Saturday’s Child

Another day of restlessness in the out of work place. Checking job sites is both depressing and aggravating. There should be a site called, “Perpetual Lunch Break.” Though the food in my refrigerator continues to dwindle down to staples only. Today, a Reagan Ketchup Sandwich is on the menu. A colorful liquid food that is both entertaining and tasty. A tarty taste and a farty sound that erupts when pushing down on the plastic container’s stomach.

I have to go to the supermarket but that depresses me, too. It’s boring, though at times can be hypnotic as the cart glides down an aisle past shelves and shelves of boxes with countless brand names and packaging, until a decision needs to be made, like finding the right spaghetti sauce. Searching for spaghetti sauce can be a dizzying experience and can cause an aversion to anything red.

Just making it to the register can be exhilarating. But it’s not over yet. Once you get home you have to lug the bags to the kitchen, then empty them onto the counter. The last step, the putting everything away step, can be daunting. What if I put something perishable with something that enjoys a long shelf life? It could be catastrophic. I break out into a sweat as I grab a container of yogurt. Don’t put it in the cabinet with the cereal. I warn myself. Don’t put it with the napkins or cans of soup. They can last an eternity. The yogurt dies a small death everyday until it expires.

On the shelf in the refrigerator, the cheese, yogurt and luncheon meat on the third shelf, conspire to take over the top shelf where the milk and orange juice are having a conference.

“OJ,” says Moo Milk. “I’m hearing talk of a coup from Eggsy, a reliable source . . . of protein.”

OJ sighed. “I’m sick of being incarcerated here with low shelf-life’s in flimsy packaging. I’ve got Vitamin C and A. What do they’ve got? Nothing but saturated fats and chemicals.”

“That might be true,” replied Moo Milk. “But they’ve got something else, something that could curdle my innards.”

“What’s that?” asked OJ. “What could be so bad?”

“They’ve got those nasty silver-backed sippers. They’re a canny bunch. They’ve got numbers. I tell you. A 48 pack of 12 percenters that can blind-side you with a pop of the can.” He paused. “They can roll, too. We’ll be lucky if we make it to Monday, the last date of sale.”

to continue . . .

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