A job isn’t really on my wish list. Human contact is what
I’d tell Santa I need if he asked and could actually deliver. Let’s face it,
when you find yourself listening to more than a few seconds of a Robocall you
know it’s time to get out of the house and find out if you still know how to exchange
meaningless chit-chat with strangers. Thus yesterday I found myself out
Christmas shopping, kind of a pitiful excuse since I don’t have anyone to buy
for now that Don is gone. Woo is me, so I bought myself a small crock pot in
honor of living alone, and a magenta bathrobe that is guaranteed to leave a
trail of colorful dust bunnies where ever I go. And that’s no joke.
A few years ago I took the dog to the veterinary because he
had a bright purple nose. I was really worried. The diagnosis was “it’s a
fungus” and the cure, he said, “was worse than the disease.” He was a quack! The
next week our dog groomer picked all the crusty, purple stuff off the dog’s
nose and showed it to me. A light bulb went off in my head. It was exactly that
same color as my new, purple chenille bathrobe. Turned out the cure for the
“fungus” was a good vacuuming. Apparently, colorful dust bunnies are more fun
to smell than the run of the mill nondescript color. The vet was right about
one thing, though. It did end up costing a lot because the whole episode made
me realize I needed a stronger pair of eye glasses. Old people, what are you
going to do with us? You can’t take us all out behind the barn and shoot us.
Well, you could but that would be cruel.
I’ve been cleaning and rearranging my kitchen cabinets but
when I got to the pantry shelves I got bogged down and stopped. I don’t cook
much since Don died so I have a lot of pantry stuff that has either expired or
is about to. In the first few months after he died I wouldn’t let any visitor
leave the house without a “door prize”---something from the pantry that Don
loved but I knew I’d never fix again. I had more door prizes than visitors
causing several irrational panic attacks thinking about that food going
to waste. Now it’s starting all over again…those guilty feelings over wasting
food. My mother really did a number on me growing up. She still has me believing
kids in China
will starve to death if I don’t clean my plate and in the adult version that dictates you
must use up pantry goods before they expire. Waste is bad. Jean is bad for
wasting food! People in third world countries would kill for my expired flour, macaroni
and baking power. I wish I could dial 1 (800) HELP-ME! and someone would come
purge my pantry.
Oh, I’ll get my cabinets done by the end of the year but not
without more dreamed filled nights. My subconscious mind is trying to send me a
message about guilt, grief, discontentment and lack of control but my darn
kidneys won’t let me stay asleep long enough to decipher it. But one thing I do
know. I’m going to check under the bed for magenta colored dusty bunnies on a
regular basis. There will be no more “nose fungus” in this house! ©
