I almost got killed, AGAIN, in the Trader Joe’s parking lot. I swear to god you take your life in your hands over there. You would think that they were giving the groceries away for free, on the last shopping day before Christmas which also happened to be the day before a big blizzard. Except it’s not Christmas, there’s no storm and nothing is free, not even a sample of cheese, but people are pulling into and out of parking spots at record speed with no regard for anything or anyone. When I literally banged on the side panel of someone’s car to keep from being run over, the driver looked at me like I was the crazy one. I know, I know I usually am the crazy one, but today she had me beat. At the same place last week I witnessed two cars crash into each other. Apparently it was more upsetting to me than to either of the drivers, who didn’t even get out of their cars to see the damage…they merely stared each other down for a second and then sped off in opposite directions. Weird.
So I got to thinking about what a dangerous life I lead. You probably think I live a very simple life…no daring adventures, always safe and warm. “D.Parker,” I can hear you thinking, “you’re a housewife! Nothin’ dangerous about that!” Even though I am offended by your loose use of the term “housewife,” I will save that argument for another time and instead just say that you are way wrong.
Being me can be very dangerous…not many 50 year olds break their foot dancing at a wedding. And, no, I don’t need a bone density test, I just happen to have some very enthusiastic moves. But being a so called “housewife” can be extremely treacherous for anyone. I’m not just talking about bleeding to death in the shower when you cut your leg with a rusty Lady Bic ’cause your husband caught you using his razor (after a decade), had a fit and threatened divorce. (Mine plainly stated that he regards death by exsanguination a suitable punishment in retaliation for ten years of shaving nicks. Had I believed it was truly my fault he would emerge from the bathroom with tiny scraps of toilet paper stuck to his face, I might have invested in a Venus, but I digress.) Or choking on the foil of a wine bottle as you tear it off with your teeth. Or slipping on the way out of the shower because someone moved the bath mat.
But lets face it the kitchen, alone, is a dangerous place. I’m sure I’m not the only person who has dropped a knife onto her bare foot…blade down…, gotten burned taking a pan out of the oven because you forgot that someone invented potholders, or suffered a concussion from banging your head on an open cabinet while emptying the dishwasher. We’ve all endured stitches in our hand from chopping or mincing or dicing, right? Do I need to discuss the “mandolin?” Swear to god I just say the name of that medieval contraption and my fingers spontaneously bleed. Suffice to say, when I can purchase fruit or vegetables pre-chopped, or get the butcher to slice my meat, I am all in. I just wish he wouldn’t roll his eyes when I ask for “bite-sized pieces.”
Perhaps I raised things to the next level on the Danger Zone when I was pregnant and set myself on fire. I still blame my fluffy bathrobe: the way the bow protruded several extra inches off my huge belly just teased the flame off the stove as I, selflessly, slaved over a hot pan of scrambled eggs. If you have never been ignited take my word for it, everything they say is true: flames spread faster than you think and trying to blow them out is not a good idea. Also note that special skills are required to stop, drop and roll in your ninth month. Contrary to public opinion I am not an idiot, and I definitely learned my lesson. After it happened the second time I stayed away from the stove and let the little bastards eat microwaved food ’cause there was no way I was gonna ruin another bathrobe.
Moving on from the dangers of the kitchen, let’s ponder the times we’ve burned ourselves on the iron checking to see if it was hot enough, and all the hickys we’ve gotten from the vacuum cleaner. As my nine-year-old niece would say, “I know, right?” More mysteriously, I continually cut my hands taking laundry out of the washer..I swear there’s a tiny demon with a switchblade in there, and I don’t know what I did to piss him off. I may have to give up laundry like I gave up scrambling eggs.
Watering plants seems like a safe and mundane chore. Who knew that heinous yellow jackets like to build nests in flower pots and then get really, really angry when they get wet? The ones I befriended came at my ankles in a swarm, stinging me as I ran into my house. A few of the tiny fiends followed me in and just wouldn’t let up. Shout out to Charles who seemed to enjoy watching the scene unfold. I’m all for “art” but if I had stood there making a video of you getting stung, instead of running for your Epipen, I’d be in the clink.
All this being said, I’d never considered the perils of food shopping, despite the adventurous nature of the task. Climbing the shelves to reach that last Entenmann’s Chocolate Fudge Cake, braving frost bite searching for the frozen broccoli florets sans butter sauce, never knowing when someone is going to clip your ankle with their shopping cart, all cheeky fun! I had thought the only time I had to worry about being hit by a car was walking across the high school parking lot, or in my driveway, but clearly I was mistaken. Friends, you read it here first, the supermarket parking lot is a death trap!
Will I have to give up food shopping too?
