Friday, Feb. 24, 2006 - 2:47 p.m.
Mr. Man has a little problem. He gets up in the middle of the night to snack. I find the evidence of his wee hour snacking when I get up in the morning before him: crumbs scattered around an open magazine on the kitchen table; an empty Rubbermaid that had contained pasta/devilled eggs/leftover Chinese/pancakes/orange wedges/salad/etc. sitting lidless on a refrigerator shelf; a dirty spoon sitting in the otherwise always-spotless sink.
Mr. Man actually has another little problem. When he finishes a jar of something, instead of immediately washing and rinsing it out (my personal first choice) or leaving it to soapily soak (my personal second choice), he will replace it in the refrigerator or cupboard. Usually underneath or behind another item.
I have a little problem, too. When I glance in the refrigerator and see a jar of grated cheese nestling happily between my light caesar salad dressing and special horseradish mustard, I think, "Oh! Good! I have parmesan and dressing and mustard if I need them!"
Silly, silly, silly little QueerFatGirl.
As the person primarily in charge of the grocery shopping and the organization of every drawer, closet, shelf, box and cupboard (per my choice) in our house, I was cleaning out the way-up-high cabinet over the stove last month. I dragged one of our fat-proof sturdy kitchen chairs over to get to the very top shelf; neither of us can reach this shelf without standing on a chair. Behind the extra boxes of lasagna noodles, behind the giant Rubbermaid of brown rice, and next to a stack of small cans of salmon from Costco, I found two scraped-nearly-empty peanut butter jars.
In a cabinet on a shelf you have to STAND ON SOMETHING to reach.
Which means when Mr. Man finished the peanut butter, instead of throwing out the jar in a burst of unfriendly-to-the-earth-but-too-lazy-to-wash-it whogivesagoodgoddamn-ness and instead of putting it in the sink to soak to be recycled, he STOOD ON A CHAIR AND HID IT.
And then did this again with ANOTHER JAR.
So, I pulled the jars out and put them in the peanut butter cabinet in front of the brand-new low-fat peanut butter I had just bought. When Mr. Man saw the two nearly-empty peanut butter jars, I told him I'd take care of them. Over the past month, I've been taking occasional butterknife-scraped mouthfuls from the near-empty jars because, well, there was still good eatin' to be had in them there jars!
Last night I had a meeting at the house with people who I didn't particularly feel like having in my house right then. I've been head-butting with a couple of them over a couple different issues. One girl is gonna be slapped silly iffen she mouths off at or about me one more time. This I swear. But with another person, our Alphas ramp up when we are around each other and it just ain't pretty. It is civil (well, until two days ago when she posted something not exactly nice about me), it just ain't pretty.
I was crampy. I was hungry. I wanted comfort food in a bad way to bolster me up before the meeting. I went into the kitchen...nothing. I've let our fridge and cupboards get pretty bare-looking as I try not to overeat and binge and snack as much.
But, wait! Part of a loaf of bread left over from weekend visitors! Bread! Something it is rare that we keep in the house! And, oooh, if we had bread, that meant I could finally open that new jar of peanut butter and dig out an old jar of Fluff I had and make fluffernutters.
Oh, sweet fluffernutters. You will make the evilness back away. You will flood my mouth with your nutty fluffiness, you will stickily coat my tongue, you will be lip-smackin' good, you will soothe and fill me from within as I'm surrounded by rude people, you will love me right and you will...
My new jar of peanut butter? Scraped nearly-empty and shoved back behind the OTHER two nearly-empty jars of peanut butter.
I actually started to cry.
I left the three open, nearly-empty peanut butter jars on the kitchen counter -- having desperately checked them to see if enough could be scraped to make even HALF a fluffernutter -- but, no. And I went into the bedroom to stew, to steam, to curse under and over my non-peanutbuttery breath.
Mr. Man came in during one of his Yes-It's-A-Work-Night-But-I-Will-Come-And-See-You-Forty-Times-Regardless-Of-That-Even-Though-I-Know-You-Value-Your-Downtime-And-Are-About-To-Deal-With-Crazy-People and got ANGRY with me because I said, "Um, Mr. Man? When you finish something like a brand-new jar of peanut butter, just tell me so I can buy another when I'm shopping, okay?"
He got angry!
ANGRY at ME!
So, now I'm getting my own shelf and all the food on my shelf with have my name written on it. Mr. Man says that this way, he'll know what he is "allowed to eat."
Yes, he did miss the point ENTIRELY.
And I give it a week before he eats and finishes something from my shelf. A week.
Well, at least for a whole week I'll always have mustard/spaghetti sauce/peanut butter/parmesan/dressing/pickles when I want them!