take chances, that's no way to live life, I know...)

Then a weird thought popped in my head: My aversion to trying different foods is sort of like being a married couple -- or being in a long-term relationship, for that matter -- in a way.

Think about it: When you marry someone, you've decided that this is as good as its going to get. You don't know that this person is perfect in every way; maybe there's still someone out there with the same record collection, or who shares the same love of whiskey and the Brewers. (Note: I'm quite certain this person doesn't exist.) But you don't need to know, do you? If it feels right it feels right. When you're comfortable enough with someone to want to spend the rest of your life with them that's all that matters, right?

Of course, unlike taste in food no one's going to get on your case about not testing unknown waters. (Unless the marriage/relationship is a train wreck.)

So there you have it - marriage is like spaghetti and meatballs to me. And there's nothing wrong with that.

Mundane Minutiae, Vol. II: Even When I Win I Lose

Anyone reading this knows that I am not a conversationalist. This is perhaps highlighted by when someone asks me how I am doing. My standard response is usually "I'm all right." or "I'm okay." followed by silence. This is my message to the person that the conversation is over and that I'll be moving. Part of the reason I do this is indeed because I'm a prick and I don't care how you're doing. I will not deny this.

I am not completely a sociopath, however, as even though I don't ask, I still hope that everything's going just fine, even if you happen to be a complete stranger, even one that I don't particularly like.

There is a different reason that I don't reciprocate on this particular question, though. It is because, through many years of observation, that no one in the history of the world that, when asked that question, has responded something like: "Fucking shitty! My wife left me, my dog died, and when I went to a hooker to feel better, I caught a case of the crabs!" I'm exaggerating, obviously, but when you're having a bad day people tend not to confide in mere acquaintances in hallway; they bitch to their friends or significant others.

This, mercifully, brings me to my point.

A couple of girls that work upstairs bring me various FedEx packages and Priority Mails throughout the day, and usually they stop to talk to me for a few minutes. This is not because I am so awesome; it is because I think I represent a respite from their dull day and an escape from their boss whom I can say firsthand sucks ass.

This has been going on for a few months. The conversations aren't flirty -- they both have husbands and children from what I gather -- and they aren't particularly interesting. They've asked about my recent furniture shopping and usually query whether or not I got "wasted" on a particular weekend. (I think they think that I am an alcoholic that gets drunk by himself, which I can't technically dispute.) Usually the conversations end not because of an obvious "out" but because I am socially retarded and say things to them while walking away, or while not adding to a particular point I was making. Once, one of them -- upon learning I spent a night drinking in front of my computer -- mentioned that she had a friend that was particular lonely... my response? "I don't need any more friends."

Obviously there are no budding friendships between us.

Today, they came down as usual, and one of them -- let's call her K -- opened with "So when can I apply for the mail room position?"

I replied "I dunno, it'll probably be a long time."

"Aww, I'm about done with [my current position in the company]."

So I asked K against every bone in my body -- and every conversational experience I've ever had with anyone I've ever met that was not close to me -- "Sounds like you're having a bad day, huh?"

The two of them walked away while the other one -- A we'll call her -- said, "yeah, bad career even!"

I was kind of taken aback. I was being a decent fucking human being if only for a few seconds, and I was denied.

Perhaps it's as simple as that they were only supposed to come down and give me their FedEx packages and get upstairs because their boss was cracking the whip. This is entirely possible. But my cynicism (and low self-esteem) says it's something more like "Oh God, creepy dude from the mail room actually wants to talk me, what do I do? Oh yeah, bail!"

Now if this were the 23-year-old me, I would have written a 3000 word story about it and won an award in the process. But this is the 28-year-old me, and though I care enough to write about it, it doesn't bother me as much. I can just brush it off as interesting, and move on.

Mundane Minutiae, Vol. I: What genius came up with the great idea to drink all night?

Oh, wait. That would be me.

It would be slightly more okay if I drank and drank because of the heartbreaking loss the Packers suffered last night, but I actually turned the game off before it became exciting. (I did follow along via text messages and intermittent check-ins to ESPN.com) At that point -- 31-10 in the 3rd Quarter -- I had had probably 5 beers. Most people having to work the next morning might have called it a night at that point. Not me.

I guess I thought I felt pretty good, so why not feel even better? I proceeded to have 7 more beers and a nightcap of vodka and 7Up. You know, because I was thirsty.

I went to bed at 12:30, woke up at 6:50 to go to work. It was not kind to me, but I made it through. I'm such an idiot sometimes.