Hamburger Helper: Cure All?
Ah, the wonder that is Hamburger Helper. For about two hours on Thursday night, the fact that we were having Hamburger Helper for dinner was enough to keep all of my demons at bay. Such is the powerful, magical effect of this most ingenious of Betty Crocker’s many fine culinary products. But when the bad thoughts came back just in time for our evening shot, and the leftovers were already tucked safely away in the refrigerator for lunch on Friday, not even the lingering effects of Cheddar Cheese Melt Hamburger Helper could keep Stephanie and I from arguing. Nothing could keep us from descending into that yawning chasm of pain we’ve spent so much time in lately.
As you can imagine, Stephanie is absolutely sick of the progesterone injections I have to give her every other night. And I’m sick of giving them, too. This makes for a rather tense half-hour or so, where all I want to do is scream at her and all she wants to do is scream at me. The icing her down isn’t working so well anymore; we’ve run out of places to stick the damn needle that aren’t bruised or intolerably itchy; and it’s getting more and more uncomfortable for her to lay on her side, almost on her stomach, and stay still while I work at getting the obnoxious oil-based medication out of its vial and into the gargantuan ass-sticking needle.
It doesn’t help that she hasn’t been able to find a job, that the only places she’s been getting interviews are places that pay little more than peanuts for a salary, and that she’s stuck at home all day, the only solid human interaction she partakes in being with her surly spouse at the end of a long commute.
And, of course, because I only get to see her when she’s upset about all of this, it leads me to sometimes think that she actually regrets being pregnant (something she vehemently denies).
Her frustration leads to my frustration which leads to her frustration. It’s a wonderful merry-go-round.
So I’m thinking that we should just eat Hamburger Helper more often, that it might be wise to investigate the feasability of ingesting the Hamburger Helper sauce intravenously. That way, we’d just be happy all the damn time, like we were during dinner tonight. There was a time, back in the day, back when we were both absurdly fat, that Hamburger Helper and pasta were the staples of our diet. And I think we were a lot happier then, or at least a lot less stressed out.