a large soup and a life story

Things I discovered about my cashier while paying for my soup at Hale and Hearty today:

:: He received an Easy Bake Oven as a gift at the age of eight
:: He credits the device as one of the leading causes of his addiction to food as an adult
:: He blames the rest of his addiction on his mother, with whom he shares a love/hate relationship
:: His cousin home schools his children
:: Those kids "dress funny" and "drink a lot"

What I said to prompt this revealing slice of life: "Hello!"

Lesson learned.

one split pea and hold the harassment, please

Dear Dude Who Slings My Soup:
When you first started working at my soup shop of choice, I have to say that I found your enthusiasm and attentiveness most pleasant. The way you'd chat me up while discussing my soup selection was extremely charming.

I thought you were a real sweet kid and it was a nice change of pace from the usual grunting sour pusses I often encounter in the food industry.

Over time, I sensed that maybe you had a wee crush on me. You'd light up when I walked in and elbow past your coworkers to wait on me. In fact, as I recall, your glowing testimonial of the Spinach and Asparagus Bisque was laced with flirtatious patter and a bit of mild innuendo. But it was rather innocent and you were right -- the soup was delish -- so no harm, no foul.

But lately your behavior has veered in the direction of... well, FUCKING CREEPY. For example, the impassioned "Mmm! Mmm! MMMMMM!" you showered me with the other day was rather unsettling. Perhaps it wouldn't have been so bad if you didn't have a cold, steely look in your eyes and weren't sucking on your teeth as you said it.

Frankly, it sent shivers down my spine and I couldn't help but envision a ball gag, duct tape and a chalk outline surrounding my battered, lifeless body.

I just wanted some soup, dude.

Now, a different person might have marched up to your manager and complained but well... I like my soup without spit in it. If you were to be fired or disciplined, I would imagine my photo hanging in the kitchen like a wanted poster inspiring all your ladle-bearing brethren to hock loogies and worse into entire batches of the Broccoli-Cheddar-Mashed Potato I love so much.

I can't have that. And gross bodily fluids and city-wide outbreaks of food poisoning aside, I just don't like telling on people.

So just give me my soup, dude. And don't forget the crackers. However, you can forget about getting with this cracker, if you will.

Best,
Curly McDimple

the accused

Today for lunch I bought a nice, steaming large cup of cream of broccoli soup from Hale & Hearty. I heart H&H. I keep them in business. But the aroma of today's selection was quite pungent. I was transporting the soup back to my office and the smell immediately filled the confined space of the elevator in the short trip from the lobby to the 4th floor.

In other words, the elevator was a moving Dutch oven, so to speak.

A woman on the elevator looked at me disapprovingly because, I'm guessing, she thought the smell was coming from my nether regions as opposed to the bag I was holding.

What do you say? "I realize it smells like a fart in here but that was so NOT me. It's the broccoli, ma'am, the broccoli."

Had I been feeling a bit mischievous, I may very well have gotten into the whole "Whoever smelt it dealt it" debate but then again, she could have countered with, "Whoever denied it supplied it" and then where would I be? "Oh yeah, well whoever... um... uh... JUST SHUT UP!"

False accusations of farting are following me today. I just went to the ladies room to do my afternoon tinkle and as I was crouching, my sandal-clad foot slid forward on the tile.

These tiles are those small, slightly raised cubes with really grungy grout in between them. The bathroom is ancient and its acoustics lend for some unfortunate echoing. Luckily for me, I can't poop at work. I physically cannot do it. I rarely do it outside of my home. It's a hang up I have but not a bad one, I might add.

Other people's digestive schedules dictate that they visit the can during work hours and I feel sorry for them. I can feel the tension in the air when they're already mid-poop and others enter the bathroom. I know they're hoping we'll just hurry up and get the hell out so they can finish in peace and solitude. I respect that and try to accommodate them.

But my point is, any noises and sound effects that blare from my stall are fake. Like today's experience -- as I was saying, my sandal scooted forward on the tile making a rather unfortunate, flatulent noise. I was mortified. I wanted to yell, "It was my shoe!"

I even tried making the noise deliberately several more times in the hopes that my coworkers would realize that the noise was not man-made. There was a pooper several stalls down so she was probably relieved that someone deflected the attention from her drop off. I feel like I did her a favor or something. My good deed for the day is done.