I think I just got permission from the universe to not even pretend I’m actually “feminine,” in the sense of nurturing and homemaking and all that kind of stuff.

In preparation for the return of M., I grocery shopped (a rarity) and planned on cooking in addition to doing a bit of cleaning (key word “bit,” since in truth my apartment needs a flame-thrower to ever truly be clean). My goal to be welcoming and attentive, as though I really were a nurturing, caring human being.

Failure Number 1: I monitor his flight on the Internet hours before arrival. At what I think is a good 40 minutes before the plane is due, they update the website, I have ten minutes to get to the airport. I’m late.

Failure Number 2: Proudly, I bought fresh French Roast coffee beans from a gourmet establishment for his morning java fix. Then, post-purchase, I couldn’t find my grinder (put away during Christmas cleaning to make room for the Kitchen-Aid mixer. When, incidentally, I also completely emptied the refrigerator and told him on the phone. The state of the ‘fridge becomes relevant later (cue dramatic foreshadowing). After screwing around with a food chopper and pretty much only making a mess, I revert to Plan B, “gourmet coffee” from Johnny’s Foodmaster (the wonderfully ghetto-esque grocery story on the Cambridge/Somerville border that as of late has tried to capture some upscale yuppity markets). Of course, after all of this bruhaha, I find my grinder in one of the kitchen cabinets. D’Oh.

Failure 3 (and this one is really what the post is all about): I buy half and half. Knowing he’s a cream drinker and the low-fat or no-fat milk I favor is a pale substitute, I splurge and buy a quart of half and half. Repeatedly, I brown nose and brag, pointing out my wonderful supportive purchase. See, I’m a nurturer damnit. I fucking care! Cream, miles and miles of cream.

So, then I call home yesterday. Did he find everything? Was the coffee OK? He’s uncharacteristically brief on the phone. He mentions he has been in the bathroom not feeling well. He asks about the cream. It didn’t dissolve right, just sort of floated on the top. I claim it was brand new, and ask about the seal. “Seal? What seal? It was already open.”

Hmmmm. Was the precious cream a victim of tampering? Will he survive the day?

Later on, I am cooking dinner (OK, I’m not a total jackass, I can cook the occasional dinner). He mentions the cream, but he is feeling better. We look in the refrigerator, and he shows me the cream of taint. He looks at the date (for the first time that day). January 9, 2004. A solid month old at least. In truth, it’s the cream I bought and opened for his last week with me before moving West. That would be around December 17, 2003. Jesus Christ. I’m surprised it poured and didn’t just ooze from the container.

Did I mention I cleaned the refrigerator?

For me, as I am racist, the best part is his third world culture imperative. Unlike me, a wonton and wasteful westerner from the first world, who throws away anything even vaguely off, he drank the sucker down. A full cup of coffee with spoiled yogurt swirling on the top. Since he was trying to tell me last night he could have been a goat herder, I guess compared to a C.A.R.E. package from UNICEF, that’s good to the last drop.

Moral of the story: Good housekeepers do not send their lovers to the toilet.

Corollary to the story: I am not a good housekeeper.