The Never-Ending Battle

Do not argue with my mother about food. More specifically, do not ever bother attempting to convince her that you are, perhaps, not a freak if you have different food preferences than she does.

Because you ARE a freak. Here is a brief list of foods that I cannot stand to eat:

Mayonnaise
Butter
Margarine
Hot oatmeal with milk poured onto it
Sweet pickles
Sour cream
Beef
Pork (except for bacon burned beyond recognition)

My mother has verbally bitchslapped me for not liking these foods. She says "You just don't know what's good. That's what's wrong with you."

The main conflicts we've had over food have centered on mayonnaise. Mom can't fathom what kind of imbecile would eat a sandwich without mayonnaise slathered onto it. Every single time she has made me a sandwich in my entire life, she has either put mayonnaise on it against my will, or, beginning about ten years ago she stopped putting mayonnaise on it automatically, but asks "You want mayonnaise on this?"

To which I respond "How many years have you been asking me if I want mayonnaise and how many years have I been saying no?"

To which she responds with either "I thought maybe you'd snapped out of that crap" or "You still don't know what's good" or her extra snarky "Oh you're just SO picky, aren't you?" And I won't even describe the nuclear blast that occurs when she agrees to put only mustard on the sandwich, but puts it on there WITH HER MAYONNAISE-Y KNIFE! She does this on purpose. She wants to lure me into believing I have won the battle and then she launches her horrible condiment missile into the demilitarized sandwich zone. And she takes great pleasure in doing this.

I've tried to reason with her. I've told her that taste preferences are exactly that: preferences. They are the OPINION of your taste buds. Everyone likes different foods. I deliver a marvelously eloquent speech about how I have never in my life persecuted someone because they like different foods than I like. And that when I make HER a sandwich, I courteously put on the condiments of her choice. Because *I* offer people the freedom to decide what tastes good and what tastes like slimy martian afterbirth. I give examples of the foods that Scott loves to eat, but that I find abhorrent, like sushi, and steaks cooked rare enough to be wrung out like a bloody sock and hung on a clothesline. But because he is FREE TO CHOOSE such disgusting things to eat, I let him be.

"And so," I tell her, "you should get off my back and realize that I will never like mayonnaise and this is my right as a human being."

"Well, you're just a queer," she says. And by "queer," my mother is not referring to a slur on homosexuals. She means that you are too effing stupid and weird to be on the planet. And so you should piss off.

She took extra delight last night when my sister brought her special "Hawaiian Hoagie" for supper. I made broccoli and cheese soup (I do not cook...I mixed up water and powder) and my sister brought the hoagie. It's a big round loaf of bread, sliced into 6 thin bread layers. She stuffs the layers with beef, ham, turkey, onions, cheese, lettuce and tomato on it. And between each layer, she puts on MAYONNAISE. The flack I got at the dinner table for picking off the beef and ham was enough. But when I started performing microscopic surgery on the thing, scraping the multi-layered mayonnaise off with my scalpel and then sponging up the excess, you'd have thought I was jamming a screwdriver into the shiny finish of the dining room table.

My sister and mom were like coyotes suddenly poked with hot sticks while watching baby bunnies run freely over their front paws. My dad and I looked at each other, perplexed, unable to even sort out what they were saying. I did hear a few shrieking words.

Apparently I am a queer.