Meccanized

Yoo-Hoo.  Shorty.  Schmecca.  Meccalizer.  Tiny dancer.  I’ve had a wide variety of nicknames in my 25 years.  I can now add another one to the list:

PPH girl.

You know what that stands for?  Pesto-Parmesan Ham Girl.  You know who gave me that nickname?  The deli employees of Mollie Stone’s.

Full disclosure: I like pesto-parmesan ham.  I order a quarter pound of it pretty much every week.  I use it to make sandwiches and omelets and ham and cheese quesadillas.   And, sure, maybe it has been a few…months…since I have gotten any other deli meat.  But there are always different servers, so it didn’t even occur to me that anyone would notice.

Well, apparently, deli people talk.  And, also apparently, I am the only person who consistently orders pesto-parmesan ham.   Hence the nickname, “Pesto-Parmesan Ham Girl” (or PPH, for the cool kids).  In fact, the man who served me tonight told me that there was a bet going as to if PPH would finish the entire slab of meat all on her own (and how long it would take her to do so) — he could have been kidding, but I’m not so sure.

Of course, he told me this as he was slicing me a quarter pound of…what else…pesto-parmesan ham.  I felt compelled to buy something else at the deli counter just to prove that I couldn’t be pigeonholed that easily.  So, right now, I am staring at a container of salmon covered with mango salsa.  You know what that mango salsa has in it?  Cilantro.  Foiled again.

It alarms me that my life has become so routine that the local deli has a nickname for me.  It alarms me more that my inner-competitiveness is driving me to continue to order pesto-parmesan ham until I finish the whole slab (just to prove that I can).

You know what really winds me around the axle?  (Someone who shall remain nameless but who lives with my mom and answers to the name “dad” told me that I needed to find a new phrase for “grind my gears,” because, according to him, “when you read all the posts in a row, it gets a bit repetitive.”)

You know what really grinds my gears?  People who shamelessly self promote.

But I can handle grinding my own gears (and, by definition, I am kind of already Meccanized), so here goes:

I wrote a post for my company’s blog describing a cool PR experience I recently had with a client.   Check it out!

http://tinyurl.com/cotgje

Just a quick post before I go to sleep.

“Hearts of Palm.”  It was an item on my grocery list yesterday, important enough that it had its own line on my note pad.

I go to Mollie Stone’s.  I get my hummus without incident.  My yogurt with no problem.  My quarter pound of pesto parmesan ham sans difficulty.  All I have left to buy is one damn can of hearts of palm …

… which, of course, is on the highest possible shelf in the canned vegetable area.  I stare at it for a second, wondering if there is some way I can safely knock one down without hurting myself.  After vetoing that idea, I notice a 40-something man a little farther down the same aisle.  Like any civilian in need, I explain my predicament and ask him for assistance.

His response (before even getting me the can)?

“Wouldn’t this be a great story to tell our kids someday?  That mom and dad met because mom couldn’t reach a can of vegetables?”

An uncomfortable few seconds ensued.   I stood drinking in the proverbial big cup of awkward, a frozen half-smile on my face (a relic from the happier, normal times a few minutes before).  He made no attempt to pluck the can in question from the shelf for me.  I finally couldn’t stand it anymore, mumbled “oh, I forgot I need this,” grabbed the first can within my reach from the shelf and skittered away with my basket.

I just wanted some hearts of palm.  Instead, I got an unsatisfied craving and a can of creamed corn (yuck) that now sits on my counter silently reminding me of the discomfort of the afternoon.

I’m not even sure what grinds my gears about this.  Asking for help and instead getting an unwelcome pick-up attempt?  Asking for help and not actually getting help?  Having to go through my weekend without my hearts of palm fix?

All of it.  Meccanized.