April 3, 2011
As I may have perhaps mentioned on the odd occasion, I detest grocery shopping.
For SO many different reasons.
1. The other people who insist on being there at the same time I am.
2. People who block the aisle while having a conversation with their neighbour, talking like they haven't seen them in ten years.
3. The cashier who is so slow that Stephen could stand in line while I run around with filling our cart, only to return to the line just as Stephen is ready to put the groceries on the conveyor belt.
4. That no matter how well I grocery shop one week, or how much I spend, I will always have to go back.
5. Moving the groceries from the car to the house amid the antics of the cavorting canines and worrying all the time, "which bag has the meat in it?"
6. Putting the groceries away. Sorting out what stays upstairs, what goes downstairs.
7. And this is the new one:
Having to excavate inside the refridgerator before any of the new stuff is put in there.
Annoying and potentially life threatening.
That was yesterday.
Once we arrived home from yet another food foray, and managed to get the groceries in the house without Frankie escaping or either of them eating the lunch meat. . .
. . .which has happened before. . .
and after we had some lunch because there is NO way I am tacking putting groceries away while experiencing hunger. . . .
. . .it became readily apparent to me that the time had come to engage in some excavation.
Looking for things to salvage.
And things that were no longer recognizable.
The average household wastes approximately $500.00 worth of food in one year.
I am not the average household.
That isn't to say that there wasn't some pulling out of containers from the back of the fridge and upon looking at them saying, "What the hell is this?" or, "Isn't this from before we went to Montreal?"
But I work very hard to keep the need for such statements to a minimum.
Because I detest waste.
Hence why I am loathe to throw anything away.
Including food.
Seriously, the only thing standing between me being me now, and me becoming a hoarder is Stephen.
Who keeps nothing.
But I digress. . . .
The excavation yielded a number of items that were still most usable.
Forcing me into creative mode.
What can I do with this melange of roast chicken and vegetables?
Soup!
Homemade chicken vegetable soup to be exact.
And it looks heavenly.
Consumption will occur this evening around 6.00 pm.
The other issue was with the remaining bacon that had managed to escape Stephen's midnight munch fest the other night.
Pasta e Lenticcini it is then!
Two meals prepared for this week, and perhaps even some lunches if quantities allow.
I love being frugal!
Of course the other reason for the need to excavate was that we were becoming low on plastic containers.
Our usual chaotic mess of lids and containers was at an almost all time low.
Opening the door to the plastic container cupboard no longer resulted in the avalanche of cascading containers and lids all over the kitchen the floor.
I can't imagine a kitchen with a cupboard for plastic containers that was actually functional.
Where opening the door was akin to releasing pent up plastic.
Or being able to always find the matching lid for the container you've already filled up with some leftover or other.
To be completely honest, we have two plastic container cupboards.
One for the reusable plastic containers.
One for the Meredyth plastic containers.
The latter is because in the past we've sent her home from family dinners laden with food, only to have to physically go to her apartment at a later date to retrieve them all.
Instead of continually buying new containers, we started keeping containers that we wouldn't need again when she didn't bring them back.
Like the Styrofoam containers meat comes in.
I wash them is scalding hot water and soap, dry them and voila!
A Meredyth container.
Cored pineapple containers, take out containers. . .all grace a special cupboard just for Meredyth.
Because Meredyth is special.
Most people spend their life content with one pair of glasses.
They are studious and vigilant about keeping them on their person at all times.
Because they operate on the assumption that they will need them at some point so it's better to make sure you have them.
Other people, like me, must wear their glasses at all times.
If I don't, I can't see my hand in front of my face, drive the car, walk down the stairs, let alone try anything such as wielding knives or using ovens.
But there is a special group of people who, for reasons known only to them, must have more than one pair of glasses.
And in spite of having more than one pair of glasses, say as many as FOUR pairs of glasses, never have them when they need them, thus causing frustration and anger for those people who are with them.
In places like, oh let's say, bookstores.
Used book stores.
A veritable cornucopia of books from almost anytime about almost any topic, so that when you find yourself lucky enough to be in there, you feel as if you've found nirvana.
You settle in for a long, languid book hunt, anticipating one treasure or another.
Your husband-of-the-four-pairs-of-glasses has gone off to Cultures to purchase a recycled glass wine fob.
But you're not even thinking of him, because you are mesmerized by the leaning towers of books around you, those piled high on the floor, on shelves. . .everywhere you turn there are books, books, and more books.
You begin your search.
Content.
Happy.
And then a ripple in your pool of peace occurs when you're husband is at the front of the shop asking you to say something so he can follow the sound of your voice amid the shelves and piles and towers of books.
He finds you.
You say, "Why don't you go to the back and look for books about. . . ." because you want him to remain busy so you can stay there.
You've already planned this.
A backpack of food and water is on your person because you know you'll be there for a while.
And then, after you've uttered your directive you hear:
"I can't. I don't have my glasses. But it's okay. You look around."
But you know it isn't okay.
You know that within ten minutes of him blindly fumbling through the bookshelves, he is going to come back to you and ask:
"So, are you ready to go?"
And go you will because if you don't, there won't be a minute's peace.
Not one.
Resigned to leaving and not knowing when you'll get back, you take your ONE book to the counter, pay and walk out trailing behind him like a child who has been forced to leave a toy store.
And your only comment on the way back to the car is,
"How many pairs of glasses do you have, again?"
Title Lyric: I Like to Hide Behind my Glasses by Fishbone
No comments:
Post a Comment