Odd

I broke down and purchased a frying pan today.

My original intention was to live as simply as possible in this apartment in order to ease the next move into a house or more permanent living arrangement.

But frankly, I'm just getting a bit tired of taking my children out to breakfast on the weekends and dinners every evening so I broke down and added to my kitchen accoutrement.

Over my lunch break (which, oddly, did not include actually eating lunch), I visited Target which is almost my favorite store (just behind Bed Bath & Beyond and Costco) with the intention of arming myself to cook at least a few things for my kids this weekend.

The first thing I bought was a big box of Q-Tips. I actually ran out of them this morning, and I mean completely out. I was forced to use just a single Q-Tip which meant just one "tip" per ear instead of my standard double tip (the first tip for rough cleaning, the second for precision). Readers of the last blog most likely realize what a shock to my system this was. I reacted by buying a box of 750 Q-Tips, the largest one available. This is roughly an annual supply so is admittedly a ridiculous quantity of inner ear cleaning material, but nevertheless it feels so right.

Next, I meandered over to the cleaning products aisle even though I had nothing on my list from this area. I still somehow found myself slowing pushing the squeaky-wheeled cart around soaking in the pungent ambiance. It ended up being a good thing as I realized I needed to get a new pair of cleaning gloves.

I used to never let any petroleum based covering come between my passion and my body, I wanted to feel every crevice, every slippery surface, every filthy nuance. I 'm talking about my love of cleaning, of course.

However, the years of harsh chemical scrubbing on my hands and knees really started to take a toll on my hands. I finally broke down and started wearing gloves and taking fish oil and black currant oil for healthy skin, especially in the dry winter months. (I am not alone in this "cleaning to the point of injuring my hands" thing. My very dear friend who is also my daughter's godmother and namesake used to wear her fingers almost literally to the bone with straight bleach and abrasive products, which I think is kick ass.)

The last pair of gloves was purchased as an impulse buy while picking up some essentials at the local overpriced and understaffed grocery store Dominicks. This pair was very comfortable and served me well for several weeks of cleaning. They were pink in color. Wearing them made me feel pretty and domesticated. Paired with the fact that I like to clean my apartment in the nude it was an unsettling yet oddly pleasant experience.

There were no pink gloves in the group for my selection at Target, so that made things a bit less complicated for me. However, there were still choices. One of the pair cost $1 extra but advertised a "lemon fresh scent". God forbid your hands just smell like... well... hands. Disgusting. I decided upon a pair of Clorox "Comfort Choice" gloves. I didn't chose them for the "comfort" as this is not something I value while cleaning. I chose them because Clorox means "bleach" to me and bleach means the utter and complete obliteration of filth and has a very satisfying connotation for me.

Moving on, I decided to pick up an appliance to add to the microwave I got upon moving in; a toaster oven. I got one that is not only a cute little counter top oven but also has a thick slice toaster built in on top, a two-for-one job. Usually I shy away from dual purpose machinery as inevitably two functions put together are worse than the two separate (and I don't mean this metaphorically, I'm just talking electronics here). However, this was the only toaster oven that came in red, matching my apartment's color scheme. Sold.

It also said it was "Red for Women's Heart Disease" so I guess some of the proceeds go towards that worthy cause. I would like to believe it, perhaps if I close my eyes and press them hard enough together it will be true that a substantial portion of my purchase went to helping a woman prevent or cure heart disease. So, pink ribbons are popular for women's breast cancer and now we have red for the heart. I guess nobody is interested in wearing a brown ring to symbolize the plight of male colon cancer. I might have to champion that cause.

I grabbed a frying pan (selected solely for the fact it was on sale and therefore had the highest Dollar to Surface Area ratio. It was so inexpensive that I won't mind chucking it as my "bachelor pan" once I am able to upgrade my life again.) and headed for the front of the store.

Upon checking out of Target, the cashier eyed my items (which also included a dish rack not intended for dishes but rather for my running and biking bottles the maintenance of which makes me feel like I always have a newborn in the house) and asked if I was redoing my kitchen.

I paused for a moment, strategizing my response. On the one hand, I could be brutally honest and enjoy the resulting awkward conversation that would ensue. On the other, the cashier most likely meant this as an innocuous statement and not the opening for a deep conversation of the state of my personal life.

I wimped out and, not very cunningly but succinctly nevertheless, replied "Yes."

I moved on the neighboring Ultra Foods. I had hoped to collect the scant foot items I needed from Target, but disappointingly they were not present.

I was on a mission to find the perfect pizza for my son. This would be pizza with the crust as thin as possible and containing as little sauce as practical between the cheese. Basically, I was seeking pizza that least resembled pizza. I settled upon Freschetta Ultra Thin Golden Baked Crispy Crust because it was on sale and had a long ass name. It went down very well, I'm happy to report. It is also, I later noticed, produced by Schwan Food Company which is owned by the Schwan family (clever). I went to church with the Schwans in Sioux Falls, South Dakota where I grew up, oddly enough. The company logo is a Swan which I guess resembles the family name when annunciated by a drunken German.

I then purchased Grey Poupon Dijon Mustard. My Love is really into mustard so it makes me happy seeing this bottle in my refrigerator every time I open the door. It also makes my giggle because I still think the commercial for this product from the 80's is funny. I am not sure where I am going to use it, however. Does mustard go bad?

It was then I realized as the proud owner of a new frying pan I should pick up some items that could utilize it and therefore help to justify this purchase. Pancake batter & syrup for the kids' breakfast and eggs for mine.

As I stood in front of the egg racks slightly slack jawed, I couldn't help but find it odd there were so many different kinds to choose from. Do we really need to be presented with this many choices? As an oversized person myself, I decided upon the Grade A Jumbo Eggs simply because they were the largest ones there and that fact amused me. I would love to see the chicken that laid these babies. And then I'd love to eat that chicken. Circle of life.

Check out time arrived, and I had heard the cashier ask the woman in front of me if she had any coupons, and while I was sacking and putting my own groceries into my cart (ah, the discount grocery store, something I will have to suck up and get used to I suppose... very difficult for my high maintenance persuasion.) I heard her ask the woman behind me the same question.

I was still slightly offended I was not asked. Just because I am a single male (ok, not evident perhaps even though I don't have a ring on, but it is glove season, but what other male is going to shop at Ultra in the middle of the day to buy a carton of eggs and a bottle of mustard? That virtually screams to the world "I live alone!") that means I wouldn't think of saving even more money by contentiously clipping cents-off certificates?

I didn't have any coupons, though. I used to subscribe to the newspaper, and stocked up on them, especially in the Sunday edition. Moving to my apartment I cancelled my subscription. The world news is typically portrayed as shocking and/or horrible. The sports are better reported and more up-to-date on the internet or radio. The business section pales in comparison to "the Journal" (WSJ, baby). But, I always rationalized my subscription with the fact that I could save as much money as the paper cost by using the coupons I found inside. So, I was basically spending money to save money after performing manual labor on dead trees.

It's like every time I go to a restaurant with my children (which will hopefully now be less often!) the Maître de (aw, who am I kidding, the teenage hostess with too much makeup and too little ambition) asks me if I would like a table for four.

Only after I show up repeatedly to the same establishment do they catch on, "oh yeah, the divorced guy".

Actually, I am finding myself being frequently a table for 1. When I am with my children, it is 3. Adding up the kids from my Love, we have 5. All together, 7.

Odd is good.



So, I actually used my frying pan this morning for my children and smelled something burning as it rested on the stove top burner. I couldn't figure out what the problem was until I lifted it up and realized I had neglected to remove the big sticker completely covering the bottom advertising its benefits. So now I have yellow burn stains on the bottom of my new pan. Damn. At least the kids enjoyed hearing the smoke alarm go off.