No Mo Mochi

I possess a number of charming, lady-like habits, one of which is the ability to eat an entire pint of ice cream in one sitting.  I get sidetracked by the fact that my brain is only capable of thinking “MMMMMMMM delicious!” and before I know it, I look down in shock to realize that the entire pint has disappeared.

I can’t help it.  And now that it’s summertime the addiction is full force (not that it ever dies down in the winter).  So in an effort to curb my ice cream lust I discovered Mochi.  These beautiful, golf ball sized portions of ice cream wrapped in a sweet rice dough and covered in powdered sugar.

I bought a tray of 6 thinking that this would be perfect:  if I only pull out one ball of Mochi at a time, I have no excuse.  No more pints, just a perfect amount of ice cream to satiate my sweet tooth.

So after dinner one night, I executed my master plan, which as always in my life, tends to go awry.  I pulled out one perfect individual serving of Mochi, and before I knew it, I had blacked out and the whole tray was gone.

I looked down to witness the crime scene in my apartment, all evidence pointing to me murdering an entire tray of Mochi single-handedly:  powdered sugar all over my shirt.  Powdered sugar on the ground in front of the freezer.  I’d annihilated the entire tray, and now had to clean up this mess before someone walked into my apartment and found all of the evidence of the Mochi Massacre.

Victims of the Mochi Massacre of 2017–though I’m not entirely convinced that they aren’t coated in cocaine instead of powdered sugar.
So when I got off of work on Friday after a long day, I decided I was going to pick up a few things at the grocery store.  Just a few staples:  toilet paper, chips, salsa, wine.  The usual.  I stopped and looked longingly at the Mochi through the freezer glass, held up my hand and said, “No.  Not this time,” walking away proud like an addict that had kicked a habit.

As I walked home, I figured I had finally gotten my life together, but then I realized chips, salsa, and wine weren’t likely the best alternatives, so I supposed it didn’t really matter.

Regardless, I was looking forward to a glass of wine after a long week.  Forget the Mochi.  I just wanted to relax on my couch, turn on some mindless trashy tv, have a glass of wine and get to sleep.

As I started walking I felt the paper bag start to rip.

“Shit!” I yelled as I caught the half gallon of milk that was now poking through the bottom of the bag.

I was only a few blocks away and had a bit of a hike left in front of me to get back to my apartment.  I, being easily distracted, quickly convinced myself out of the Mochi purchase while at the store, but that didn’t stop me from realizing I needed milk for my coffee the next day.  And I might as well pick up some sugar while I was at it.  And La Croix was on sale so I needed a case of that.  This obviously culminated into many more things as well as a paper bag that was overloaded with groceries.

I sighed, and supported the bag from the bottom by balancing it on my hip like it was a toddler.  It was my version of “precious cargo” after a long day.

I was about half way home when I realized the bag was still ripping and I needed to readjust.  I put my La Croix down and went to put the bag on a nearby bench when I heard a rip and the sound of shattering glass.

The ground was a sea of salsa and broken glass.

I carefully reorganized the bag, sad to be salsa-less but would be lying if I didn’t say that my first thought after I heard the shatter was “Please God don’t let it be the wine!”  Priorities.

I had, of course, forgotten my bus pass, so was stuck either begging for a ride home or sorting my own shit out.  I am too proud for the former, so I MacGuyvered the contents of the bag to make them less likely to fall out of the bottom and moved the wine to a safer spot.  Then I balanced the bag on top of the La Croix box, making a fake support system for the bottom of the bag.

It was super awkward, and I’m sure looked even weirder than it felt as I struggled to walk home.  That’s when it started to sprinkle.  And then my phone started buzzing, which I had thrown into the bag as well.

I prayed that I could make it home before the combo of sprinkling rain and buzzing phone resulted in the final straw for the bag to just give out completely and make me prioritize what I could carry with my own two hands the rest of the way.  I already knew the wine would make the cut, but I’d have to choose wisely with the rest of the items.

Luckily, I made it home, only to be stared at like the town weirdo by a few passerbys.  I wanted to chime in “Thanks for the offer to help me out” but then realized I am not prone to accepting help and probably would have convinced myself I was going to get murdered by the time I let them into my apartment.

I made it through the door, dumped the bag, and went straight for the wine.  I figured I had earned it.  And if I’d gone for the Mochi instead of the salsa, I wouldn’t have been in this situation in the first place.


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