I don’t care which way a person installs a new roll of toilet paper. I change it so it’s rolling off the top, but it’s not a big deal. I’m not judging.
I don’t care if people desert their damp towels on the bathroom floor. I scoop them up and toss them into the laundry. Not much thought goes into it.
I don’t care if a pan is left encrusted with food. I soak it and tackle the scrubbing later. My mind is already onto the next thing.
I do care about The List, though. It’s only a simple Post-it Note on the kitchen counter, but its contents—or lack thereof—mean something to me.
“People,” I say to the inhabitants of the house, “if you see we’re out of something or running low on anything, put it on the list.”
They all nod like they love me enough to do my bidding, and 79% of the time, they do. But then I don’t have cream for my coffee or butter for my popcorn, and if my life were a comic strip, a dark scribble would appear in my thought bubble.
It’s not like you have to buy the item, I tell everybody all the time. Just make a note of it, please. Did anybody hear me? You did? Okay, good. Then do it. Thank you.
The List is a medium for communication, and the household members like to rattle my spelling cage when they use it: oitmilk, bagles, crem chez, toona, qwasonts. And they abbreviate things too: bluebs and strawbs, shred ched, spark wat.
A long-term house guest once heard me chiding the others about The List, and not fully apprised of the rules, she added her request: Sheep’s milk cheese from Whole Foods
One time, next to the sandwich meat, The List contained anonymous chastisement: You all have baditudes, every last one. And another time, between the spinach and Coleman's mustard, it declared endearment: I love you, Mom
The List shows me Husband’s canning passions of late, and sometimes I don’t even know what I’m buying. Or he can do the shopping to ensure accuracy, is what I might say.
I went on a hunt for mustard seeds—they were on The List one canning day—and they were an elusive commodity in all the stores I checked. So, I thought a lot about mustard seeds, which led me to contemplate faith and mountains. If you know, you know.
And I guess that’s where the lesson resides: in what some claim to be the tiniest seed on the planet. But this is going long for today, so that can be a point for next time.
‘K, bye.
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