I was planning on melodramatically threatening self-harm via the expired can of whipped cream in the fridge, but I may have vastly underestimated the shelf life of things containing “real dairy”. The can has been in the fridge since before Thanksgiving and was largely forgotten, since we don’t usually eat things that require additional flavouring from a nozzle. I figured it HAD to be expired, and was theatrically exploring my food-related options for dramatic seppuku when I seized it (and the Diet Coke; I was thirsty) in glee. Unfortunately, even though the whipped cream was purchased last October and is 100% all natural whipped creamy goodness, it has some sort of pact with the food devil and won’t actually go bad until MAY. And that’s not even guaranteed – May 26th is still the “best before” date, meaning it’s likely to be edible and distressingly non-lethal for YEARS. This simply will not do. It’s time to break out Plan B (as in the second plan, not “oh shit potentially fertilized eggs”): sausages.
I am vibrating with stress and actual vibrators. Today is the receiving end of “we’ll let you know by X”, so I’m sitting by the phone/email with a heart full of anxiety and woe. I hate this part of the job hunt more than anything – waiting patiently has never been my strong point, and when it’s something that means the difference between a life of adventure and tacos or non-stop worry and government cheese, I’m even more unbearably gut-knotted than usual. I may have to resign myself to not hearing anything today and making the call myself tomorrow, which means I’ll be spending the night in a tense unhappy mess covered in creamed corn and tears.
At least my fingernails are growing out nicely – they’re actually clacking on keys! Maybe I can get a job as a hand model. Anyone need a specimen with freakishly small pinkies?