There was a time early in my relationship with Naomi when we picnicked in her vineyards and she said, “I just can’t find anything wrong with you.” It was of course that honeymoon phase, the first few hallucinatory weeks when everything is as light and effervescent and fun as a flute of champagne. And while I tried to savor her sweet sentiment, I couldn’t help but dread that impending day when reality set in and the happy thought bubbles stopped rising so rapidly to the surface.
Well, I’m here to report that this day is now upon us. And it’s especially noticeable when we are dining out. Naomi says that my indecisiveness and high level of specificity when ordering food annoys the servers and embarrasses her. And so sometimes when I hem and haw and stall with the menu, or ask for my bagel “lightly toasted,” or request the vodka sauce from one dish to be replace the marinara on mine, I can expect a “love tap” under the table and the ensuing black and blue and sore shins the following morning.
Now I’ll be the first to admit that taking my order can be a tedious and tiresome task. Not only because three tables could turn over in the time it takes me to order, but because there’s a strong possibility that once I finally do make up my mind, I will chase you down two minutes later at the computer and order something entirely different. But none of this bothers her as much as me poaching off of other people’s plates, though.
For some reason, whatever is on your plate is always more appealing than what’s on mine - even when we’ve ordered the same goddamned thing. I’m a food vulture. I’m that annoying friend whose fork harpoons your home fries before you’ve even finished buttering your toast, and the guy who gawks at your last bite of food. “You seem pretty full, huh?” I might suggest. And for this reason, nobody likes to sit near me at the dinner table.
Being that guy around family and friends is one thing, but for some bizarre reason I have no qualms about poaching from complete strangers. At wine tasting dinners or weddings, for instance, I’ve been known to nudge the random man to my left and say, “So, um, what’s going on with those mashed potatoes? Not your favorite, huh?” Even worse, I’ve been caught eating food off of other tables. To be fair, when the woman sitting next to us at the sports bar grabbed her belongings, dropped her napkin on her plate and left, both Naomi and I thought she was leaving.
“She didn’t even make a dent in those nachos,” I said, my eyes drooling.
“Don’t even think about it,” Naomi scowled.
“What? I don’t see any reason to dump those in a landfill when I can dump ‘em in our toilet later tonight,” I joked.
She wasn’t amused.
“Seriously,” I said, “They’re still piping hot.”
“We can order our own,” she said.
“Yeah, but only want a few, don’t worry.”
“Do you want me to walk out of here right now?”
“No, stay put, I’ll tell you how they are.”
And so I reached over to her table and started snacking. How was I supposed to know she was only going to the bathroom? And it’s things like the little altercation that unfolded when the woman returned to find my fingers in her food that make Naomi nervous about bringing me out. “You have no boundaries,” she said on the ride home. In fact, she’s said it so often it’s become a sort of soundtrack to the relationship.
If only she knew just how few boundaries I actually had, she wouldn’t have let me through the door. How should I put this? Have you ever opened your medicine cabinet and had the bizarre sensation that something was a little off? Maybe the floss was on the wrong shelf or your nail clipper was facing the opposite direction. Or perhaps the bristles on your toothbrush were unexpectedly wet. You might have closed the mirror and thought you were losing it because, really, who would use another person’s toothbrush? But just as you were about to walk out, something would catch your eye and you’d lean in close to your mirror and shriek at the sight of white spittle on the glass that vaguely resembles toothpaste, or worse, plaque! Suddenly nauseous, you might have hovered over the toilet in case you got sick and only felt sicker when you saw someone’s crusty toenail trimmings circling the bowl. What the fuck?!? And then it would whip you like a wet towel. Somebody was freelance grooming with your toiletries.
And that someone was probably me. Until I started dating Naomi I didn’t have regular access to fancy nail tools. My teeth trimmed just fine and I was still flexible enough to bite most of my toenails. But then again, if I came across a clipper in your cabinet, I’d sometimes peel off my socks and tame my toes over your toilet bowl. (Sorry if I forgot to flush). And I certainly didn’t waste money on Q-Tips. I’d wait until I had trouble hearing the highs and lows on your stereo, and then I’d sneak off into your bathroom and fill your waste bucket with caramel-coated sticks. Hygiene was something I said to my landlord, Gene, not something I practiced with any regularity.
Fortunately however, there’s something about not wanting to get dumped by your dream girl that greases your chain and makes you grow up at a faster clip. And now that I’m living with a woman who has things like floss and nail cutters and expectations for the type of guy she shares her bed with, you no longer have to worry about Windexing my white stuff off your mirror. Now I do that stuff within the boundaries of my own bathroom.
And while Naomi needles me about the food poaching, my honest-to-God guess is that she secretly relishes in my immaturity. I’m her little fixer upper, her pet project. And that day when I got caught nacho handed, I could swear I saw her crack a smile that said you’re dangerous and unpredictable and sexy. A smile that said since I can’t take you out in public, not ever, we should just stay in bed and ravage each other like animals, like chimps, like beasts. But I’m not sure she’d be so keen on kissing me again if she ever knew that sometimes, like if I’m at your house and my tongue feels fuzzy, I will still secretly use your toothbrush. It’s okay that the honeymoon has ended and she’s found some things wrong with me. But she certainly doesn’t need to know everything.
posted by Scott Keneally @ 6:28 PM
3 Comments:
It's so strange to be amused and repulsed at the same time. Yuk. But really fucking funny. Nice work.
well thanks, i think. i'm not totally sure why i feel the need to expose EVERYTHING. it's a weird theraputic thing. like i would go totally insane if i had to keep all my eggregious idiosyncrasies to myself.
thanks for reading and commenting!
scott
I can kind of understand that there are people who would do things like this, but who the hell actually ADMITS to it? You are cornering the market of shamelessness. Keep them coming!
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