This whole finding-a-life-partner thing really must be somehow easier than I'm making it. That is, I think, the only explanation for some of the relationships I've seen develop. First, the pothead with a Peter Pan complex got married, then my most recent (and most significant) ex-boyfriend (who is not actually married yet but will be soon, and who, incidentally, all of my friends said, post-breakup, would be single for FAR longer than I would be. Hrmph.). And now today a friend of mine got an email from the guy who plagiarized my "Dear John" letter (semicolons and all), indicating that HE is now married as well. I'm sorry, but... what??
Have you seen the previews for that movie Good Luck Chuck? Not the ones that feature the story line of Jessica Alba as a walking disaster and Dane Cook as the guy who has to somehow survive dating her... I mean the ones in which the plot is, essentially, "Every girl Dane Cook sleeps with gets married to the next man she dates. Hence, every girl needs to sleep with Dane Cook." I have no idea why Lionsgate Films is marketing Good Luck Chuck as two entirely different movies, and I actually have not slept with most of the guys who I have dated, but I still suddenly feel like I am "Good Luck Stefanie" and magically, every emotionally troubled, boring, and/or socially awkward guy I go out with finds the love of his life shortly thereafter. That "Nonfiction means not-true, right?" guy is probably picking out rings as I type this. The guy who asked me to change my email display name for him has probably already welcomed his first child into the world.
I guess maybe I need to be on the lookout for a dangerously clumsy man to be my Jessica Alba, someone to turn both of our streaks of luck around. Unfortunately, I'm actually dangerously clumsy most of the time myself. Clumsy and absent-minded, no less, which actually brings me to the question I was going to pose for the Internets today, before I got all side-tracked with my extremely unlikely comparison to Dane Cook.
I waste entirely too much food in my house, and it bothers me no end. Sometimes I say it is not my fault. I'm continually annoyed that food manufacturers and genetic engineers haven't somehow figured out by now that some people live alone and do not need a foot-long loaf of bread or an entire head of lettuce. My million-dollar idea that will never come to fruition is a grocery store that caters specifically to the single shopper. All food will be in small-sized portions, and as an added bonus, in-store scoping for prospective dates will presumably be a lot more common and successful. But I digress. (I digress on what was already a digression. This is clearly one of my most well-thought-out posts to date.) I was going to admit that while sometimes, the food wasting is not my fault, other times it is due entirely to my own ridiculous scatter-brained absent-mindedness. I will, for example, take a frozen meal or a carton of yogurt out of the refrigerator and place it on my kitchen counter, intending to toss it in my bag before I head out the door, and instead, I will leave it sitting there, only to remember it halfway through my commute and realize that (A) I will have to throw the forgotten food away when I get home rather than risk the results of it sitting at room temperature all day, and (B) my efforts to save a bit of money by bringing my lunch are entirely for naught, as I'll need to purchase my lunch in a store or restaurant after all.
Sometimes, I don't just forget food on the counter, but I for some reason put it away in an entirely wrong and ridiculous place. The box of spaghetti will go in the fridge. The packet of cheese will end up in the cupboard above the stove. I can't explain this; really I can't. Let's say I'm a genius and my brain simply can't be bothered with routine, mundane details. Does that work for you? Maybe? Great.
I noted my latest act of brilliance this morning, when I reached for one of those aforementioned frozen meals for today's lunch. Inside the freezer door, right in front of my eyes, was the tub of cream cheese I bought Sunday afternoon. Whether it's been there since I brought it home or just since I took the on-reserve bagels out of the freezer and put them into the fridge to thaw, I can't say. What I'm wondering, though, is whether I have to toss that cream cheese or not. Are there some foods that cannot survive a few nights frozen solid? Are there some things that just aren't the same once they've thawed? (Clearly there are, but is cream cheese one of them?)
This isn't anywhere near as notable a question as how semicolon-stealer found a wife, but it's an easier-to-answer one, anyway.