The Woes of Single-Womanhood!

So, I have been single now for over a year. Let me tell you, it's not easy. I know I sound extremely whiney saying that, seeing as there are quite a few people who have spent much more time single than I have, and whine a lot less about it, but still. It's tough!

This week I am especially frustrated. I suppose I should say first that there are a couple of good things about single-womanhood. Like I never have to share my wine. The bathtub is always clean. Way less dishes to do. No white load of laundry ruined from a red sock. My bedroom can be decorated like a pretty princess if I want. BUT, there are a lot of cons to the situation. Note a few cases in point:

Since I left for Boston in January, I have been craving my delicious homemade applesauce. When I returned home, I was ecstatic to discover an entire jar of it in my fridge. I grabbed a dish and spoon, pulled out the applesauce and attempted to open the jar. Not a budge. I yanked, pulled, pried. Nothing. Grabbed a towel and repeated. Nope. I banged the sides and lid with a knife, spoon, and fork. I ran it under hot water. I ran it under cold water. I walloped it against the side of the counter. That was day one. It has been 11 days since then and I have tried every day.

I am currently in another predicament of the same nature. This morning I decided to cook up some delicious wild rice to accompany a curry sauce I made yesterday. After simmering it down, I covered it with a lid. Would you know that the lid is now sealed to the pan? It's almost as if it was lined with superglue. Is someone playing a bad joke on me? Seriously! I have yanked and pulled and banged the thing against everything in the kitchen. I tried prying it open with a knife. 20 minutes straight I tried. I think I'm going to have to throw the whole pan in the garbage.

Another inconvenience. Taking the trash out. I have had several bad experiences with this one.

One morning I had two large bags of trash to take out. I was in my sweats, hair pointing in every direction possible, and probably a dirt smudge on my nose and some spinach in my teeth. I rounded the corner down the stairs, and coming up were two very cute guys from down the hall. "Oh Lord," I thought, "I look horrid. How embarrassing!" Little did I know that was the least of my problems.

I passed them, got to the bottom of the stairs, and proceeded to slip and fall flat on my butt. I'm pretty sure my legs went over my shoulders, and the two garbage bags went flying. Enter two adorable guys, running full speed at me to help me up, asking if I'm okay, laughing behind those big brown eyes. I was so angry I told them to leave me alone, I was fine, collected my garbage and what scraps of dignity I managed to hang on to, and marched outside. Of course they insisted on holding the door open for me, and I practically had to kick them in the shins to get them to not walk me the whole way around back to the trash bins.

Later that day when I came home from running errands I actually sat in my car ducking for five minutes because they were standing outside the apartment complex. I will forever be known to them as the girl down the hall who tumbled with the trash.

Another bad garbage experience: I live in a locked building, so every time I walk outside I have to take my keys with me. As I was hoisting my garbage bags into the huge round trash bin with the teeny opening on the top, my keys got tangled and were pitched into oblivion. I peered through the opening to assess the damage, and I was delighted to see that the garbage had been collected earlier that day, and my keys were at the VERY bottom of the bin. So unbelievably out of reach.

I sat down to think. How in the world do I get those out? I could try knocking the whole can over on its side and crawling in through the little opening. I peeked back over into the can, and was reminded of the dozens of showers I would have to take to get the god-awful smell of stale bread, rotten fruit, and I'm sure some sort of infant defecation off me if I proceeded.

I started walking, searching for a neighborhood kid to offer $20 to climb in the can. No one around of course. So I began to examine the perimeter of the bin. AHA! At the very bottom of the back there was a tear in the thick plastic. I managed to get my hand and forearm through, gagging at the feeling of nasty trash juice dripping all over my skin. I groped around, pushed aside a mush of something, and clamped my fingers around the cold, hard, gooey metal of my keys. Thank heavens! I only had to use them to get back in the building, in my apartment, and then take them apart and sanitize each key. Then I had to go back and sanitize the darn locks I used them in. So disgusting!

So, add these incidents to the several dishes I've broken trying to get them down from high places. Or the countless burned out light bulbs. Or the shelf that up and ripped itself off the wall in the middle of the night, spilling all of its contents on the floor, leaving several giant holes in the wall, and waking me from a dead sleep to the thought of an intruder (I now have a baseball bat, pepper spray, a nice drill, and a lifetime supply of mollies in the house). Single-womanhood is a hard life!

But I can handle it. And you know what? I just got the lid off the pan.