For lunch today, I had a Thai peanut chicken bagel sandwich. Had being a choice word, as I was barely able to keep the bagel together and enjoy it in its entirety. The ingredients kept slipping out, in addition to the bagel itself being poorly cut in half. I powered through most of it like a champion, and that's of utmost importance. I am not a fan of sloppy sandwiches, so it's unlikely I'll be enjoying this again anytime soon.
On the side was a little container of peanut sauce, where you could either drizzle onto the bagel or simply dunk it down. It made for quite the delicacy, and I was looking forward to using the sauce more and more as the sandwich became less and less. But soon that joy was gone.
I feel a strong sense of sorrow for those who have a peanut allergy. I mean I really feel bad for them. Imagine going through life never able to have Reese's products. Never able to enjoy PB & J. It's dreadful, because peanuts are awesome. Peanut butter is more awesome. And peanut sauce? Goddamn.
Peanut butter hit a critical point in my life roughly around 2000 or so. I was living in sin in Western New York, the frozen tundra of the East. Things were tepid. I didn't know it then, because I was a naive early twentysomething, thinking everything was super swell and grand and will somehow magically work itself out. It wasn't going to, but that didn't stop me from persevering through the weekly shit storm all around me. I was a recent college graduate, but still an eight-dollar an hour retail peon. I donned polyester clothes with a name tag to earn a living. Inside the apartment, the gal pal roommate was just that - the sad archetype of all my semesters chasing after her, constantly trying to prove myself to her, trying in vain to live up to her standards. We had absolutely nothing in common, but I kept at it. I didn't know it then, but I was always going to be that distant third or fourth on her priority list, well behind her days as a fraternity president, a gig she refused to let go and put behind her now as we became working adults.
Whatever passion the gal pal lacked in our fledgling relationship she made up for with a strong affinity for coupons. Like an old lady, she carried a coupon book complete with dividers and tabs. I somehow found her penny-pinching both endearing and annoying whenever we'd go shopping. Saving money is always important, and seeing how we were both recent grads in transition, it made sense. We'd focus more on generic brands rather than name brands - a tactic I sometimes employ today - while applying these coupons to their already low prices. It was a similar model my parents used back in the day. The glaring difference being my parents applied coupons to name brand products. For some reason, the name brand selection was deep-rooted in my family's history. I don't recall many store-brand boxes, cans, or frozen bags of food or drinks in our kitchen at any point growing up.
One of the staple items in my family's kitchen was Peter Pan brand peanut butter. Somewhere along the line, one of my parents (most likely mom) decided this was going to be the brand of peanut butter inside our home. Sure, we'd entertain another variety, trying to see if it worked out, but it never stood the test of time. No hard feelings JIF, but you just couldn't match up. I preferred the crunchy variety of Peter Pan, while others in the house enjoyed the creamy variety. We always kept the two different types in the cupboard.
Since the gal pal abstained from name brand groceries, I settled for what I considered an inferior brand from a cheap store. The generic Peter Pan. Petor Pon. Peder Pann. It was crap, and I didn't like it. Unfortunately, like every other time in our relationship, my opinions didn't matter.
Until that fateful day I took matters into my own hands.
One grisly February afternoon, the gal pal sent me on a mission. She wanted a few things, and was way too preoccupied with some brainless slop on television to get them herself. So away I was sent, along with, naturally, her coupon book. Now throughout time, I have had absolutely zero problems carrying around a lady's purse, tampons, anything of the sort. Never been much of a big deal to me. What was a big deal was this goddamn coupon book. I didn't want it near me. On the ride to the store it sat there in the passenger seat, silently mocking me. I was very disinterested in using whatever contents lay inside. However, the gal pal had me wrapped around her little pinky finger. I had to use these damn coupons. Or did I?
Her list of items were of the usual trite requests. I found all of them, and then proceeded to flip through that stupid coupon book for the corresponding slips of paper that was likely going to save us no more than two dollars at best. The last item on this list was peanut butter. Here I am, at a grocery store, by myself. What is she going to do? I want Peter Pan. What is she going to do? Fuck these coupons. What is she going to do? It's just peanut butter. I want Peter Pan. So, I got Peter Pan. Extra crunchy. No coupon.
I arrive back to the apartment where she is taking a nap on the couch. I quietly unpack the groceries and put them into the cupboards, tossing the bag into the trash.
I'm reading a book in the bedroom when I hear her calling for me in the kitchen.
"Why did you get Peter Pan? We don't have a coupon for that."
The gal pal investigated all of my purchases and saw that I had, indeed, bought a name brand product. She was livid. The rest of the vocabulary from her pie hole was spent in her usual patronizing manner, giving me talks about responsibility or some useless shit I didn't care about because it was fucking peanut butter. You are rummaging through the garbage can for a receipt to return some goddamn peanut butter! And that's exactly what she did. She got the receipt, got the peanut butter, got her shoes, gave me another condescending scowl, then left.
Later that night, she gave me more of attitude over the coupon ordeal, but I just rolled over and pretended to sleep. I had grown tired of the insolence in her voice.
She never sent me on a grocery shopping journey alone again.
Peanut butter hit a critical point in my life roughly around 2000 or so. I was living in sin in Western New York, the frozen tundra of the East. Things were tepid. I didn't know it then, because I was a naive early twentysomething, thinking everything was super swell and grand and will somehow magically work itself out. It wasn't going to, but that didn't stop me from persevering through the weekly shit storm all around me. I was a recent college graduate, but still an eight-dollar an hour retail peon. I donned polyester clothes with a name tag to earn a living. Inside the apartment, the gal pal roommate was just that - the sad archetype of all my semesters chasing after her, constantly trying to prove myself to her, trying in vain to live up to her standards. We had absolutely nothing in common, but I kept at it. I didn't know it then, but I was always going to be that distant third or fourth on her priority list, well behind her days as a fraternity president, a gig she refused to let go and put behind her now as we became working adults.
Whatever passion the gal pal lacked in our fledgling relationship she made up for with a strong affinity for coupons. Like an old lady, she carried a coupon book complete with dividers and tabs. I somehow found her penny-pinching both endearing and annoying whenever we'd go shopping. Saving money is always important, and seeing how we were both recent grads in transition, it made sense. We'd focus more on generic brands rather than name brands - a tactic I sometimes employ today - while applying these coupons to their already low prices. It was a similar model my parents used back in the day. The glaring difference being my parents applied coupons to name brand products. For some reason, the name brand selection was deep-rooted in my family's history. I don't recall many store-brand boxes, cans, or frozen bags of food or drinks in our kitchen at any point growing up.
One of the staple items in my family's kitchen was Peter Pan brand peanut butter. Somewhere along the line, one of my parents (most likely mom) decided this was going to be the brand of peanut butter inside our home. Sure, we'd entertain another variety, trying to see if it worked out, but it never stood the test of time. No hard feelings JIF, but you just couldn't match up. I preferred the crunchy variety of Peter Pan, while others in the house enjoyed the creamy variety. We always kept the two different types in the cupboard.
Since the gal pal abstained from name brand groceries, I settled for what I considered an inferior brand from a cheap store. The generic Peter Pan. Petor Pon. Peder Pann. It was crap, and I didn't like it. Unfortunately, like every other time in our relationship, my opinions didn't matter.
Until that fateful day I took matters into my own hands.
One grisly February afternoon, the gal pal sent me on a mission. She wanted a few things, and was way too preoccupied with some brainless slop on television to get them herself. So away I was sent, along with, naturally, her coupon book. Now throughout time, I have had absolutely zero problems carrying around a lady's purse, tampons, anything of the sort. Never been much of a big deal to me. What was a big deal was this goddamn coupon book. I didn't want it near me. On the ride to the store it sat there in the passenger seat, silently mocking me. I was very disinterested in using whatever contents lay inside. However, the gal pal had me wrapped around her little pinky finger. I had to use these damn coupons. Or did I?
Her list of items were of the usual trite requests. I found all of them, and then proceeded to flip through that stupid coupon book for the corresponding slips of paper that was likely going to save us no more than two dollars at best. The last item on this list was peanut butter. Here I am, at a grocery store, by myself. What is she going to do? I want Peter Pan. What is she going to do? Fuck these coupons. What is she going to do? It's just peanut butter. I want Peter Pan. So, I got Peter Pan. Extra crunchy. No coupon.
I arrive back to the apartment where she is taking a nap on the couch. I quietly unpack the groceries and put them into the cupboards, tossing the bag into the trash.
I'm reading a book in the bedroom when I hear her calling for me in the kitchen.
"Why did you get Peter Pan? We don't have a coupon for that."
The gal pal investigated all of my purchases and saw that I had, indeed, bought a name brand product. She was livid. The rest of the vocabulary from her pie hole was spent in her usual patronizing manner, giving me talks about responsibility or some useless shit I didn't care about because it was fucking peanut butter. You are rummaging through the garbage can for a receipt to return some goddamn peanut butter! And that's exactly what she did. She got the receipt, got the peanut butter, got her shoes, gave me another condescending scowl, then left.
Later that night, she gave me more of attitude over the coupon ordeal, but I just rolled over and pretended to sleep. I had grown tired of the insolence in her voice.
She never sent me on a grocery shopping journey alone again.