I used to spend hours stewing over the fact that I always had to change the toilet roll, and bitching about it. It wasn’t even just changing the roll either, but taking off the freaking empty cardboard roll and putting it in the bin all of about 3 inches away.
I say “used to” because I was recently reminded that everything in the universe is relative. And after the latest challenge to my sanity, toilet paper negligence now seems like a misdemeanor.
At my house, those of us over 3 feet tall stay sane thanks to our “mommy juice”. We buy it by the box, size XXL. I can’t actually tell you the grape or the provenance, just that I can afford it given the INSANE taxes on wines here in South East Asia. It goes down smooth, my shoulders drop a few inches and everyone stays happy.
The opening of said new box is a sacred ritual. The box has its own spot in the fridge. Intermittently throughout the day, I watch the clock until tipple-time. I cherish the swishing sound of the wine filling my fine $2 Ikea stemware.
After one particularly brutal day, I hadn’t managed to get in a single gulp before I got the kids to bed. But once the bolts were in place and the scratching at the door had died down, I headed to the fridge to get me my nightly therapy.
I knew we had reached the “box tipping” stage and were getting close to the end. But as el Jefe had managed a glass the night before and the box was still in place, nothing seemed amiss.
I leaned it over, glass in position, turned the knob and…nothing. I tipped twenty degrees, nothing. Forty-Five… Fuck me, 90?! Not a stinking drop. Unable to believe what was happening. I pulled the box out and started shaking it next to my ear. Bloody bone-dry.
I am about as close as you can get to being called a single mother while still being ‘happily’ married. My husband works ridiculously long hours and I am SAHM who home-schools —thank you Thailand and non-existent expat packages. Seriously, what else do I have but my glass of vinto tinto every night? And you PUT AN EMPTY wine box back in the fridge?
He is lucky I didn’t cut his cajones, bobbit-style- with my recently acquired supermarket loyalty points Chef knife.
So I learned my lesson. At the end of the day, literally, I’d rather wipe my arse with my hand then be left with an empty wine glass.