The Shame of the Stash

I used to have an earthquake kit and a medical emergency kit stashed someplace in the house.  Luckily I never needed to use them because I have no idea where they are.  But I do know where to find the more important stuff.   The brown stuff.

So do my kids, who routinely bust me when they come home to visit.  Even the cat tries to control my habit.

I’ve tried to clean up my act  as if anyone will believe it.

But sometimes you just need a fix.  Like tonight.   And every other night.

So after V went to sleep I went around the house checking on my stash.

Posting this is humiliating hopeless strategic.  I figure maybe public shame will work as a cure.

So here’s a status report:

FOUND:  desk drawer    ACQUIRED:  Unknown

FOUND:  pantry     ACQUIRED: Unknown.  But safe to eat because I ate some last week

FOUND:  in my purse                 ACQUIRED:  one month ago on my way to Israel

FOUND:  On desk    ACQUIRED:  7 years ago on a trip to Australia

FOUND:  bowl in the office   ACQUIRED:  Trust me it won’t make it till next Christmas

FOUND: bedroom shelf    ACQUIRED: two years ago in Times Square

FOUND:  wall in the kitchen   ACQUIRED:  30 years ago

FOUND:  in a purse I never use   ACQUIRED:  too scary to think about

Scarier:  the feeling public shame isn’t going to work.