So everybody knows I've broken up with boys. Or been broken up with. I'm not married, so the jig is up on that one. But in my 28 years of wise-ass-ness, I've realized there are a number of things I'm sick of pretending to like. I continue to act as if they need to be a part of my life and what I really need to do is cut them out.
THE LIST
*Potato salad: At any given barbecue, you'll see me spooning heaping piles of potato salad on to my plate. When this moment is occurring, I really do think I like potato salad. But then I sit down and take a forkful, put it to my mouth and realize: "I hate this stuff." It's mustardy. It's starchy. It has celery (one of my vegetable nemesis). Grandma Lil had somewhat of a redeeming potato salad in that it had hard boiled eggs in it. But all in all, I'd say potato salad and I are done for good.
*Cole slaw: Otherwise known as potato salad's younger, grosser sister. Again, I trick myself into thinking I like this crap. I think deep down, it's been psychologically burned into my brain that I must like potato salad and cole slaw, because my parents had it at every party we had. I outright rejected Italian sausage, but somehow the other two salads didn't make it into that category. Done.
*Candy canes: This also includes the circular mints you get at restaurants. I want to meet the person who has eaten an entire candy cane. If I'm eating candy, I'm rockin' Snickers or Hershey Kisses. If I need fresh breath, I'll kick it old school and pop some Spearmint or even go exhibition and sneak a Tic Tac in my mouth.
*Crowded bars: A couple weeks ago, I went with crazy college friend Neha to a couple bars in Wrigleyville. I hadn't been to Moe's Cantina since the Sangria incident (where Lauren was nearly banned from Bacchi pizza for "messing" up their bathroom). I haven't been to John Barlycorn's since my days of smoochin and runnin' (a lucky spot for me, I must say). But, I returned on the premises of a bar crawl. Big mistake. It wasn't necessarily the young crowds at these bars that turned me off. More the inability to move. I kept wanting to say "can we find a table so we can talk?" But I knew nobody would hear me over "Apple bottom jeeeeeaaaaaannnns ...booots with the fur (with the fur)."
