On Ranch Flavored Pringles

I'm a picky eater.

I'm such a picky eater, a friend asked if it would faster to be list what I did eat rather than what I didn't, and I actually had to think about that question.

(With vegetables, at least, the "yes" list is definitely bigger than the "no" list.)

But even with snacks.  Salty before sweet.  Salty before everything.  But there's a salty snack hierarchy.  Pretzels over chips.  (And I will tell you BRANDS.  Snyder's over Rold Gold.  Actually, Rold Gold are the bottom of the pretzel barrel.  Snyder's first, then store brand, THEN Rold Gold.)  If we're into potato chips, Ruffles over Lays.  Tortilla chips after that.  Sun Chips are inedible, and don't even get me started on Cheetos.  (Fritos are in a special category -- I LOVE Fritos but find it hard to stop at a healthy amount.  Fritos are acceptable on special chip-eating occasions, like Super Bowl Sunday, but otherwise must be avoided so I don't eat the whole damn bag.  I probably need a sponsor for Fritos.)  And what sick bastard invented Funyuns?  You'll see me standing in the chip aisle staring at the Variety Packs of single serve chip bags for 20 minutes, trying to figure out if there is any combo pack of chips I'd actually eat every selection in.

There isn't.  I want NACHO CHEESE Doritos, you morons, not Cool Ranch.  What sort of abomination is a Cool Ranch Dorito?

I'm also picky about other things.  One might say compulsive about germs and hand-washing.  There's anti-bacterial hand gel in pretty much every room of my house (and conveniently dangling from the side of my purse -- so I don't even have to unzip the bag to clean my hands).  I'm all about the tidy.  I try to be subtle about it, but people catch me rolling my eyes when they dip their hand back into the shared food after licking their fingers.

So, hey, remember Sunday when I went white-water rafting?  (Jeez, was that just SUNDAY?)  When we stopped for lunch, I really needed the break, because I was exhausted.  And I didn't realize I was hungry until the guides started chopping apples, and then I thought, "Holy FUCK, I need food."

While the guides are still setting out the buffet (they'd flipped a raft over to make a table), they realize we might be really fucking hungry, so they open a couple tubes of Pringles and toss them to us to share.

Ah, passed hors d'oeuvres.

Someone offers me some Pringles.  Ranch.

Ranch Pringles.

I've taken off my soggy paddling gloves and dried my hands on :::looking around::: myself.  Other rafters in similar states of unclean have been digging in this can of Pringles.

I pause for the briefest of seconds; decide I really don't care THAT much; shrug the briefest of shrugs -- and eat Pringles.  Ranch Pringles.  With dirty hands.  Out of the community Pringles can.

They're delicious.  I eat more.  Pringles aren't bad.  Ranch is actually a pretty darned tasty flavor.

And I know this is situational.  I am not going to go back to "civilization," drop by the supermarket, and pick up a three-pack of Ranch Pringles.  It is only because right here, right now, I'm hungry and tired and far from a sink or hand-cleanser or any of the 20 snacks I'd buy before Ranch Pringles, and the Department of Any Port In A Storm has provided the glorious port of ranch-flavored Pringles.  They really seem quite flavorful.

I think about other times I've done this.  In the real world, I won't open a window unless there's a screen on it 'cause I don't want to let bugs in.  On vacation in Fiji, I stayed in a little one-room hut where the wooden windows were just propped open with planks.  And I mean, SURE, you could shut the windows but it would be hot as hell in there because it isn't like this place has air conditioning.  (It doesn't even have a floor.)  And as I went to sleep that night, with the windows propped open, I saw a little lizard thing hop on in and hang out on the wall.  And I shrugged and thought, "you know what? fuck it," crawled inside my mosquito-netted bed, and slept until the sun rose.

And part of me notices this and kind of LIKES the fact that Vacation Me can set aside of Home Me's bullshit and still get through the damn day and ENJOY IT.  And I have this possible epiphany, wondering if MAYBE this is part of why people like camping -- not necessarily the being outdoors part, but the seeing-who-you-are-when-you're-outdoors part.

And then the next day, I did the pottery-making thing.  And driving to that, it dawned on me that I was going to spend a couple hours with dirty hands and clay stuck underneath my nails.  And, good Lord, I HATE having dirty hands and stuff stuck underneath my nails.  And I told myself, "Self, you signed up for this, just bring Vacation Me."  And I DID bring Vacation Me.  And they gave me a little rag to use to wipe off my hands, and I used it when I was too dirty to actually get a smooth grip on the clay, but, mostly, I just let the clay gather up on me, just BEIN' messy, confident in the knowledge that when the class was over I could wash up and go back to being Mr. Monk.

This may be part of the 50 for 50 which I hadn't actually thought about when I was putting it all together.  It's not so much the Jumping Off The Stratosphere part of this that's a stretch for me -- I tend to enjoy jumping off things.  It's the little parts where I'm pushed a teensy bit outside of my comfort zone, and learn that I can thrive there.

And survive on Ranch-flavored Pringles.