I was writing an e-mail to Nancy’s friend Alan just now, which reminded me of something about which I need to blog. The timing is particularly appropriate as Mothers’ Day was Sunday. I hereby state for the record that I have a horrid, mean mother who subjected me to utter torture as a small child. In a public forum, so everyone will know what challenges I had to overcome to reach adulthood! It’s a miracle I’m not in therapy, what with the abuses this woman inflicted upon me. What makes it so awful is that she did it with the full knowledge and consent of my dad and my grandparents! I’m talking, of course, about ORANGE JUICE.
Not REAL orange juice, mind you - that’s sort of the point. Instead, she made me drink this nasty, gelatinous goo that was vaguely orange-ish in color only. It came in frozen cans and plopped out in a slimy surge of orange sludge. Then Mom would mix it with water and force me to drink it - what a wonderful way to start the day! I’d sit there trying to choke it down, gazing at that one lump of goo floating at the top of the pitcher that would never dissolve, no matter how long she stirred it. Such were the horrors of my childhood. I shall never forgive her. Never.
My disgust turned to maternal resentment once I moved out on my own. It was a normal, ordinary autumn day and Kroger was filled with normal, ordinary foodstuffs being examined by normal, ordinary shoppers, when suddenly a shriek like that of a banshee with an ingrown toenail rang out from the refrigerated section. That’s right: I had discovered how expensive fresh-squeezed orange juice WASN’T. Armed with cartons of blissful, lovely Tropicana, I went to confront her.
“But angel!” she said, in a pathetic attempt to deny the abuse, “We thought it was better for you! It was fortified! It had extra vitamins and nutritional supplements, for better growth and development.”
“And I got such benefit from all those extra vitamins when the nasty ook you’d put them in made me heave! And you had the nerve to nag me about my posture! Well, my poor posture is YOUR fault because if I’d had REAL orange juice, I’d have had CALCIUM! It says so!” waving my carton of Tropicana in triumph.
“Angel, everybody told us to use the enriched concentrate. Parents’ magazines, articles in the newspaper, government studies...we thought it was much better for our children.”
I looked skeptical and snarled, “A likely story...I’ll need proof. Show me one! Find me ONE article that says it’s better to make your poor innocent children drink thick, gooey crud floating in water instead of ORANGE JUICE!”
Of course she couldn’t, but she tried again. “It’s like milk. You know how there have been different schools of thought, just in your lifetime, about how breast milk was better, then everyone thought formula was better and now it’s back to breast milk again?”
“Nice try!” I sneered. “We’re talking about orange juice, not milk!”
“But angel - “
“But if we WERE talking about milk, I’d have a bone to pick with you about that as well. Two percent?!? TWO PERCENT?!? What’s the other ninety-eight percent, that’s what I’d like to know!”
“Water, I think, or - “
“WATER! Which is absolutely no good whatsoever, or you wouldn’t need to mix it with gooey orange-like gunk in order to feed it to children!” Gotcha.
I shall never forgive her. Never.
Since that terrible day of discovery, I have brought this subject up a number of times - mostly when she's trying to hit me with one of those maternal guilt trips. Carried me in your body for nine long months, did you? Went through hours and hours of excruciating labor, did you? WELL THAT SURE SEEMS LIKE A LOT OF TROUBLE TO GO THROUGH TO GET A RUG RAT IF YOU WERE JUST GONNA POISON IT WITH FROZEN ORANGE GELATINOUS GOO!!! Fed me, clothed me, sheltered me, huh? YEAH, FED ME FROZEN ORANGE GELATINOUS GOO!!!
A few months ago, she and Daddy couldn’t make the annual Christmas Eve dinner at my aunt and uncle’s house, so I took the opportunity to rat her out to our relatives. My Aunt Betty said, “Well, honey, everybody thought the concentrate was better. It was fortified with extra vitamins and minerals. All the articles and studies told us that it was much better for you than the regular kind.”
You realize, of course, what this means. She got to Aunt Betty! It’s a sisterly conspiracy. I shall never forgive her. Never.
Not REAL orange juice, mind you - that’s sort of the point. Instead, she made me drink this nasty, gelatinous goo that was vaguely orange-ish in color only. It came in frozen cans and plopped out in a slimy surge of orange sludge. Then Mom would mix it with water and force me to drink it - what a wonderful way to start the day! I’d sit there trying to choke it down, gazing at that one lump of goo floating at the top of the pitcher that would never dissolve, no matter how long she stirred it. Such were the horrors of my childhood. I shall never forgive her. Never.
My disgust turned to maternal resentment once I moved out on my own. It was a normal, ordinary autumn day and Kroger was filled with normal, ordinary foodstuffs being examined by normal, ordinary shoppers, when suddenly a shriek like that of a banshee with an ingrown toenail rang out from the refrigerated section. That’s right: I had discovered how expensive fresh-squeezed orange juice WASN’T. Armed with cartons of blissful, lovely Tropicana, I went to confront her.
“But angel!” she said, in a pathetic attempt to deny the abuse, “We thought it was better for you! It was fortified! It had extra vitamins and nutritional supplements, for better growth and development.”
“And I got such benefit from all those extra vitamins when the nasty ook you’d put them in made me heave! And you had the nerve to nag me about my posture! Well, my poor posture is YOUR fault because if I’d had REAL orange juice, I’d have had CALCIUM! It says so!” waving my carton of Tropicana in triumph.
“Angel, everybody told us to use the enriched concentrate. Parents’ magazines, articles in the newspaper, government studies...we thought it was much better for our children.”
I looked skeptical and snarled, “A likely story...I’ll need proof. Show me one! Find me ONE article that says it’s better to make your poor innocent children drink thick, gooey crud floating in water instead of ORANGE JUICE!”
Of course she couldn’t, but she tried again. “It’s like milk. You know how there have been different schools of thought, just in your lifetime, about how breast milk was better, then everyone thought formula was better and now it’s back to breast milk again?”
“Nice try!” I sneered. “We’re talking about orange juice, not milk!”
“But angel - “
“But if we WERE talking about milk, I’d have a bone to pick with you about that as well. Two percent?!? TWO PERCENT?!? What’s the other ninety-eight percent, that’s what I’d like to know!”
“Water, I think, or - “
“WATER! Which is absolutely no good whatsoever, or you wouldn’t need to mix it with gooey orange-like gunk in order to feed it to children!” Gotcha.
I shall never forgive her. Never.
Since that terrible day of discovery, I have brought this subject up a number of times - mostly when she's trying to hit me with one of those maternal guilt trips. Carried me in your body for nine long months, did you? Went through hours and hours of excruciating labor, did you? WELL THAT SURE SEEMS LIKE A LOT OF TROUBLE TO GO THROUGH TO GET A RUG RAT IF YOU WERE JUST GONNA POISON IT WITH FROZEN ORANGE GELATINOUS GOO!!! Fed me, clothed me, sheltered me, huh? YEAH, FED ME FROZEN ORANGE GELATINOUS GOO!!!
A few months ago, she and Daddy couldn’t make the annual Christmas Eve dinner at my aunt and uncle’s house, so I took the opportunity to rat her out to our relatives. My Aunt Betty said, “Well, honey, everybody thought the concentrate was better. It was fortified with extra vitamins and minerals. All the articles and studies told us that it was much better for you than the regular kind.”
You realize, of course, what this means. She got to Aunt Betty! It’s a sisterly conspiracy. I shall never forgive her. Never.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home