We went shopping to CostCo. Really needed it (got my money for the injury portion of the accident last year; took what they offered, it sucks, but I just don’t feel like fighting them any longer, too tired - put the money in the bank for the cats). I used the cat money. We were out of hamburger and roast, one potato left, not much of what we bought was taxable, most of the stuff was food items. Cat litter and kibble was taxable, as was the calcium. Anyway….
I like to buy the biggest packages of meat and roast that they have. We bring it home and I split it up, use my food saver vacuum thing, I put the individual packages in a ziplock freezer bag and have meal size portions to just pluck out of the freezer.
I don’t weigh the roasts, I just cut them up and after a meal, there’s usually enough to use for tacos or burritos later on. I do weigh the hamburger. I try to get each portion to be exactly twelve ounces. Now, there are two options for the burger. There’s the big lump package (which I reach for) and there’s a package with individual burger rounds…well, more like patties with holes in the middle. I have no idea why they have this, unless it’s ready to be used on the grill. The hole throws me, but maybe when they’re patted down, they are someone’s idea of the perfect burger patty. Brian’s gotten these in the past and I wasn’t thrilled with them. It’s the same meat, the same cost, but it throws my rhythm off when I divide them up. He’s asked me about it before and I told him I preferred the bulk meat. It’s one of those personal things that’s just hard to clarify to someone else’s satisfaction. I do the work, let me get what I need and just shut up about it, okay? It’s not a big deal, don’t make it into one.
So, last night, he decides to grill me on it again. “Why don’t you like these?” Argh! There weren’t really that many people shopping and I kinda sorta just lost it. “Why does it matter? Why do you always bug me about it? What difference does it make?”
“Well, I just thought it would be easier for you to split when it’s already split.”
“So, how much do you think each one of those rounds weighs? Do you think they’re exactly twelve ounces?”
“So how would that be easier for me? I’d still have to be splitting them up.” And as I walked away to check out the roasts, I’m still talking, loud enough for him (and the few people around us) to hear. “I don’t know why you bug me about this, I have my way of doing it and I like doing it my way.”
“I just thought it would be easier for you…”
“Why are we having this conversation again? No, it’s not easier for me, because…” and I look up from the meat. There’s a well dressed man, late forties, early fifties, looking at the various meats and he’s grinning from ear to ear. He sees me looking at him (like “WTF are you smiling about?”) and he says “I’m married, this sounds familiar and I’m a husband so I have to take his side.”