Summer of 2005, Monterey, California

By Tanja Groesbeck

Many of us have had roommates we would rather not remember. The kind of people who, when we do recall them, we still get a little annoyed at the thought of their dirty socks on the coffee table or their dried toothpaste in the bathroom sink. I would imagine that when my ex-roommate sees an expiration date on anything, she thinks of me with some annoyance of her own.

On the day she moved in, I came home from a long day at the office to find nearly not a trace of someone having moved in that day. At first glance, it seemed as though she put everything she had brought with her away in its rightful place. I could hear her shower running, and there was no singing coming from it. The neatness and quietness was a good start to living together.

After changing my clothes into something more comfortable, I entered the kitchen and immediately turned on the oven to preheat. I then poured myself a glass of my favorite Merlot before removing a frozen calzone from the freezer. It was then that I first noticed the beginning of the end of my newly found living arrangement: frost bitten chicken breasts stared at me with a package date of two years prior. No, not two months, but two entire years! I forced the gag in my throat back down and reluctantly placed the rock hard chicken back where it was. It wasn’t mine to throw away after all.

Curious, I opened the refrigerator only to realize there were plenty of other inedibles that had been brought into my home that day. Old salad dressing that could have tossed itself; a container of sour cream so far gone it had become puckered; and too many other jarred items that were all open, expired, and ready to be put out of their misery.

Suddenly, my planned dinner did not seem so appealing, especially after I bravely turned to my pantry. Inside I found a rusted can of 5-year-old Campbell’s Cream of Celery Soup, and before I even looked to see what the date was on the faded label of evaporated milk, I instinctively grabbed my garbage can from underneath the sink. A sudden urge to rid my kitchen of decomposed dangers came over me.

I immediately regretted being at work when she moved her things into my condominium; I should have supervised the mass amount of expired food items placed in my kitchen. And apparently, when we talked about her moving in, I had failed to mention that my stress level depended on having only groceries that were safe enough to eat.

During my contemplation of whether or not to throw out the jar of her Nutella because the black numbers were faded on the lid, making it virtually impossible to tell whether or not it, too, was a decade old, my roommate came into the kitchen. Before she had a chance to object to any of my late spring cleaning, I tossed the sandwich spread and offered her a glass of wine to toast our first night together as roomies.

I now know that a good indicator of when living together is not going to work out very well is when a friendly gesture, such as a drink offer, is turned down with a glare followed by the shrieking question, “What the hell are you doing?”

As innocent as could be, I replied, “Just going through my cupboards to make room for your groceries. I didn’t realize I had so many things to throw out.” I thought it was clever of me to put the blame of neglect on myself.

“These are my groceries!” She peered into the garbage can, then angrily opened the fridge door. The towel that had been wrapped over her freshly washed hair fell to one side.

Unfortunately, I had not gotten far enough in my purging to clean the fridge out yet. Continuing to play innocent, I said, “I’ll make room in there for you, too.” In hopes of changing the subject, I added, “I have an extra calzone if you’d like me to heat one up for you.”

But she did not bite. Instead, she slammed the refrigerator shut and picked the chocolate hazelnut spread out of the garbage, setting it on the counter. She reached back into the bin as dread filled me instantly. She could not possibly be serious about keeping all that expired food in my house! My heart began to race.

“Wait!” I shouted. “There’s something I didn’t tell you.”

With eyebrows raised, she looked at me like I was crazy.

“As I’m sure there is a pet peeve or two that you have, mine happens to be expiration dates. I really can’t do them.”

“Why not?” She folded her hands over her chest and cocked one hip out while her upper body leaned on the counter. Now her towel had completely fallen off, exposing her wet, matted head. It was still less distracting than the questionable Nutella container.

“Because they’re there for a reason. To keep us from getting food bourn illnesses.”

Despite my best effort to remain neutral, she found it necessary to make it personal. “No, they are there so that naïve people like you throw it out and waste money buying brand new stuff!”

“I’m not naïve. I’m just being cautious.” I tried to remain calm.

“More like paranoid!” She grabbed for the rusty soup.

OK, playing Ms. Nice Guy was over. “Look, I can’t live with food in here that would require an in-home stomach pump in case of emergencies!”

She fired right back, “And I can’t live with someone who has a phobia about dates on a can! What do you do when there’s an overdue library book lying around?”

I cringed at the thought.

“It’s not a phobia! It’s about not liking fermented food.” It was out of my mouth before I even remembered that my glass of fermented grape juice was still sitting on the counter. Luckily, she did not put two and two together, and I dared not bring notice to it.

“You’re acting as if the passing of a date transforms food into some sort of poison!” she said. “It’s all in your head, you know.”

Despite our best efforts, we could not agree on the connection between expiration dates and the scientific explanation behind them. I have blocked out most of the rest of the conversation that evening, but I do recall words such as “pasteurization,” “homogenization,” and “preservatives,” along with “psycho” and “idiot.”

There were other idiosyncrasies that drove us crazy about each other, and not long after we parted ways. I have never gotten over her lack of fear of eating rotten food and have chalked it up to the fact that she is just more adventurous than I am, or has a greater sense of feeling guilty about throwing things away. Either way, I still don’t keep expired food in the kitchen.

Recently, while trying to plan a family vacation for spring break, it has come to light that my son’s passport has expired. My travel agent is making such a fuss about us not being able to travel abroad, and I don’t see why the expiration date can’t be overlooked just this once. But it looks as though we will be unable to get to our destination of choice this year.

I would imagine my departed roommate would be happy to know that a sort of comedic karma has come my way. That is, of course, if she is alive and has not died from botulism.

Tanja Groesbeck is a certified paralegal with a B.S. in Legal Studies. She is currently a stay-at-home-mom and military spouse living in Okinawa, Japan. Tanja also writes poetry and has conformed two of her works into award-winning lyrics, which have been noted on www.songoftheyear.com and www.narrativemusic.ca.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Tuesday, March 20th, 2007 | Email This Post

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