What will it take to get me out of my reclusive comfort zone and actually leave my apartment this weekend?
Running out of milk? No. That’s fixed with a text to my husband who has only worked 108 hours this weekend and is finally heading home for fifteen minutes. Deep down, he was hoping for a relaxing pit stop at the gas station to pay $9 for half a gallon of milk.
Running out of green vegetables? The random dinners we did scrounge together at home this week consisted of a meat and a carb washed down with a bowl of cereal. The other dinners were the bowl of cereal.
Having a full bag of trash ready to meet its demise in the dumpster? Febreeze, people. So simple.
Using the last of the dishwashing detergent? “Hand Wash Only” is a suggestion. No one can possibly expect you to wash things by hand every single time. That’s ludicrous. It’s 2011.
Seems like I had it so figured out, right?. And then we ran out of toilet paper. I won’t say that this has always been an absolute sure-fire way to get me to the store. Paper towels aren’t made for it, but they get the job done. But that was before my husband started on-call weekends that made him miss every major sporting event he’d been looking forward to for the week. And in this household—pre-baby, anti-friends and television-dependent—that makes for a sad, sad weekend.
And how disappointing it would be to reach for just one small indulgence to make life a little easier and find a roll of Bounty. The boy deserves more than that kind of chafing.
All this self-sacrifice sure has me craving some fro-yo. Be back soon.
2-ply. I’m such a good wife it brings tears to my eyes. Or maybe that’s the aging trash.