Pickles in a Jar

Pickles in a Jar 1/18/2010

In the past year and a half, I have changed jobs once, held three part-time jobs, rented my home, lived with a sister, and now rent from a college professor, all for one reason and one reason only, to save money. Saving money what a wonderful oxymoronic term for anyone who is near the brink of financial flux. Saving some cash means having some cash to save? Who has cash now days? Pimps, the under pit of society, pushers, dope sellers, underground narcotic agents filled with bankrolls provided by NCIS coffers that are overflowing with greenbacks? Maybe. How about those that are employed, have a job, didn’t loose a job, or simple have several jobs or for one reason or another have been frugal with the money they did earn. Those folks are the ones that have some cash to save, not me. Its not that I have been wasteful by my standards, but by some who maybe have not experienced life’s challenges as myself, it may seem to them that I have frittered away at the boundaries between financial prudence and spend thriftiness.

In the interest in the of financial prudence I moved into a rental situation where I share a house with two to three other individuals. We all have common area’s such as the kitchen two bathrooms, living room, laundry, and of course the kitchen. The pantry has wire shelves, one per tenant. My stuff never mingles with anyone else’s, and the same is true with the freezer and fridge spaces. Everyone has a place, and for the most part everyone keeps to that space. That’s the theory anyway. Notable exceptions are the occasional milk thief, bread user, coffee drinker, butter dabbler or in very rare instances the guest dishwasher facilitator, as I will call them here. Occasionally, rarely, indeed almost as rare as the celestial phenomenon known as the “blue moon,” this honorary self designee succumbs to the glories and task driven problems of filling the dishwasher and actually plopping a soap pillow in, starting it up, and in somewhat rarer fashion, puts away its gleaming contents back on the shelf where they belong. Saint’s preserve us!
It is almost the exclusive task of the “dishwasher monger,” to do the cleaning rounds and make sure the roving and proliferating insect population does not run rampant in the guacamole, coffee maker, or the forest of crumbs that sometime accompany men who share a house. Those tasks seemingly I have owned since arrival last April.

With that being said, and given the fact that the house is nearly freshly painted, in a good neighborhood, and is less then 6 years old, it seems a small price to pay for such luxurious accommodations.

However, there is always an adjustment when an old roommate leaves and new roommate arrives. Other then cleaning, tiding, moving furniture, and scraping the soap scum off the tub surface, which here to for have enjoyed being hermetically protected from beating shower water by a thick protective coat of yellow dial soap to the thickness of the hide of the North American Sturgeon. I swear that I watched the miniature Mississippi delta drain into the gulf for months until cleaning occurred not by the creator, but by an innocent out of work high school science teacher that almost never needed to apply soap to his feet because there was always a ready supply already available down below the waterline. The deltaic deposits returned and were removed by hurricane Karen in 2009, just prior to the new influx of roommates that are in the process of moving in.
Now here is the kicker.
After all is said and done and the smoke clears, the soap scum drainage basin has been removed, all that is left to evidence that others have come before are the left over pickle jars in the fridge. Half full, some out of date more then two years, and condiments that may have been edible during the last presidential administration, that now mimic edibility by a kitschy label that I can’t bring myself to open and sniff. Maybe I need to swallow my re-cycling pride and open the trash and just chuck out hanger ons, not recycle.

Don’t tell the Sierra Club.

The onset of freedom

Strickland Calhoun sat quietly in the dentist chair waiting for the blue coat to come back and require an “open wide”. Suddenly nothing happened the way it seemed to have in the past. The blue coat didn’t return. The music that normally played from the white speaker adjacent to the large glaring light was not working. Something was discordant and this upset him gravely. He didn’t like to be out of his comfort zone. It disturbed him. It made the hair stand up on the nape of his neck, and soon cold sweats were to follow. He was sure of it, and didn’t like it. The digital clock on the wall that displayed Atomic time was flashing a warning signal and a gray indicator square indicated that it has lost signal. Nervously he checked his watch, then his cell phone, then the wall clock. Nothing. No change. He puzzled, coughed and cleared his throat and looked around as if to inquire to some unseen attendant as to the location of the nearest restroom. Seeing no one, hearing no music, having no sense of time to relate all these non-changes, he began to hum the national anthem. The blue coat returned, the signal LED flashed on the wall clock, and Nora Jones crooned from the white speaker. All was right with the world. The drill began and stopped. A co-pay and reschedule was given and recorded at the receptionist. A smile, a complimentary sugarfree throat lozenge, and a second glance at the receptionist as the door closed behind him.

Key, ignition, pay attendant, highway, music on, cell phone calls, then exit 19, then home. Nothing interestingly different except for the novocain and the sound of a diet coke can rolling mindlessly back and forth on the passenger side floor mat. Rattle… rattle.. crash…. Rattle..crash. “I must remember to throw that out,” he thought as the car found the driveway, parked itself. Placing hand to cheek, he could feel the tingly pain build indicating that soon he will feel again.