As You Like It

Preppy and I are dining out, having a fine time. He’s having pasta. I went for the duck. As I’m going on about the week in celebrity tragedies, I notice he keeps glancing at my plate.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Remember that time we went to Piedmont Park and fed the ducks? Remember how cute they were?”
“Eat your pasta.”
“I’m just sayin’. You think your dinner knew those ducks? Maybe they were friends.”
“I wonder if his friends are this savory and delicious.”
I return to my meal. Until Preppy starts throwing pieces of bread at it.
“Quaaaack.”
I threaten him with my fork. We return to the meal.
When I first met my boyfriend, he described himself as a “pretty much vegetarian.” I found this compelling, as I was unaware there were varying degrees. I thought it was like being “pretty much pregnant.” That is to say, you either are or you ain’t. But Preppy explained that after many years of being unable to order anything at fast food restaurants, he’d amended his vegetarianism to allow for creatures of the sea. So these days, he just doesn’t eat anything with feet.
Years of working in restaurants left me mystified by people’s requests. When I was a server, I’d get the occasional vegan asking what their options were on the menu. I’d offer them a refreshing glass of water. Or people asking if there’s dairy in the mashed potatoes. Of course there is. Why on earth would you think otherwise? No self-respecting potato below the Mason-Dixon Line would allow itself to be mashed without copious amounts of butter and milk. And swear I never even heard of anyone allergic to gluten until the mid-nineties. Is that a new thing? How do you create a new allergy? Gluten’s been around as long as there’s been food. Why the sudden trouble?
This is why I wasn’t a very good waiter.

Because when I’d encounter such people, I was unable to suppress my need to know more, and I’d ask them to explain themselves. And then I’d offend them by saying something like, “Why does it matter where the chicken was raised? It’s a little late to worry about its quality of life now,” and they’d get offended, my manager would have to give them a free dessert, and I’d get a stern lecture about not interrogating the customers.
Preppy’s diet left me deeply troubled when we were first dating. Why fish and not pork? Is it because it’s easier to picture a mammal having a personality? I saw “Finding Nemo.” Fish are very droll and observant creatures with extraordinarily eventful lives. And for that matter, look at those “Veggie Tales” characters I keep seeing on posters at bus stops. You can anthropomorphize anything if you put a pair of googly eyes on it and give it a few witty lines of dialogue; I see no reason to let that ruin your dinner.
Living with him has been a really healthy development for me in this arena. My attachment to Preppy forces me to defend his self-imposed dietary restrictions, despite the fact that were it anyone else, I would consider it patently absurd. When I first explained it to my mother, who would kill a cow with her bare hands if it was the only way she could make brisket for Sunday dinner, it just blew her damn mind.
“But why?” she kept asking, and no explanation would suffice.
“Because that’s what he likes, Mama,” I said finally, and she had no argument for that.
Actually, “Because I like it,” is a pretty solid justification in any awkward scenario. Picture it: “Why do you only eat raw food?” “Why do you smoke?” “Why did you paint this room orange?” “Why do you have sex with other dudes?”
“Because I like it.”
Sure, they could exhaust themselves with inquiry or implore you to change your mind, but when it comes down to it, if you stand firm with that simple explanation it’s a tough one to topple. As I finish my delicious duck, and my boyfriend flaps his arms and quacks at me, I decide to use it more often. Feel free to do the same.
Try it, you might like it.

Shut Up and Drive

I’m in a parking lot, on the phone with Preppy’s mother. I’m enlisting her aid in some undercover work.
“Oh, Topher darlin’, I just don’t know,” she says. “I know his shoe size, I used to know his waist size, but this… I just don’t know.”
“Well, there’s no way I can ask him without him knowing exactly what I’m doing.”
“Just let me think, honey. Okay, I can tell him we’re going through some of his Granddaddy’s things, seein’ if there’s anything he might want, and work it into the conversation. I’ll be real subtle.”
There’s a tap at my window. A humorless, boxy woman stands with a clipboard, looking impatient.
“Gotta go, Mama B. Make me proud.”
I hang up the phone and roll down the window.
“Please turn on your left turn signal,” she says, and I oblige.
I’ve spent a thrilling day at the Department of Driver Services, which was called the DMV the last time I was here. They changed their name, I’m assuming, to distance themselves from the DMV’s less-than-stellar reputation for customer service. Well, they could call themselves the Department of Unicorns and Blowjobs if they wanted to, but they’d still be a big pain in the ass.
I stopped driving several years ago, in part because I lived a block away from work and the hassle just seemed silly, and in part because of my belief, and this is an actual quote, that “Nobody in their right mind would pay $1.75 for gas.”

Silly me. If only I’d known.
So for roughly six years, I’ve walked or caught MARTA, or bummed rides from friends if we were going somewhere out of the ordinary. This worked just fine until our adventure in homelessness last fall, when Preppy and I stayed with friends in Smyrna, and he had to cart me back and forth to Atlanta every day. And he began to go a little crazy, like my mother when she’d tell my sister and me that her name was not “Taxi”. It was then that he suggested it might be convenient if I joined the ranks of licensed drivers once more. I resisted.
“Atlanta drivers are out for blood,” I said. “I don’t know if I have the stamina to keep up anymore.”
“I know it’s scary, darlin’,” he said. “But you’re brave and bold and you can do it, now I'm gonna need you to go get your fucking license.”
I want to make something very, very clear: I do not want to drive. The whole image of the open road representing freedom and possibility? It does nothing for me. I don’t think cars are sexy. The whole enterprise just feels unsafe and expensive. But I cannot deny the appeal of a twenty-minute trip home by car, versus two interminable hours on MARTA. Besides, I can still convince Preppy to do most of the driving when we’re together- he just wants the option of not always being behind the wheel, maybe occasionally having a designated driver on a night out. But I know what this will lead to.

I’ll get the license, and then I’ll end up getting a car. And then I’ll have insurance to deal with, plus gas, which I think is like sixteen bucks a gallon now.
I can stress about it, or I can go with the flow. It’s a small concession I’m more than willing to make if it removes a little hassle from Preppy’s life. And that’s how I choose to view it: I’m in the car with this very stern woman, attempting to parallel park without wetting myself, as a gift to the boy I love.
That night, as I stare in slight disbelief at my driver’s license, my phone rings. It’s Preppy’s Mama.
“His ring size is ten and a half,” she says, delighted. “Did you already pick it out?”
“I saved a picture of it on my computer. I look at it ten times a day.”
“Are you nervous?”
“A little. But we did just buy a house together, so I feel like it’s a safe bet, you know? I guess tomorrow I’ll drive over and get it.”
“Aw, you’ll DRIVE. That’s exciting! Things are certainly changing for you two!”
As I look at the ring with which I plan to propose, I realize Mama B has just made the understatement of the New Year.