“Need a life,” you say? Yes, indeedy, that’s an understatement; but when facing a self-imposed deadline for a weekly-journal entry, a desperate writer picks a subject which turns on the metaphorical spigot that releases creative juices, uncapping yet another successful diatribe.
The title for this rant has nothing really to do with the content of my essay, other than that’s where I would prefer to be other than having to do the dad-burned food-shopping, for which I spent the past week procrastinating; and Stone Fruit is still in the fridge (see the previous rant). Having disposed of everything edible besides a few packets of oatmeal and one can of sardines, I couldn’t procrastinate any longer.
An inventory of necessary, replenishable supplies filled a page in my little notebook, kept always in my back pocket for noteworthy occasions. Seems I’m forever forgetting something, prompting my shopping list, on which all the sundry articles needed to last me for at least a few weeks appeared, guiding my monthly shopping spree with my loading everything into the shopping cart, getting checked out; and I was on my way quickly and as painlessly as possible.
Surprisingly nothing during this dreaded process today caused my tempered ire to ignite as fast as spraying ether into an old combustible engine’s carburetor while cranking the starter. Nobody blocked the aisles. Not one person was eyeballing, texting or talking on a smartphone either.
I located everything I needed, finding even a 100-count package of paper plates, ten more than griped about at the last tirade; although, the price had gone up ten percent. Go figure.
Lugging all the market’s packages from the car, up two flights of stairs to my flat is another reason for putting off a trip to the market. That’s what’s nice about having kids around, bribing them each with fifty cents to help take and leave some of the shopping bags ahead of my front door on the landing for me.
With all the items having been put away, I found that I had once again failed to buy Saran Wrap for the freezer stuff, causing my return back to the store to pick up a box, buying the largest to last for a long time. I had no one other than myself to blame for that one.
Remember trading stamps given to your parents after their purchasing groceries back in the ’50s and ’60s? They were available at gas stations too. Yeah, I know, that’s a long time ago and I’m a dinosaur; but besides that. Once somebody had enough booklets filled, they could redeem them at a green-stamp redemption center and get lamps, dishes, towels, kitchen appliances, etc., in return.
The residual taste of licking the glue behind thousands of green stamps, helping our elders with slobbering the imprinted reams of perforated paper onto multiple pages of tiny redemption books, lingers freshly in my memory as if the last time were just an hour ago.
Wait, it was an hour ago for me; however, rather than stamps, it was Monopoly pieces to be plastered onto a game board, offering such items as a $50,000 makeover for your house, a Tesla automobile or cash that’s worth 100 grand, with the top prize offered as being for a million bucks (I need three game pieces out of eight for that one).My supermarket has got me hooked on opening up their small Monopoly packets, each handed out for every ten dollars spent for groceries, in which is either an instant prize, or a serial number which needs to be redeemed at a Web site to determine if it’s a winner. Then four game pieces are included additionally out of the two hundred and fourteen available stickers, having to be licked and placed on their respective spots on the game board.
Out of twenty-one packets from today’s trip, two of which were redeemed from a previous instant winner, I received another instant winner, good for two more free packets. Other coupons were found for twenty-five cents each off Orville Redenbacher Popcorn, Hershey Miniatures, Keebler Cookies, and several other products, those of which I’ll never redeem.
For the ones that need to be verified as winners on a particular Web site, at which each of the twelve-digit serial numbers are entered while only to be told, “Sorry, you lose. Thanks for playing”; son of a gun, I was a winner on not just one, but two of those coupons out of a total of twelve, for the first time since beginning to collect them. Things are looking up.
Imagine that, but to my utter disappointment, my prize was for four more, free Monopoly packets, enabling my addiction for tearing them open to be possibly plastered onto the game board, getting twenty-five cents off something, or winning more free packets all over again.
It’s a vicious circle, yet one can’t win the grand prizes if they don’t play, leading this tirade to a close with my initial premise: I need to get a life!
‘Till the next time, thanks for your continued support.