I Have A Problem

 

Please don't dig around too much in the back of my cabinets.

Okay, well, do it if you must, but please keep an open mind. You're going to find a lot of these things.

It's my least favorite chore, washing out the peanut butter jars. The scraping! The oiliness! Woe is me!

So I return each empty one to the cabinet and move on to eating the peanut butter from the next full jar, and the next thing I know, I have a cabinet full of insanity and a year's worth of scrubbing to do. It's a horrible habit, the kind of horrendous act that, if my roommate or friend or spouse even dared to engage in this behavior, I would throw some sort of extremely unbecoming fit that would likely result in the criminal doing some serious time, involving but not limited to punishments such as being forced to eat the empty peanut butter jars. But me? I'm lucky. I get away with it for some odd and special reason. I feel pretty fortunate.

Here's the thing, though. This scrubbing, it's bad, but it's not terrible. It's the thinking about it that wounds me. Then the next thing I know, they're clean and fresh and hanging out in the recycling bin, looking up at me with lonely eyes, saying what took you so long?