Sucker Punch

 

For years, people have poked fun, mostly in gest (I hope), regarding how much shit I'm allergic to.  These days, it's mostly foods that I need to be wary of, although there are some outside factors that can send me spinning into turmoil.

Allergic to the usual stuff, like nuts and sunflower seeds, which I don't even need to come in contact with.  If someone simply opens a bag or has a sandwich with peanut butter on it, my lungs tend to close up and breathing becomes laboured.  I'm also allergic to things like honey and beer and so many things that I doubt there's room to fit everything.  Chick peas, I learned the hard way, consuming some hummus at a restaurant many years ago.  My throat had closed off completely by the time I'd found a hospital emergency room that was open at 10pm.  This was when I found out that the City Hospital will not allow anyone in, no matter how bad they need medical attention.  Or at least that's how it was, twenty-plus years ago.

The one benefit to these allergies is that most of the foods that vegans and vegetarians (is there really a difference? 🤔) consume, is made with some item of food that I am deathly allergic to.  Sadly, that is the one and only benefit.  I'm allergic to dogs, so I doubt I'll ever be able to have a dog as a pet.  And I'm also allergic to beer, so there's no hanging out with the boys on the weekend, getting f*cked up and acting stupid.  Those who truly know me, though, are well aware that I'm able to act stupid, sans alcohol.

I'm also extremely allergic to perfume.  If women simply dab a little on, it bothers me, but I get over it quickly, but then there are those women who don't believe "just a dab will do", but choose to douse themselves with that nasty shit so that they don't just smell like whatever this shit is, but the environment around them does too.  One such lady boarded my bus on Monday and the smell has sent me reeling.  I've been sick for two, going on three days, so far.

I'm able to bounce back rather resiliently, but when my senses are overwhelmed, I find myself spiraling and I'm not even certain how to get out of the trouble it causes.  For three days, I've been sniffling, sneezing and coughing.  I've coughed so much that I swear my abs must look like a six pack, by now. (I haven't checked the mirror, but I'm happy to assume.)

The most unfortunate thing is I'm unable to go into the local drugstore, just down the street, as the moment you walk into the store, you're blasted in the face by a toxic mix of perfumes wafting towards the open doorway from the perfume counter greeting you immediately, like a slap in the face.  Like getting struck with a punch you weren't prepared for and as often as I visit this branch of Shopper's Drug Mart, I always forget that the perfume counter is right there.

For a company who prides themselves in the "ability" to help the public in need of remedies, they have a strange way of doing this.  Knowing how triggered many people's allergies are from just a whiff of perfume, WHY place the perfume counter at the front of the store?  The pharmacy should be in the front of the store and the perfume counter stuck back in the rear corner, away from the general public.

It's like the bulk store, putting nuts and peanuts at the front of the store.  I walk in there to grab some parmesan cheese, gummy bears or simulated bacon bits and I'm immediately punched in the stomach by rows of pecans, walnuts and peanuts.  Who designs this shit?  They need a firm smack upside the head.  Reboot that brain of theirs.

I remember as a kid, having such violent allergy attacks that it'd require my being placed in the hospital overnight or for a day or two.  I think it was my cousin's wedding that I went to, but had to stay in the Tisdale hospital, because we stayed at my aunt and uncles house, where they had a cocker spaniel.  Sparky, I believe his name was, but that's about all I recall of that dog.  That and he was completely black and would consistently make me sick beyond all belief.  Puffy eyes and laboured breathing.  I'd be hitting my asthma inhaler like a crackhead does his pipe, thus inducing an asthma attack, which for those unfamiliar is a scary situation.  Especially as a kid.  Each breath is a struggle.

As an adult, I've learned many techniques to avoid placing myself in such peril, but unfortunately, my job involves interactions with the public and that's a factor that I'm not in control of.  I can't predict the fool who will board the bus, ask me a question and spit a half cup of saliva on me in the process, just as I can't predict the woman who will dump a bottle of perfume on herself, instead of showering to get rid of her stink.  If anyone has any suggestions, I'm all ears.

The Bowls Are No Laughing Matter

I was sitting quietly on my bus, lost in thought when I heard a quiet voice beckon my attention.  "Mr. Bus Dwivah," he said softly, sounding almost apologetic, "My sista just punched me in the bowls."

I'd never heard this child make so much as a peep, before.  No 'good mornings' or 'good-byes', so I wasn't accustomed to his form of speech.  That aside, being a fellow dude, I know the seriousness of being hit below the belt.  It hurts to even joke about getting hit in the nuts.

I followed him back to his seat and spoke to his sister, who's a couple years younger than him.  A tiny little lady, she can't be anymore than kindergarten age, and even more quiet than the boy.

"Did you hit your brother?"  I asked.  She shrugged her shoulders and hunkered down in her seat, before whispering, "Yes."

"Are you sorry?"  I asked.  She shrugged.  "I think you need to apologize to your brother." I added, to which she shrugged her shoulders again and spoke a single word apology.  "Sorry?"

"That sounded like a question." I said.  I think you need to move to the front of the bus, for now." I said.  This form of justice doesn't seem to dissuade any of the others I pull forward, but having no idea how to speak to children, this is the only form of authority I feel I can wield.  When I requested she move forward, she stubbornly hunkered down even lower in the seat, and informed me that she was quite happy where she was and that she would not be moving.

A part of me almost wanted to grab the supervising teacher standing outside my bus, but I didn't want to get the school involved in a sibling squabble.  Finally, the boy, who's nuts had been punched, said that he'd move to the front.  I immediately told him that he needn't take the punishment and told him to sit wherever he liked.

I don't know what led up to the little girl punching her brother in the "bowls".  I doubt there's any problem so extreme at four or five years of age to warrant a punch to the nards.  Then again, I wonder just how hard she'd punched him.  He was quite able to spring to his feet, straight away, and come calling on me to intervene.  I, personally, haven't had a lot of experience being hit there, but admittedly, I have had the misfortune of sitting on them when climbing into my truck.  When I owned my Camaro, this misfortune happened quite often.  Thankfully, not in my Mustang, yet (knock on wood).  But whenever such an accident happened, I could barely say my own name, let alone go for a walk.

Whatever the case, it doesn't matter.  It's all speculation.  When I dropped the kids at there spot, the mother of the two kids in question was present and I made sure to inform her of the physical exchange between her daughter and son.  I repeated that I doubt any problem for kids so young, would warrant in a rebuttal like this.  After all, The Bowls Are No Laughing Matter.

Fudge Packer

Last week, I was in a particular mood.  For some unknown reason, I had a hankering for some ice cream cake.  In my youth, whenever I would get such a craving, I would answer the urge with a visit to Dairy Queen.  I don't know what the recipe is for their soft-serve ice cream, and frankly I don't care what the process is that goes into it's smooth velvety coolness.  I just know it is a delight when I feel it ooze down my gullet.

Granted, the folks at DQ tend to work a lot with a variety of nuts and alike (and that's just the people who work there - BA DUM BUMP), and the fact that they also make their confections with an abundance of peanuts and other legumes, makes my visits even more sparse.  I have a nut allergy.  Bad enough to put me in the hospital..., or worse.  However, on rare occasions, I throw caution into the wind, cross my fingers and hope for the best.  Hope that no cross-contamination has occurred in the preparation of my forthcoming ice cream treat.

So last week, when I got that rare craving for ice cream cake, I found myself walking into my local Dairy Queen location, with a grin on my face.  In the past, I'd always resorted to getting the "pizza"-style ice cream treat, but all they had this time 'round, was shit with peanuts and pecans and a whole host of other shit that should never find their way into any desert dish, let alone my ice cream bowls.  My eyes, instead moved to the cakes and logs.  

The prices have risen quite substantially since my last purchase, so an actual round "cake-style", was out of the question, as they neared the $30 mark.  I opted instead to go with an ice cream log.  The price was just south of the twenty dollar mark, still a little pricey for this thrifty soul, but the cravings overrode my self-respect and I found myself quickly exiting with a ice cream log in tow.

I'd never had a log that consisted of the ingredients that this treat did.  The bottom layer was soft chocolate ice cream.  The next level was crumbled cookie, then a thick layer of frozen fudge.  After that was Dairy Queen's trademark soft-serve vanilla ice cream, then topped with a subtle layer of whipped cream and dusted with rainbow-coloured sprinkles.  By this description, alone, I shouldn't have to inform you that this was tasty as a motherf*cker!  However, I'm going to tell you anyway.  This was tasty as a motherf*cker!  YUM, with a capital MMMMMM.

The ratios of each participating ingredient was perfect.  The only complaint I would air, and it's not really a complaint, but it would be the fudge.  The fudge is packed into the log, insanely tight.  I don't know the methodology used by Dairy Queen for packing the fudge into an ice cream log, but whomever is saddled with that task, is probably one of the top fudge packers in all of the industry.  If fudge packing were an Olympic event, then Canada would most certainly take the gold medal for fudge packing at this summer's Olympic Games in London, England.

Where does a person learn such a craft as fudge packing, and how many hours per day of fudge packing, did this individual have to endure, to become the champion fudge packer that he (or she) has become.  I feel bad, assuming the mystery fudge packer is a male.  I'm sure that a woman could also pack fudge in such a fashion, as well.  Although, given how tightly the fudge is packed into this log, a lot of upper body strength would be required.  The mystery fudge packer, in question, packed quite a wallop, getting that fudge packed in there so tightly.

I suppose, in a day when nearly everything is mechanized, it'd be easy to speculate that the fudge packer is not human at all.  That it's actually a robotic machine of sorts, that continuously packs fudge everyday.  The machinery alone, though, required to pack fudge into the logs so tightly, would be quite large and complicated.  Likely, it'd take up considerable room, and the Dairy Queen in my neighbourhood, is not that large, nor would their sales of ice cream logs (or any other fudge packed confection) would be high enough to warrant such a pricey contraption.  I prefer to think that Dairy Queen keeps the process close to tradition and uses human fudge packers, rather than mechanized ones.  Plus, a machine would fail to add a touch of love with each packed fudge.

Of course, I'm sure the freezing process probably plays a part in the fudge remaining as tightly packed as it is.  After packing the fudge in there so tightly, you'd want to flash-freeze that log as quick as possible.  No one wants to contend with fudge running out of that orifice after being slammed in there.  Fudge can make quite a hefty mess when allowed to run all over.  That is not a mess I would enjoy cleaning up afterward.  Especially after hammering all that fudge up into that hole.  So a good flash-freezer is a necessity.

Whether they are male or female, I salute and take my hat off to DQ's resident fudge packer.  I would not wish to shake their hand though.  I'm not being prejudicial towards their choosing to be a fudge packer, but given the environment they work in, I can only speculate that they also handle a lot of nuts in their hands.  Rolling them between their digits, their oils brushing off and sticking to their fingers.  It's one thing to be a fudge packer, exclusively, but I draw the line at anyone who handles nuts.  No offense.  To each their own.  However, I don't wish to run the risk of shaking this fudge packer's hand, and having nut juice spread to my hands and making me sick.  Plus, if you take into account, all the fudge packing this individual (or individuals) do on a daily basis, the upper body strength would be enough to rip my arm out of the socket.  And that, my friends, would suck balls!