I can’t bring my whole self to work. It’s really bothering me. Like, chafing. I hate myself, ok, but not all the time and I like to bring the parts that I enjoy to work with me. It’s terrible when even those parts aren’t allowed at work because they’re not “professional” or because people are “bitches.” I don’t want to turn myself on and off because people can’t hang, and truly? I can’t stand when people are one way in one setting and completely different elsewhere. My therapist, who is much more stable and wise than me (obviously qualities you want in a therapist) reminded me that people aren’t all one way or the other, all the time, they just turn their volume up or down depending on the situation.
Fine. I can do this. I don’t want to, but the powers that be at work (and in the world) are old white men who don’t take always take kindly to sweary and hilarious women. It helps to think of myself as a plate of spaghetti, though, because life revolves around food and carbs are life. And I’m craving Olive Garden. As an aside, in my area they have an “Unlimited Breadsticks Half-Marathon.” I was all in. Until I thought for a minute and realized that Olive Garden serves unlimited breadsticks at the restaurant all the time and I don’t have to run for them.
Here are the different forms of me on a plate that you can order, depending on who you are:
Buttered plain spaghetti. For new people, people you don’t trust at all, people you don’t trust who are also in authority. Buttered spaghetti is palatable. Comfortable. It reminds you of childhood. It’s not objectionable. It won’t let you down. You won’t remember it either. This is your goal. You’re flying under the radar and living your life.
Overcooked cold spaghetti. You wouldn’t think there would be anything worse than buttered plan spaghetti, but someone pissed me off yesterday and I realized there was a level beyond bland and someone was about to get served. Cold. Overcooked. Noodles. Mushy. Clumpy. Stuck together in a ball. Who would even eat this? I’ll tell you who. Someone who came home after closing time, drunk and alone. Their paycheck hasn’t hit their bank account and all that’s in the fridge is a jar of pickles, a packet of soy sauce and baking soda. They remembered they cooked pasta for dinner but it sucked and they finished a box of cereal instead. But now they’re drunk and hungry. Fuck it. This personality is reserved for mean people who make me cry. Or, intentionally or not, embarrass me. It’s probably real easy to choke on cold spaghetti. Just sayin’.
Prego. Or whatever popular brand of spaghetti sauce. They’re not paying me. Buy your favorite jar sauce. Get whatever’s on sale that week. Buy store brand if that’s your jam. There’s a lot you can do to dress up jar sauce but you can start with that and then people can earn the flavor. Did they laugh at your mild joke? Cool. Sprinkle some parmesan on top. Did they say something a little bit vulnerable? Maybe next time they get some meatballs. Did they show you grace? Frank’s Red Hot, anyone? Don’t add everything all at once. I’m learning this. You have to add things a little at a time. It’s like they say on the Food Network: you can always put stuff in, you can’t take stuff out, no matter how much you want to put the parmesan back in the jar. You just have to remember to leave it off the table next time. Parmesan is delicious and underrated and you can’t just sprinkle it everywhere.
Your family pasta sauce. My mom’s pasta sauce is amazing. Yours is probably a little bit weird. There’s something off about Gina’s. Angelo’s family wouldn’t dream of putting meat actually in the sauce while it’s cooking. Phil’s familys sauce is downright disgusting. The point is you grow up with your family sauce and sometimes you wouldn’t dream of sharing that recipe with anyone else. You might only have really select people over for spaghetti night; maybe because the recipe is so amazing, maybe because it’s so weird only the right person would understand. Maybe you grew up with something you thought was sauce and then you tasted someone else’s family sauce and realized your family was putting ketchup on pasta all along and you’re only just realizing it. Point is, the family sauce is personal and not for everyone because not everyone is going to get it, and, let’s face it, everyone judges pasta sauce.
Your super amazing, secret recipe special pasta sauce. This is the plate you only share with folks who love whatever you make. Actually there’s no recipe because you’ve never written anything down. You just eyeball ingredients. You can put in as much cheese as you want. You can change things up from week to week. Sometimes it’s too spicy. Other times it’s bland. It’s frequently salty and just as often a little too sweet. Do I taste chocolate? Your friends might leave satisfied; they might stop at Walgreens for Tums, but they come back for pasta night, week after week.
This is the pasta you serve your friend who walks in on you crying in your office at work and cries with you.
This is the pasta you serve your friend who knows your most shameful secret; who said, I’m so sorry, how can I help?
This is the pasta you serve your friend who held your hair while you puked after a college bender, visited you in the psych (not socially acceptable!) hospital, stuck by you even though you’re kind of an idiot, for 20 years.
These are the folks who earn the super secret pasta. And they can have all the Parmesan they want.
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