The thought of how to begin this uncomfortable entry is recovering the feelings of what went down in suburbia last night ... Matt asked me to help him put away the spaghetti sauce at work. That statement right there should mean nothing to you but it makes my skin curl and my stomach knot. I never knew this about myself until he asked.

Putting away the spaghetti has, in my 12 years of employment at the pizza shop, been a one man job. Everyone has their own style, of course, but never this oddness of summoning a coworker to help. I didn't like it as soon as he asked me. It felt terribly wrong and still does.

The sauce is kept heated in a large, long pan, but not too large that one person can't tilt it to dump it into the bucket for overnight refrigeration. In fact most if not all of my coworkers are dumpers, while I've never tried it. I have ALWAYS preferred to spoon the meatballs and every last drop of sauce into the bucket. I actually enjoy the task too. I could justify to anyone why it makes more sense to me to do it my way ... but last night I realized I was THE only spooner, and more importantly, that I do it my way out of quirkiness. (I don't intend for this to turn into a post about quirks. It's just that I'm tired, lost for a better descriptor, and too lazy to elaborate.)

(I am also the only one who uses the long paddle to pull pizzas out of the oven. My boss even installed a hook by which to hang the long paddle. Just for me. The long paddle will, in motion, hit a tall guy in the nuts, though it has never happened.)

Anyways. Sauce dumping ... I have to add here that my boss started lining the sauce pan with a plastic liner sometime while I was away having baby #3. The plastic liner turned out to be the ideal tool for dumpers. I admit I tried it, but only after spooning out meatballs and a hefty amount of sauce first. I found it awkward and lacking the appeal spooning has for me.

Here comes Matt last night ... Help him dump the sauce. What on earth could he possibly mean, I was so curious. He sensed my apprehension and said he'd talk me through it. He and Britni had apparently teamed up to invent this insane idea. We were to each hold two corners of the liner, MEATBALLS AND ALL, mind you, and lift the entire potential mess out and into the bucket. My brain was registering this as very ugly, and it wasn't the mess factor but the 12 years of doing it one way--a way I liked--factor. I was thinking I had the worse end of it, having to lower my side into the bucket for the avalanche, but both handlers had it bad, Matt having to control the avalanche.

My job was also to rest my end with precision on the bucket for a clean dump. This I didn't know until trying and failing. Sauce missed the bucket, it was hot on my hand where part of it spilled (but thankfully not as hot as usual), and I had to lift my end and replace the liner more effectively.

I wanted to drop the fucking bag, but couldn't! I'm not sure I breathed the entire time! Oh. Matt, you didn't tell me my placement was the trick to the dump! With liner in hand, mess, and my strange disposition, Matt was even apologizing for making me do this, which I now find hilarious.

Alright, I wanted out of there so I tried again and succeeded, only to realize once finished that I so hated that experience and must have been an awful shade of lime green or something. Matt apologized more and we laughed a bit. I was on the verge of a panic attack, however. Whatever it was, it had me feeling alien to this planet.

12 years, man. 12 years of my very favorite, most comfortable and pleasurable way of transferring spaghetti sauce to its evening cool down and slumber. That sauce had to be sad for me. I know it hurt.

I think quirkiness may have found its way here on purpose after all, for it is much more comfortable for me to think the sauce has feelings than it will ever be for me to be a dumper ... or a short paddle!