The weather was still nice enough to permit a pleasant walk to the grocery store, so I walked to the grocery store. Specifically, I walked to the grocery store to buy soup. Not canned soup. Freshly made, hot soup that one can ladle out for oneself. This is a blessing. Heart palpitating, I walked to the back of the store to browse the soups. I came upon the label, “New England Clam Chowder,” and cautiously lifted the pot’s lid to peer inside. I picked up the ladle and stirred the steaming concoction around a bit. I was absorbed in my examination of the ingredients when–
“How does it look?”
Me (startled but stable): It looks good. :)
Friendly Fellow: [something something something, I don’t remember]
I selected the appropriate-sized soup container. Friendly Fellow scoops up a sample of the clam chowder, tastes it, and grimaces hyperbolically.
Me: You don’t like it?
Friendly Fellow (still grimacing): It’s kind of flat.
Me: Oh. It says here that it has tabasco sauce and worcestershire sauce…
Pause as we both look at the list of ingredients.
Friendly Fellow: Do you want a sample?
He tries to hand me a small cup for sampling.
Me: No, I’ve had it before. I like it. I like all the stuff in it.
Friendly Fellow: [Something. I don’t remember because I was spilling clam chowder all over my hand.]
Me: Well…I guess that I prefer flat over funky.
Friendly Fellow (with a nod): I’ll take flat over funky any day.
I chuckled. I had to stretch out my arm uncomfortably far to get a lid for my container. My arm got in the way of a male grocery store employee. I put the lid over my soup and walked away as the employee said “Let me scoot past you, darling.”
I must be in a funk, to use the word “funky.” I never use that word. This was an unfortunate instance to use that word.
another noun: A music that originated in the mid to late 1960s when African American musicians created a rhythmic, danceable new form of music through a mixture of soul music, jazz, and R&B.
verb: To fail through panic
Yeah, I’d say that I failed through panic. I mean, I said “flat over funky.” I was not thinking about the implications of that word choice. Maybe I am overanalyzing.
Anyway, the soup was satisfactory and neither funky nor flat.
My boyfriend’s dog understands the goodness of soup.
I was telling a coworker that no one’s favorite holiday is Thanksgiving. The Pilgrims and Native Americans didn’t even like Thanksgiving. That first Thanksgiving was probably just filled with tension and awkward half-conversations. Just because someone agrees to eat with you doesn’t mean he’s not wanting to kill you. Each bite of turkey could be your last.
Me: So we keep up that Thanksgiving tradition of social anxiety and tension by gathering together with relatives!
A few minutes later
Me: I never liked Thanksgiving in elementary school. The crafts were stupid. I always liked Valentine’s Day crafts. The only thing I liked about Thanksgiving was that we always had stone soup. Whoever got a stone in their soup got extra dessert.
Coworker gives me a weird look as though he had never heard of stone soup before. I walk away.
Daily, I wonder if I am developing another kidney stone. I am very wary whenever I feel a dull pain in one of my sides. The thing is, if I get another stone I will likely have to pass it on my own this time. I went septic in late April when I got a kidney stone. Ya know, the week before finals. After the infection went away, they found out that a bunch of fluid was filling my lung cavities and my heart was not pumping it away. They had to drain my lung cavities and the numbing shots hurt very badly. The radiologist reminded me of Dennis Hopper. I told him that as soon as I got out of the hospital I was going to eat Fruity Pebbles.
The urologist didn’t want me to pass the stone on my own, due to the infection. They put a stent up my ureter, which made peeing very, very painful. After several months of painful peeing, I finally got an electromagnetic shockwave lithotripsy. A very nice experience.