(BLOGGER'S NOTE: If you're driving, pull over. If you're standing, take a seat. If you have a ginormous mouthful of coffee and chicory, please swallow before reading further. Consider this your grossness spoiler.)
Okay, so. I work full time, six days a week, so I do the house stuff on two afternoons and Sunday by necessity. I usually manage to put the groceries off to Sunday, and I have commissioned these two able-bodied male people I found just hanging out on my couch to help me unload and distribute groceries when I haul them home. Now, right here, I will add that this is truly a story of grocery helper training fail, and I take full responsibility for it. I do not wish to disparage the wonderful help these two give me, as I would totally love it to continue. No fussing about getting a newer or more efficient model, nothing like that. Just so we're clear. Okay, so. Back to the story. They help me, carry huge loads of plastic bags into the kitchen, yada yada.
Two weeks ago, there was the first hint of the training fail. Two hours after returning from the grocery trip, I was making that mental inventory I do in my head concerning groceries purchased, menu thoughts etc., when it occurred to me, wait. I don't remember putting eggs away. I know these were purchased, because three days prior, I'd managed to have eight cartonized eggs plummet from the fridge shelf and explode onto the tile floor, seeping into a lovely puddle both under and in front of the fridge. Talented that way, I am. So I remembered buying them. I didn't panic, took a leisurely stroll out to the car and popped the trunk. Sure enough, the new dozen were sitting prettily in the cardboard box I keep for toting just the very perishables. Untouched by grocery helpers. Hmm. Made a note, had a confab, grocery helpers looked sheepish and went on their merry way.
The next Sunday, it's grocery time again. As usual, big list, lots of bags, lots of good grocery help. Now, when I buy meat, I usually bag them all together, and I usually place them within their bags onto the meat shelf of the fridge, for neatness and consolidation, let alone minimal leakage. All the perishables (so I thought) were accounted for at the time.
Fast forward to yesterday (WEDNESDAY, for those of you with a score card), early. I get into my car to go to work, when OMFG, the SMELL! I looked quickly into the back seat, half expecting to see a body. No body, but no explanation of the horrible stench. I checked under seats, in cup holders, under umbrellas, no, no nothing. Then it occurs to me. I gingerly make my way back to the truck, pop it and what do I find?? Well, it once was a three-pound roll of ground chuck, but that this moment, it more resembled a zombie balloon. The middle section of the roll had puffed up three times its size, and the reek was amazing. Astounding. Need I say breathtaking? I thought just for a moment how fortunate that this item had been encased in the roll, and in its original plastic grocery bag. If that much ground chuck just in a meat tray had rested in the hot trunk for three days, I shudder to think. Hamburger zombies on the prowl.
So, as fast as I have ever moved, I whisked the zombie balloon out of the garage and into the outside garbage can, which fortunately is large and has a very heavy lid, which keeps the garbage nicely isolated. Whew. I then Febrezed the garage, trunk and car interior to fog maximum. Unfortunately, a bit of the zombie whiff is still in evidence. I hate to think I will get used to it. However, new grocery helper training has commenced, with a new position to be filled: The Final Trunk Checker (FTC). This is a highly sought after and lucrative job, as the FTC will assure that there are no more breathtaking instances of zombie balloons in the trunk of my car, now affectionately called the Stinkmobile. And so ends the Day of the Dead Meat. One of uuuussss.... one of uuussss....
