Sunday, March 25, 2012

Picture this ...

I was in line behind two college-aged girls, who I fan-fictionalized into roommates. One was silly and loose-limbed and at first I'd assumed she was the taller, more staid woman's adopted daughter. Then this mom character turned and I saw she was young. She was clutching a package of photos, which I didn't even know existed anymore or that anyone younger than 25 would consider using this archaic means of memory keeping.

A Starbucks' employee wove through the shoppers with a tray and passed out Dixie cup-sized samples of a cold, blended beverage and both girls took one which left one for me. It was strawberry flavored with whipped cream and I downed it in a single slurp through a straw the size of my pinkie.

"This is so key-ute!" the shorter girl said, beaming at her drink. "Lets take a picture of us with them!"
The other girl shuffled her wallet and the pack of photos, held her phone in front of them and they both smiled into the phone holding their mini drinks.

"So key-ute!" the shorter one said again.
The other one studied the photo, deemed it unacceptable, and they posed for another that didn't pan out either.
"We're going to have to wait until we get outside," she said.
"This is so key-ute!" the girl said again. And again.

They grabbed their purchases and left the store, neither even taking a single half-slug of the drinks they were holding as delicately as urine samples. When I walked past the Food Court on my way out of the store, a mom was taking a photograph of her little girl sitting on a table, near a garbage can, eating and I panned ahead to the online Scrapbook slideshow that will play at the little girl's graduation, this photo tagged "Maddie Eats Lunch at Target! 3/24/12." Or the one that will play at the other girls' college graduation party "Ashley and Lindsay Drinking Key-Ute Starbucks' Samples at Target! 3/24/12."

(Whatever. I totally took a photo of my dinner tonight. Shut it).

I cleaned the refrigerator, which is always pretty heroic. We've started labeling leftovers with Food Type and Date Made, an attempt avoid this sort of disaster. Really all it did is make me wonder how far up my own ass my head has to be that I didn't notice some of these containers with January dates on them.

Thoughts actually thunk in front of the open refrigerator:

* Is that a Rice Krispie Bar? When did I make Rice Krispie Bars? Oh ... Wait. That's Cornbread. WHEN DID I MAKE CORNBREAD!
* Tomatoes + Onions x 3 months = Something that resembles milk
* We have beer?
* A four-pack of new plastic containers is about $3-$5. I'd pay ten times that to not open this container.
* Is this smell getting in my hair? Under my fingernails? On my robe?
* The next time this refrigerator devolves into this, we're just going to move.


Mach1 said...

I like that you were cleaning your refrigerator in your robe.

Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm said...

Once upon a time, on moving day, a casserole dish with (?) three year old "enchiladas" was discovered. She insisted upon saving the dish. It was opened outside above the sewer grate and swabbed out with a wad of newspaper. The taste and smell of my subsequent vomit was far less offensive and invasive than the stench of food rot had been.

The casserole's percolation span was long enough to gestate a whole family of babies.

Christa said...

BRFA -- It's times like this that I wish you updated your blog more frequently. Keep up the good work.

feisty said...

I feel so guilty about throwing away plastic, but weigh that cost against opening the container, and the environment loses.