Last night, as I was putting Hannah to bed, I overheard AJ complaining to Peter about how much my non-shopping week sucks. He's had some short school days and come home hungry only to find there's "nothing to snack on." (You know, except for the potato chips in the pantry, or the bananas, or hot dogs, or windmill cookies, or leftover chocolate cake...)
Later on I came down to the kitchen to pick up a bit and he stomped in and bitched at me about it (in a kidding-on-the-square kind of way). I put up my hand and said, "Did it ever occur to you to walk down to the corner store yourself?" He replied indignantly, "What is this, the 17th century?!"
That boy is spoiled. I mean, I can see how it's a pain in the ass to not have milk or bread in the house, and he is certainly accustomed to my taking care of this sort of thing, but jeezy creezy the damn corner store is less than half a block away. Last I checked, his legs are working, even if 80% of the time they're limply hanging over the arm of the couch. In the words of Apu: we will all have a chance to be gouged. What the hell would he do if I were incapacitated? Scavenge? Hunt? Gather berries? Gnaw off an appendage? What the fuck?
AJ's infancy is not the reason I might have to bend, though. Peter is continuing his Wheeze Through 2010 campaign with...this has to be his fourth or fifth illness of the new year. Kidney stone, flu, weird rash that he contends was not an STD, and now flu, we think, again...so it's the fourth. Poor guy, he's a walking hospital ward. Anyway -- and Peter, if you're reading this, I'm saying this with love -- Peter is nearly as clueless as AJ when it comes to feeding himself at home. If it's more complicated than opening a package or can, dumping the contents in a bowl or on a cookie sheet, and heating it, it's beyond his ken and it will somehow require at least three phone calls. He has gotten better over the years, but it's (perhaps unfairly) frustrating for me to look at a pantry and refrigerator full of possibilities for lunch and have them stand in front of it and say, "There's nothing to eat." Even so, Peter's sick. It would be needlessly cruel to leave him soupless or to fend for his own soup, wouldn't it? Sigh. We shall see, I suppose.
And for the record, here are the staples we are out of: milk, bread, plain yogurt (for smoothies), dish detergent, AJ soap, pinto beans, and grape jelly. I mean, it's not like we're dying here.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Holes
My purse has a mesh side pocket into which I usually slip my cell phone. I just tried to do so again, and the phone went right through and hit the floor. I guess the little hole is now a big one. Just like the one in my tights.
In other news
I would really like a tomato, and am regretting throwing away half a tomato on Saturday rather than saving it.
No soap
My teenage boy informed me this morning he is out of soap. If you have any experience with 16-year-old boys, you know they get rank in a major hurry. I don't yet know if this means "I've been out of soap for three days and am indignant that you didn't monitor my personal soap levels, so you MUST go to the store today or I will smell like a goat and leave moist contrails of funk in my wake" or "I'm running out of soap but am okay for a few days, so please pick some up next time you're at the store." It really is a toss-up as to which he meant. But assuming it's the former, it would really not be fair for me to withhold soap from him for my own purposes, would it?
Here's the other soap-related thing. We have four members of the family. We also have four different kinds of body-cleaning soap. Actually we have five; Hannah has one brand downstairs and another upstairs. We all have our own brands of shampoo, too. So when I make my shopping list, I can't just list, say, "soap" and buy a big-ass box of it at Costco so we're all set for soap for six months -- I have to specify "AJ soap" or "Erica soap" or whatever. As a result I'm running to the store more often because this or that person's special soap has run out. Thank god we're (relatively) consolidated on toothpaste.
This isn't to say that everyone else is the problem; obviously, I'm part of the problem too, with my salt scrubs and facial scrubs and fancy conditioner. I don't want to smell like AJ wants to smell -- but really, how long does that smell last? Half an hour before Old Spice Game Day or whatever is a distant sensory memory? Why does this shit matter to the point that I willingly consume more and more?
Here's the other soap-related thing. We have four members of the family. We also have four different kinds of body-cleaning soap. Actually we have five; Hannah has one brand downstairs and another upstairs. We all have our own brands of shampoo, too. So when I make my shopping list, I can't just list, say, "soap" and buy a big-ass box of it at Costco so we're all set for soap for six months -- I have to specify "AJ soap" or "Erica soap" or whatever. As a result I'm running to the store more often because this or that person's special soap has run out. Thank god we're (relatively) consolidated on toothpaste.
This isn't to say that everyone else is the problem; obviously, I'm part of the problem too, with my salt scrubs and facial scrubs and fancy conditioner. I don't want to smell like AJ wants to smell -- but really, how long does that smell last? Half an hour before Old Spice Game Day or whatever is a distant sensory memory? Why does this shit matter to the point that I willingly consume more and more?
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The lunch hour
Even though the gym is five minutes away from my office, when you factor in the time to get there, the time to change clothes, the time to shower, the time to change back, and the time to get back, you've got about 40 minutes tops to work out on your lunch hour, and that's if you haul ass on everything. Usually it works out fine -- I mean, you do what you can, right? -- and since I can't shop on my lunch break this week, the only other things to do on my lunch is eat lunch or read, and hell, I can read on the elliptical or treadmill for 40 minutes, so why not do it that way and eat at my desk? Even though I hate eating at my desk. But I digress.
When I go to the gym on my lunch break, the hour is more than accounted for (unless the power goes out at the gym, like it did yesterday, halfway through my elliptical stint, causing an orange, roided-out d-bag to fly off the treadmill he was pounding on, to my merriment) which means no stopping even for a quick errand -- no ATM, no Home Depot, no Borders -- unless I'm okay with running over on my lunch hour. I am sometimes okay with running over on my lunch hour, is the problem -- "I'll just look at the gardening magazines" means I walk out fifteen minutes later with $10 worth of magazines; "Oh, I needed to pick up some wire brads" means I pick up some wire brads and take a half-hour stroll through the garden center, with requisite garden purchases. I have so little willpower when it comes to some things that it'd be laughable if it weren't ultimately a little frivolous, and I am very good at creating reasons to go shopping. Even for things that are arguably pragmatic, it's more mindless than I like to admit, and the opportunity to shop is always in front of me, all the time. I'm actually a little grateful for an excuse to block the "it'll just take a second..." voice out of my head this week.
When I go to the gym on my lunch break, the hour is more than accounted for (unless the power goes out at the gym, like it did yesterday, halfway through my elliptical stint, causing an orange, roided-out d-bag to fly off the treadmill he was pounding on, to my merriment) which means no stopping even for a quick errand -- no ATM, no Home Depot, no Borders -- unless I'm okay with running over on my lunch hour. I am sometimes okay with running over on my lunch hour, is the problem -- "I'll just look at the gardening magazines" means I walk out fifteen minutes later with $10 worth of magazines; "Oh, I needed to pick up some wire brads" means I pick up some wire brads and take a half-hour stroll through the garden center, with requisite garden purchases. I have so little willpower when it comes to some things that it'd be laughable if it weren't ultimately a little frivolous, and I am very good at creating reasons to go shopping. Even for things that are arguably pragmatic, it's more mindless than I like to admit, and the opportunity to shop is always in front of me, all the time. I'm actually a little grateful for an excuse to block the "it'll just take a second..." voice out of my head this week.
Problems
I brought a tupperware container of cereal with me today for breakfast, but I forgot to bring milk. I considered dumping a bunch of half-and-half containers into it, but there weren't enough, so now I'm just eating it dry. Not the ideal situation.
And the thing I've been dreading, yet is entirely of my own making, is this: I have a short list of things I am looking for on Craigslist and at the Sal Army, because I prefer to buy vintage furniture when possible and because I am not rich. Namely: a white or paintable highboy dresser, a white or paintable daybed, and a small white or paintable desk for Hannah's room; a preferably '40s era dresser or chest for myself to replace my busted IKEA model; a desk chair for AJ's room (I'm still kicking myself over passing on the coolest vintage aluminum rolling chair a few months ago...grr); reasonably priced grow lights; a chair and a half; and a couple of other things I can't think of right now. I've been patient thus far, waiting for just the right combination of style and price. But I just know that this week they'll all magically appear and get snapped up for next to nothing by some other yob who's having a Buy Everything week.
Plus, combing Craigslist is what I do for mental breaks at work. (Well, that and writing here or other places.) Now it's essentially an exercise in blue balls, but I just can't stay away. I wish I knew how to quit you, Craigslist.
And the thing I've been dreading, yet is entirely of my own making, is this: I have a short list of things I am looking for on Craigslist and at the Sal Army, because I prefer to buy vintage furniture when possible and because I am not rich. Namely: a white or paintable highboy dresser, a white or paintable daybed, and a small white or paintable desk for Hannah's room; a preferably '40s era dresser or chest for myself to replace my busted IKEA model; a desk chair for AJ's room (I'm still kicking myself over passing on the coolest vintage aluminum rolling chair a few months ago...grr); reasonably priced grow lights; a chair and a half; and a couple of other things I can't think of right now. I've been patient thus far, waiting for just the right combination of style and price. But I just know that this week they'll all magically appear and get snapped up for next to nothing by some other yob who's having a Buy Everything week.
Plus, combing Craigslist is what I do for mental breaks at work. (Well, that and writing here or other places.) Now it's essentially an exercise in blue balls, but I just can't stay away. I wish I knew how to quit you, Craigslist.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Week 5: Stop a Woman from Shoppin
As planned, vegetarian week ended with the baconiest of bangs. I ate a lot of bacon -- encased in sugar, covered in cheese, wrapped around other delicious things, on top of homemade mochi. Earlier in the day I had to do a lot of tasting around meat, which might have been a slight violation of the spirit, but it was necessary to not waste bacon in bad food. And sometime on Saturday, I put the idea of making week 5 Buy Nothing Week at the top of my mental list, which in retrospect might not have been the greatest idea if only because it meant I couldn't go out and buy steaks to make on Sunday. Thus I have to wait until Superbowl Sunday to finally go nuts on a slab of grilled beef. I'm sure that the delay will make the meats much more sweets. I did have a Polish sausage, though, and that was a fair substitute.
Overall, I think meatless week was a great experiment. The initial bodily weirdness (and late bowelly weirdness) aside, it wasn't tremendously difficult, but felt like a positive step for a lot of reasons. I am tremendously encouraged to reduce the amount of meat I eat overall, but I do know one thing: if I'm cooking it, I'm eating it.
And now, week 5. I spent quite some time yesterday debating whether or not this was the week to buy nothing, but what it boiled down to was two things: one, it would never be a convenient week to not be able to go to the grocery store, and two, if it's convenient, it's missing the point, right? Also, it was 11 at night, so it was too late to eat breakfast, make my bed, or take a shortened shower. But I hadn't bought anything. So with a third of a gallon of milk and an unknown amount and variety of meats preparable for dinners in the fridge, a bedroom dresser with a broken drawer, seed-starting time around the corner, and several household projects percolating in the back of my mind, it's maybe the best and worst time to do it. I didn't do any special pre-shopping, so it's not just about avoiding temptation to shop, but also doing without.
Making an exemption for groceries crossed my mind, but the truth is, I buy too much when it comes to groceries, too. I just had to throw away a pound of asparagus that for some reason I never got around to cooking and so started to rot, along with a half-gallon of Egg Nog ice cream that was too eggnoggy. So I think it'll be a good thing to see what I can do with what I've got. I have a decently-stocked pantry and refrigerator most of the time, and often I'll go grocery shopping less because we need something and more because I want something specific. I don't think that's such a bad thing in general, but it does lead to things like rotting $3.99/pound asparagus.
Overall, I think meatless week was a great experiment. The initial bodily weirdness (and late bowelly weirdness) aside, it wasn't tremendously difficult, but felt like a positive step for a lot of reasons. I am tremendously encouraged to reduce the amount of meat I eat overall, but I do know one thing: if I'm cooking it, I'm eating it.
And now, week 5. I spent quite some time yesterday debating whether or not this was the week to buy nothing, but what it boiled down to was two things: one, it would never be a convenient week to not be able to go to the grocery store, and two, if it's convenient, it's missing the point, right? Also, it was 11 at night, so it was too late to eat breakfast, make my bed, or take a shortened shower. But I hadn't bought anything. So with a third of a gallon of milk and an unknown amount and variety of meats preparable for dinners in the fridge, a bedroom dresser with a broken drawer, seed-starting time around the corner, and several household projects percolating in the back of my mind, it's maybe the best and worst time to do it. I didn't do any special pre-shopping, so it's not just about avoiding temptation to shop, but also doing without.
Making an exemption for groceries crossed my mind, but the truth is, I buy too much when it comes to groceries, too. I just had to throw away a pound of asparagus that for some reason I never got around to cooking and so started to rot, along with a half-gallon of Egg Nog ice cream that was too eggnoggy. So I think it'll be a good thing to see what I can do with what I've got. I have a decently-stocked pantry and refrigerator most of the time, and often I'll go grocery shopping less because we need something and more because I want something specific. I don't think that's such a bad thing in general, but it does lead to things like rotting $3.99/pound asparagus.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)