My wife and I each have our own peculiarities and compulsions. Mine lead me to conservation and frugality. Hers … Well let’s just say, hers do not.
Judging by her actions, I think Sophia’s favorite adjectives must be “clean” and “complete.” She washes the sheets and bath towels twice a week. If she sees a roll of toilet paper two-thirds gone, she removes it. And when her toothpaste tube requires the least bit of folding to squeeze out its contents, into the garbage it goes.
I wouldn’t mind her quirks so much if she didn’t punctuate them with an equal dollop of forgetfulness. Whether failing to put a new pillowcase on my pillow after removing the current one for washing, forgetting to stock fresh T.P. after exchanging the last new roll under the counter for the perfectly fine quarter-roll on the dispenser, or discarding the cup’s worth of milk I could’ve used for my cereal, she constantly victimizes me. I’m an easy mark too, because I’m not observant enough to realize her omissions in advance. For instance, I’ve lost count of the times I’ve noticed my missing bath towel only after emerging from the shower dripping wet.
Admittedly, even if Sophia didn’t suffer these memory issues, I’d still mind her squandering. I hate waste. I’m the guy who squeezes the last drop out of the toothpaste tube. I don’t believe in doing unnecessary laundry loads, and I practice what I preach by changing my tee shirt only when it’s dirty. If there’s a teaspoon of milk remaining in a milk carton, I’ll save it for my coffee. And I won’t throw away food. I’ll eat leftovers for weeks: until they’re finished; or until the mold-to-cuisine ratio is at least 50-50.
I know my quirks drive Sophia just as crazy. After the events of last night, this morning and this afternoon, I’m willing to admit each of us probably goes overboard. For dinner yesterday I decided to finish what remained of our July 4 barbecue, 15 days ago. I discarded all green beans obviously covered with mold, scooped off the layer of baked beans smelling somewhat “off,” and cut out the clearly-discolored bits from the hot dog. The balance went into the microwave and then into my mouth. Naturally, Sophia forecasted the worst, but I pooh-poohed her warnings.
After a night, morning and afternoon with my rear end practically cemented to the toilet, I’ve “poo-pooed” everything but my wife’s warnings. I no longer can ignore the harsh lesson I’ve learned: namely, leftovers have a definite expiration date.
Thank God for modern technology. At least I’ve been able to surf the net on my laptop and write this post from the comfort of my porcelain throne. When I began this odyssey, nearly a full roll of toilet paper awaited my needs. Now I’ve just finished the last sheet and still need more!
Surprise, surprise! Guess who forgot to put fresh T.P. under the counter? On second thought, maybe technology isn’t such a blessing. If I’d written my blog post on paper, those extra sheets would’ve come in handy.
A tube too far gone for my wife’s liking