TAMOLA: Raw almonds and fearing for my sanity

There’s a lot of messed up stuff going on in this world. So please join me as I complain about unimportant things that deserve no attention.

Who is better than you? No one, actually. We’re all gonna die a hot death sooner or later, and we all have to pay taxes, aaaaaaand we all find the Department of Motor Vehicles torturous. So, at least we have those morbid commonalities between us. There’s that. When God, the GEICO lizard or whatever being created this earth, I doubt he or she thought, “Okay, Susan is going to be better than Sandy because her parents are from northern Connecticut and can afford to buy her a collection of Vera Bradley picture frames.” Sometimes I think this is the sick, sad world some people live in. Just because you can afford a Lexus or a $4 yogurt treat, does not mean you are better than anyone else.

I’ve spent most of my life not really feeling better than anyone. That could be attributed to the fact that I spent many of my formative years (ages of 11 to 14) looking like an overweight Harry Potter, before he knew he could like, do magic and stuff. I wish they would have called me Harry Potter instead of the real nickname I received (Tinky Winky), but my friends and family are really sick of hearing me tell that story sooooo…I’ll stop.

Anyway, at my job, I’m constantly encountering people who think they’re essentially the Bette Midlers of our civilization…meaning, they trump us all. They’re better than me because their credit cards weigh more than my two pound weights I use at spin class (a new hobby in an effort to attain a sense of fitness and sanity). Anyway, some people are the Kate Middleton to my Lord of the Rings Gollum existence. They walk in channeling Heidi Klum, and I stand there in my mochi-stained sweatpants.

“Hey,” I usually say. Unless I’m asleep with my eyes open, which happened last Thursday.

Forty percent of the time, the response is: “I WANT TO TRY THE COCONUT LIME,” which in some countries across the world is considered a greeting.

Okay, so you don’t want to get to know me or how my day has progressed or what my favorite color is. Fair. However, when interactions like so occur, I decide that maybe an apocalypse headed by the tricycle-riding puppet from the “Saw” movies wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Introducing: the walnut man. Man walks in with wife. She sits down. Man approaches me and asks me what the “actual cocoa content” in our special dark chocolate is. I didn’t know because I don’t work for Martha Stewart Home Living. I didn’t even know what day it was. I found out for him, and the answer was less than desirable. I tend to have that effect on men. Anyway, his dark chocolate hankerin’ got him all perturbed that he quickly moved onto a question about nuts.

I thought he asked me about our nut selection, so then I gave him the entire spiel, emphasizing our “HOMEMADE HONEY NUT GRANOLA!!!!!!” Then, and I say this without any exaggeration, he folded his arms, titled his head back and did the following.

“(Angry face of anger) I saaaaaiiiiiiiiid. Are. (two second pause) The. (two second pause) Almonds. (two second pause) RAW.”

Are the almonds raw? Are the almonds, raw? Did you literally get that from the big book on the world’s most annoying and uncomfortable questions?

Not my proudest moment, I channeled perhaps the rudest part of myself, and without thinking, retorted, “I DON’T KNOW.” Rage. Anger. More rage. Then he purchased a $7 yogurt and stayed in our shop for about an hour. It’s weird because the MEAN PEOPLE ALWAYS STAY.

Another time, after our bosses lectured my coworker and me that we had to serve people who knocked on our door after closing time, I saw my life flash before my eyes.

A young man, appearing to be in his early 30s, walked in and decided it was the operative time to call his girlfriend. He asked me to assemble a medium. Then he decided he didn’t want a medium. Not a big deal. Seriously, my coworker and I were so tired that we didn’t even care.

Then, out of nowhere, the man just started yelling.

“WHY. WHY ARE YOU RUSHING ME? THIS IS AN IMPORTANT DECISION!”

……

I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I demanded an engagement ring or asked you whether or not you wanted to be an organ donor.

Stress is understandable, but you are a foot taller than me and look like you can lift heavy things and stuff.

So now I figure I’m not going to be able to do my paper due tomorrow because my lifeless body is going to be shoved in a yogurt machine. A poetic and unsurprising demise.

The superiority this man conveyed was less, “I’m going to yell at you about walnuts,” and more, “Me big man, respect my authority at 10 p.m. on a Sunday while I yell at you about white chocolate chips.” OK. We eventually finished his $12 order, and then he tipped us a nickel. So there’s that.

I can’t even rage-listen to Iggy Azalea while working because some MOM complained to the owners that whatever music we put on didn’t serve as “child appropriate.” I’m sorry, IS THIS OR IS THIS NOT AMERICA? I NEED TO LISTEN TO SOME BAD WORDS SO I DON’T START CRYING INTO THE YOGURT MACHINE. I cry at my job about once every three months. Then I take some Oreo cheesecake to the face and ask Jesus Christ and my grandmother for guidance. In that order.