Thursday, June 18, 2009

Three hundred years from now, historians will no doubt attempt to codify my system for purchasing cereal, so I’ll lay it out here plainly to save them time. First, pay no more than $2.50 per box. Also! Try not to buy Fruity Pebbles. With such loose restrictions, you may suspect I’m easily compromised in the supermarket, and you’d be correct. I spied a rare sight in the breakfast aisle yesterday: a price tag proclaiming a virtually unheard-of $1.54 for an entire package of– Of Hannah Montana Multi-Grain Secret Star Cereal, apparently.

“Shit,” I muttered.

This was a problem, no two ways about it. On one hand, it was cheap and it wasn’t Fruity Pebbles. On the other hand, I couldn’t bring myself to reach for a box. Doing so would’ve ensured I’d bump into someone I knew minutes after–that’s how these things always happen, anyhow–and what’s more, I couldn’t imagine pouring myself a bowl the following morning. I’d be ashamed to eat it. I ended up grabbing some Cinnamon Toast Crunch, which was fortified with just as much sugar and, most importantly, a little more dignity.

It also bears reporting that the shituation back on the home front appears to have resolved itself, courtesy of an indirect “Eff You” in place of darker remedies, and suburban life has reclaimed some of its comforting normalcy. But the next conundrum has already presented itself. My living room is being invaded by tiny spiders. They’re fast and almost seem to be able to fly across the ceiling. I’ve vacuumed a dozen tonight and, as I was typing the last paragraph, killed the few who dared land too close to the keyboard. I need to figure out how to get rid of them without pumping the interior full of pesticides. Until then, they’re free to spin their sinister webs, even as I weave mine.