In a 12 step program the first step is admitting you are powerless over your addiction. I am powerless.
About two weeks ago, I had stayed over at 3b’s. Since the snow is piled two feet from the curb the already narrow streets are, well, more narrow. I wake up to find that someone smashed my mirror on the driver’s side. I went around with it for about a week and then called my friend and mechanic, Jean Layaway. Jean is probably one of the nicest and most honest people I know. Unfortunately for her, every time I call I am usually crying about my car. Jean just tells me to shut up and get here. There is nothing that girl can’t handle. Anyways, Monday I am on my way up to have Jean work her magic. I am on Bluetooth talking to Capri about childhood asthma and why we never got it (both of our fathers were heavy smokers. Her father was a wonderful man. Mine, not so much) and I notice something. I AM DRIVING TO THE SUPERMARKET. That is correct. It was as if the car knew instinctively that I needed tasty sides for 3b’s dinner that night. I am addicted to /compulsive about going to the store.
I blame my mother and sister. Mary Sally and MS2 love going to the store. My sister still takes great pleasure in grocery shopping. She has a freezer in her basement that has enough capacity for two cows, six pigs, ten chickens, two government informants and bulk ice cream. She has two refrigerators. One is upstairs for essentials, cold cuts and leftovers and one downstairs strictly for ice and drinks. They are full ALL OF THE TIME!! You know, just in case someone stops over for coffee. She could offer them a gallon of whatever they needed and some for the next generation. Don’t get me wrong, the first thing I do when I go to my sister’s house is go through the fridges and the freezers. I open containers, I take bites out of things and put them back, and I will also comment if there is nothing I like. I have done this since her first apartment on 4th Street in Troy that was exactly 18 houses and over the canal from our childhood house to her house on Hutton Street, to where she is now. It will not change no matter how old I get. I do this at Capri’s house, Annie’s house and at my friend Ruffle’s house. If I love you, I’m looking in your fridge.
When I was growing up people stopped at our house all the time. My Mom was always on the alert. If something wasn’t there or ready it was my job to walk to LeBeau’s on the corner and get some sweets for the company. I hated going to the store. I was my mother’s step and fetch girl. I used to say to her that I think the only reason I was born was to go to the store. If she was really pissed or was making sauce (gravy) I would have to go the extra two blocks to the S&M. I am not making that up. That was the name of the store. They made their own sausage. I just got how funny that sounded. Needless to say, I hated going to the store back then.
I started appreciating going to the store after my girl was born. I liked going alone and since I was suffering with PPD and a horrible relationship, I would make any excuse to go. Over time, I began to like the comfort of the market. I could just walk up and down the aisles and not have to think about my life for a little while that day. Then 3b came along. The first date lasted three days. In that time I fed him at least four times. He liked my mother’s gravy and meatballs and said it reminded him of this late Sicilian grandmother’s. As any good Italian girl knows, that seals any and all deals. I then realized that my mission in life was to make this man happy by cooking and feeding him. I take my mission seriously. I now go to the store at least 4 times a week. I know I shouldn’t go to the store hungry or on a whim, but I do. I think, what will 3b and the girl like for dinner? I think about making dinner from the time I wake up until I hit the store.
I have a problem. I need to go to the store all the time. I am going to die broke but before that day comes I will have to go to the store and make a few dinners ahead of time so I can freeze them. That way there will be food in the house for anyone that shows up for the grief buffet.