It’s Mine!

Every single time I get in my car after my son has driven it, the gas tank light is a bright orange. Today was a lucky day, because the needle wasn’t resting on the very bottom line; it was about a centimeter above it. I was actually able to drive to the gas station without teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack, fearing that the car would start sputtering and break down. After I filled it up with gas, I noticed a bakery bag on the floor. In it was a half-eaten crumb bun, and surprisingly there was no mold on it. I counted about nine water bottles with varying levels of water. I even saved one that had never been opened. Then there was a cheap can of beer in the pocket of a backseat door, which also had never been opened. That one I didn’t save. (If it had been even a step above Keystone, I would have.) I was thankful not to have found any condom wrappers or weed droppings. It’s these small things in life that give me great pleasure.

Now, I’ll move on to my daughters. Can someone please tell me why these two can’t shower in their own bathroom? I redid their bathroom the same time I redid mine. Mine is bigger with a bigger shower, but I’m the friggin’ grownup. That’s how it’s supposed to be. These girls have a beautiful bathroom. I’d like to see how they would have fared in the dimly-lit, gold-colored, very narrow bathroom with the rickety drawers that I grew up using. I shared that communal john with two other people–one being a slob and one being a male–and every out-of-town guest that spent the night. So, now, as a grown woman approaching 50, is it too much to ask to not be locked out of my own bathroom when I need to use the toilet? And, besides leaving strands of hair in my shower—which is a sin worse than murder to me—my girls use my razor, MY razor. That is not for sharing, damn it. And, sometimes they even take my  designated shower towel. It’s just gone, plain gone. That fucks with my whole shower karma. And, maybe the worst offense was when my daughter swiped my favorite tweezer. That CANNOT happen. That is my coveted tool that I use to lovingly destroy my face in front of my magnifying mirror. If it weren’t for that beautiful tweezer, I believe I would have a full mustache. That is how precious those pincers are to me. So, while I love those two girls, when it comes to using my bathroom, they need to GET THE FUCK OUT NOW. 

My territoriality doesn’t end there. This next one is admittedly strange: Tupperware. If you take food from my house, and you don’t live 120 miles or more away from me, then you better give me back my containers! I thought that was an unspoken rule, but apparently it’s not. I know many food-storage thieves intimately. What is wrong with you people? Didn’t your mothers teach you not to steal? I’d give clothes away before I’d ever part with a sturdy, square container with an airtight lid. That shit keeps my kugel frozen safely for months. Yes, I buy the throwaways, but when I’m out of them, and I hand you the real stuff, don’t make me sign it out to you like a library book. Please, just do the right thing and return it. I do know that pretty much none of you will, however. That’s why when I hand it over, a small part of me dies inside. That precious plastic will go on to take up residence in another house’s cabinet. And, from there, it will go on to live in another home. It’s like Tupperware transient-ism. Those containers are in constant motion. It would be okay if I kept others’ containers, and it kind of all worked out in the wash as they say, but I have manners! I return what is not mine…unless of course I know you stole one from me. In that case, you can kiss your plastic a permanent goodbye. Sorry, two wrongs do indeed make a right here.

I dedicate this blog to the memory of Sheila, my best friend from elementary school, who died unexpectedly. She was blessed with a close family, a good husband and twin daughters. I envied the fact that she was always in a good mood; it was unbelievable. No one can make sense of this. We are just left wondering, “Why?” The saying, “Only the good die young,” has never been more true. Sheila was completely organized, even as a child, and would have never kept my tupperware. Rest in eternal peace, Sheila. 

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