Hey there! Remember me? We met at the grocery store five years ago, right after you moved into that new apartment. You were picking up some Ben and Jerry’s for your date night when you bumped into me while I was hanging out on a hook by the freezer aisle. At first it was just a sidewards glance; I was sure you would just keep going and never look back. It’s okay, I understand. Measuring cups seem to get all the attention these days but you know how they are. Never there when you need them. Always getting lost, then you have to go find them only to realize they’ve been used by someone else. Caked in some sort of super-adhesive, animal feces-looking substance… And that’s if you’re lucky! Most times they’ll just up and leave within a month of moving in––and without even a word! But I digress…
Apparently something about me caught your eye. Maybe it was my chromed scoop; ever so lustrous and curvaceous. So shiny it could give Rudy Giuliani’s forehead a run for its money! Or maybe it was the allure of my scoop release lever. With a flick of your thumb, it ejects any number of frozen treat from my clutches no matter how sticky it may be. How could you possibly resist this new-fangled technology? Oh how I wish you had chosen me for either of those features, or even my ribbed, silicone grip; but alas, I know this is not the case. I was on sale at the right time and place.
You and your beau had just moved in together and were purchasing ice cream but realized you had no way of scooping it––or so you told yourself. Let’s be honest for a second; I’d like to believe that you chose me because I filled a need in your life but what actually caught your eye was my price tag. Only $8 for all this functionality and what’s this? Made in France! Oh what a steal I was for you. You probably called up your friends, bragging about what a good deal I was. Treating me like a prized possession… “I am useful!” I thought triumphantly, “This person has given me purpose in my meager existence” little did I know the fate that was to befall me.
Sure you used me that night. Cherry Garcia, was it? And maybe a few times in the weeks immediately following. Okay, I admit it. I remember each scoop like it was yesterday! Cherry Garcia, Phish Food, Karamel Sutra, and… that’s it. You’ve ignored me ever since, eating ice cream with spoons like the uncouth animals you are. Five. Whole. Years I’ve sat idle.
Since then, you got married and got a bunch of other crap as “presents”. There I sit: day in, day out in the furthest corner of your utensil drawer. Watching in agony as you reach for the vegetable peeler or the citrus zester or even the goddamn garlic crusher! What the fucking fuck––you don’t know how to use a fucking chef’s knife? You didn’t buy me because you needed me, you bought me because I was… cheap! I feel like a dirty whore except I can’t even turn tricks; you won’t let me. I’m an Ostrich, I need to run! Across the plains of french vanilla and Neapolitan, taking in all my surroundings and presenting them in a semi-regular hemisphere! I’m suffocating in here and you don’t even care. No one cares!
Maybe someday you’ll have kids and you’ll need more space. Maybe you’ll move out of this dingy place. Maybe while you’re packing you’ll see me here: neglected, rusting, covered in dust. Maybe you’ll take pity on me and clean me up and take me with you. Maybe you’ll even remember to take me out at the kids’ birthday parties so that their scoops look extra special one day out of the year. But let’s be honest, you’ll probably throw me out along with the melon baller, the melted spatula, and the Slapchop. I’ll wind up in a landfill somewhere because your dumb ass was too lazy to recycle me. I’ll look up into the blue sky for the last time before I’m covered with more perfectly functional yet totally useless crap, and that will be that. Until you go to buy ice cream again and realize you don’t have an ice cream scoop but what’s this? It’s on sale for only $8? How could you pass this up!