So, I have this problem. It drives Mr. F absolutely crazy - he has to give me a talking-to at least once a week. I haven't bothered to look into how common this behavior is, because I don't even think it's that big a deal. It cracks me up, actually. So what's my problem?
I hoard food.
We moved to where we currently live seven(!!!) years ago. There is nothing here to eat except the world's most pathetic Stop and Shop. If you follow me on Instagram, you know all about how I feel about that place. I feel really far removed from anything good to eat. I frequently travel 30 miles to Trader Joe's or even further for Whole Foods, I spend way too much money at the farmers' market every weekend, and heaven forbid I come across food I can take home if I'm in NYC.
Because I will take it home. And then I will NEVER EAT IT. I get it home, and in a fruitless effort to not eat it all in one shot and waste its glory, it sits and rots until one day I hear Mr. F in the kitchen, furiously slamming moldy food into the garbage can and cursing me out under his breath. Meanwhile, I'm hiding out in the other room, half laughing and half feeling ashamed of my wasteful tendencies.
A month ago, I was in such a situation where I found myself in a French-Korean bakery in the city. A French-Korean bakery is a thing! Did you even know that?? I did not. So that's why I spent a whole bunch of money carting home all kinds of delicious pastries. I didn't even know what they were. I can't read Korean. Who cares? They looked fun. I put them in my bag and went on my merry way.
Recently, I decided to finally unpack my bag from that trip (that was a month ago, remember?) I think you know where this is going. I unzipped my duffel bag, and flies came out. FLIES CAME OUT OF MY BAG. And then the smell hit me. Oh, it was terrible. It took me a second to realize what was going on, and when I reached into the duffel bag, moving aside some clothes that will never smell the same again no matter how many times I wash them, I knew. I felt that familiar feeling. I heard Mr. F in my head, as I sat there with a bag of unidentifiable black fur in my lap, letting the shame wash over me. I had done it again.
Look at this. Look at it! It's almost a thing of beauty, isn't it? Ok, I know it's not. You don't have to lie to me.
This one was equally horrifying to hold in my hands. Who's ready for some science?! Those are not poppy seeds.
Please just take a moment to appreciate the carefully cultivated fur. This one actually creeped me out when I pulled it out of the bag. I didn't even want to touch it, even though it was wrapped up.
So, yeah. I sat on my bedroom floor with these former pastries spread out around me, nervously checking over my shoulder to see if Mr. F was coming in. I immediately felt violated as I realized that I had been sleeping in a room with this rotting food for a month. This stuff was just sitting over in the corner growing as we slept every night. Could it hear us? Was it watching us? I don't know. I spent way too much time thinking about it before sneaking the bag into the kitchen and burying it in the garbage like a well-seasoned criminal.
If you're reading this, my dear, patient, handsome, smart, funny husband... there's my confession. I bought expensive pastries and ate none of them. They rotted in our bedroom for a month. In your duffel bag that I stole from you. Sorry?