…only to drop it on the floor.
My refrigerator, like my heart, opened to reveal the paltry contents therein
I made spaghetti, and it needs cheese. At 27, employed, college-educated, of able body and sound (albeit, potentially out of tune) mind, I have no excuses for the following, somehow heartbreaking fact: I have no cheese.
Sure, there are explanations as to how I reached this dire circumstance, but they do not excuse this failure to possess an essential food staple. I mean, my god, I love cheese. Cheese loves me. There’s been a long, storied romance betwixt this blogging man and old, coagulated milk fat. I believe Nicholas Sparks is attempting to tackle our undying love in one of his Shakespearean, “dramatic epic love stories,” which will inevitably be adapted into a film. Ryan Gosling will play the mozzarella. Rosario Dawson is said to be considering the role of pepper jack cheese.
And yet, today’s chapter would take a tragic turn, as I dwell morosely on the faults of my character fating my cheeseless-ness. Primarily, I loathe going to the grocery store. (Is that a character fault?) The zombie mindlessness of the cart-pushing patrons, the fluorescent lighting, the overwhelming abundance of options leading to scrutiny wasted on the subtle and ultimately meaningless differences between one green bottle of shampoo and one blue bottle of shampoo. And the music? An absolute horror to anyone paying attention, which, admittedly, is not really the intention of the playlist.
How, in nothing but a world already destined to complete failure, can Train’s “Hey, Soul Sister” be followed by the Clash’s “Lost in the Supermarket?” Lest you think it some sort of consolation to hear that while looking for pulp-free orange juice amidst all levels of pulp inclusion or exclusion, I attest – it is not. It’s a painful irony all the more painful for its accidental nature. The grocery store music is not being DJ’ed by a clever hipster. It is commercial audio content to soundtrack consumerism in action. All music is reduced to hummable pap, and any subversive element to Strummer and Jones’ lyrics is lost on the free-sample grabbing audience.
I rant, and yet, it brings me no cheese. Yes, I hate the grocery store, mostly because of the people. But there are times when it is not so busy, like now. It’s midnight, and HEB is open. I could satisfy my cheese needs now. But let’s not kid ourselves. I’m not leaving this laptop, this bottle of tequila, this squeaky yet comfortable chair.
I am content to settle for cheese-less spaghetti, as long as I am able to pontificate and be grumpy about it. This makes me a curmudgeon, on top of being unorganized, unprepared, and let’s cut the crap – lazy. Lazy laced with impulse control disorder. I’ve been told this personality-cocktail makes for an incredibly attractive potential mate.
In an attempt to provide a visual break from all the words, I did a google image search of curmudgeon. The results included:
So, I have no cheese. And while I’ve accepted that for this particular helping of spaghetti, I can’t help but wonder if the cheese is more than cheese. You know? Like, is it a metaphor? Is cheese a rewarding career? Am I content to put that off until later, later than what? To procrastinate? To be happy with the bill-paying but bland sauce? Or, is cheese a woman? A relationship in which my fear of intimacy completely evaporates. (Lady readers, you’re more than welcome to approach me with the line, “I’d love to be your cheese,” and we will laugh and hug and kiss like nobody’s business)
No, it’s probably just cheese. In fact, even the title of this blog post – particularly the part about extracting a meaningful meatball – is bullshit. It’s vegetarian spaghetti, with mushrooms and zucchini. I just liked the alliteration. I can’t even cook a meaningful metaphor. (Boom! still got in that alliteration) What figurative value could zucchini possibly play?
(I am more than content if the only memorable, de-contextualized quote from this post is, “Is cheese a woman?”)