Supermarket Faceoff

I do not enjoy shopping for food.   As far as domestic chores go, I would rather clean a toilet.

I can handle Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s but something called SAFEway gives me pause.    Why do I need to be convinced that the food they sell is safe?  Of course, this makes me think it isn’t.

And another thing:  I have become paranoid about touching the handles of those nasty metal carts.  Not to mention the fact that somebody ALWAYS leaves some sort of questionable “something” in the bottom of the cart.  Crumpled wrappers, empty cups of god knows what.  One time I found a diaper.  A DIAPER!

Who does that??

Um….probably the same people who leave them in fast-food parking lots side a disgusting pile of cigarette butts from their emptied ashtray?? There’s nothing like the sweet smell of baby shit mixed with a smoldering pile of unfiltered Camels to brighten your day, right?

But I digress as I so often do.

Here’s the real question:  why the hell is it necessary to have those crazy, brightly colored  plastic ”kid carts” the size of a Zamboni?  You know what I mean.  Those ridiculous plastic behemoths the kids gets shoved in  so they don’t scream bloody murder when mom (or the nanny if you happen to be in Malibu) snatches the Volkswagon-sized box of Lucky Charms from Junior’s vice grip??

Now, I like kids as much as the next guy but there has to be some balance here.  What happened to being satisfied with those adorable pint-sized metal carts that the kids could fill up and slam into the shins of other shoppers?  Wasn’t that good enough?

If supermarkets are going to force me to endure 3 year olds on ice rink equipment, the least they can do is provide some basic adult necessities like LED flat screens playing endless re-runs of Keeping Up With The Kardashians.

For the record, I am a rabid supporter of  Whole Foods.  They do not condone the use of Zamboni machines in their stores.  I do most of my food shopping there when my friends start using words like “scurvy” to scare me into replenishing my cupboards.

 

 

 

Self Check-Out

My husband is an impatient man.

A typical type-A personality.

Angiogram starts with the letter A.  I wonder if there’s a connection because pretty much every type A personality of a certain age that I know has had one.  The only exception to this is my dad who is about as laid back as an aging hippie sans the B.O. and the Ginsberg.

Anyway….chest pains = angiogram which = a hospital stay which= one unhappy camper once the procedure is over and said type A camper is forced to eat a bland diet of bone dry turkey sandwiches in a space the size of a British hotel room with shitty T.V. reception and a bed that would NOT stop adjusting itself.  I won’t even go into the monitors and tubes and bells and whistles that ring and chirp and chime all night long ensuring the crappiest night sleep you can image short of a slumber party with the Marquis de Sade.

Although it was mildly amusing when my husband’s nurse told him she’d kick his ass if he didn’t stop trying to raise the bed past a 30 degree angle then threatened to strap his forehead down with surgical strength duct tape if he engaged his abdominal muscle one…more…time, he knew they meant business but tested the limits anyway.   You don’t fuck with the O.R. nurses.  He tried.  He lost. And I’ve been picking sticky stuff off his forehead for the last two days.

When it came time to be released (Oh, happy day!  No more peeing in a bottle!), there was a hitch.

The  doctor didn’t show.

10 o’clock.

11 o’clock

I begin to sweat.  My face feels clammy. My breath become shallow and quick.  I may need a doctor myself.

The NASCAR race is starting and the T.V. reception really sucks and all my unhappy camper can think of is 60 inches of crystal clear plasma expanse versus 20 inches of static. 

“Can you hear me God?  It’s me, Julie.  Need a little help here.”

These people made a big mistake not giving this man of mine a specific check-out time because they said Saturday.  When you tell a type A personality they can go home on Saturday…..well….that means Saturday morning.  As in first thing.  No…I take that back.  More like first light.

Higher Power offers nothing most probably because of my past irreverent posts on organized religion. 

Some people just can’t take a joke.

So we  implement Plan B.

Just in case you didn’t know, you can check yourself out of the hospital. 

Just remember to have your loved one unhooked from that rolling metal tower.  They don’t fit in the car.  Trust me on this.

 

I Love You And I Mean It

I take “I love you” for granted.  

I say it without any thought at the end of a phone call.

And then I hear it without any thought at the end of a phone call.

Uh huh. Bye. Thanks.  See ya tomorrow. I love you. I love you too.

Yesterday and the day before that…. I heard I love you a lot.

But they were not like the others.  Not the taken-for-granted-lip-service-I-love-yous.

These were the real deal.

The I mean it kind of I love yous.

And I heard the words in a different way.

They washed over my eardrums like warm honey.  My eyes stung and my throat tightened and burned and I was overwhelmed and thought I might explode but I didn’t  because my tears put out the fire.

And then they reached my heart and there they found their place.

And I said it back. 

And I meant it.

 

Resistance Is Futile

I want this t-shirt.

I also want these eyes but not even surgery can give them to me.  Trust me, I’ve looked into it.

This is my gorgeous great-nephew.  He is both gorgeous AND great and completely irresistible.

He likes clothing with a message.

He now has a baby sister.

Anna is her name.

I am compelled to come up with a nickname for her since I am known for creating nicknames that (unfortunately at times) stick.

I must choose wisely for Anna.

My first inclination, of course, is Anna Banana.  It is not creative but has a nice cadence and I’m all about rhythmic flow.

There are really only two viable words choices if I want a rhyming nickname for Anna and that is aforementioned fruit or maybe bandana.  Anna Bandana.  Has possibilities.  I will think on it.

But… I may just have to just go with Kitten.  That is what her little mews sounded like when my niece held the phone up her mouth the day after she was born.  They are far, far away.

Yes.  Kitten it is.

Gorgeous angel above I call Buckwheat.

Could be the boots.

Yup.  It’s definitely the boots.

 

Deadly? I Think Not!

So…I am guilty of  sloth. 

Personally, I feel there are much bigger sins out there that deserve the mother of all heavenly  fuck-yous.  Sloth, compared to, say, assault with a deadly weapon, should not even be in the sin category if you ask me.   Pistol whipping, running someone over with your car??  Now THAT I understand.

As far the other 6 deadly sins go, I am going to pull the Catholic absolution card even though I’m not a Catholic and fess up to some other stuff so I can promptly be forgiven thus allowing me to go forth and sins some more guilt-free.  Then,  I can do it all over again, and again, and again.  Damn!  Did you Catholics invent the iron maiden AND the hamster wheel?  

Here’s a little tip for the founding fathers of religious dogma:  If the word “deadly” is supposed to deter me from lusting after someone or getting pissed at tourists who stop in the middle of the road to snap pictures of pine trees??  Well….doesn’t work, Padres. 

I mean, I have committed all these sins and I’m still here. 

To further prod fate with a flaming poker, see my irreverence below:

Sloth:  Uh huh.  Said it once already. I’m a lazy bitch when it comes to writing this blog but for the record there is NO guilt involved for failing to keep certain people entertained. You know who you  are.  

Lust:  Pretty much every day.  Could be over a killer pair of Jimmy Choos or just a man named Jimmy who may or may not design shoes.

Pride:  I am proud to say I am a sinner of a profuse and profound nature.

Gluttony:  I have been known to inhale an entire bag of chocolate chips, followed by copious amounts of milk chugged directly from the carton even if I have a sore throat.  They are MY chocolate chips.  It is MY milk.  It is MY house.  You have been warned.

Envy:  I am totally jealous of women who have better shoes than me which is why I strive to have better shoes than anyone else.

Anger:  See lust minus the shoes and/or men named Jimmy.

Greed:  See gluttony.

Happy  now?

Some may argue that my punishment awaits me in he fiery depths of hell. 

Solution:  deathbed confession. 

God, I love Catholics!

 

 

Things That Make Me Cry

The list is short:

1.  Animal rescue shows

2.  That SPCA commercial where Sarah McLachlan sings Angel

3.  Anything related to animals in jeopardy

4.  That beautiful pair of Gucci pumps that I refuse to get rid of even though they have made me crippled

5.  My first Rolfing session

And that’s what I want to talk about.

I have, for the past 3 or 4 months, battled a progressively irritating hitch in my left hip that has become debilitating (see #4 on the hit parade above as suspected cause of aforementioned hitch).

Actually, I have no idea if those shoes caused the problem since I only wore them after the wounds from the previous wearing healed over which is to say, not very often.

Truth be told, I suspect the problem comes from a less fashionable perpetrator:  a very worn down pair of thick, rubber flip-flops that I have since thrown out.  The Guccis are still around but have been encased in Plexiglas and placed on the mantel as a reminder of the pain of quitting.  Kind of like a monument to a final, unsmoked cigarette.

But none of that matters now because my problem is what it is.

The “is” in this case is excruciating.

The chiropractor has helped.

My new Rolfing therapist has helped more even though my first visit was akin to an enthusiastic greeting at the check-in counter of the Hanoi Hilton (apologies to anyone reading this who may have actually been an unfortunate resident there – I mean no disrespect).

I wasn’t really sure what to expect. 

But I had heard rumors that pain might be involved.

Pain Schmain! I have a high tolerance.

Uh….note to self:  rethink this notion.

She zeroed in on the feet. 

Holy shit!  Not the feet! 

They are sensitive, these feet.  Probably because of my ridiculously high arch which is a family trait.  So high are these genetically flawed dogs that my old granny went so far as to accuse my sister of having hooves rather than feet.  Hers really are hooves….of the cloven variety but that’s another story. 

Okay…back to me and my pain.

I think my feet actually grew mouths and a tongue once she started working on me because I heard a disembodied scream that seemed to erupt from a southerly place .

I felt the need to confess military secrets but I had none.

I yelled out (from my real mouth this time)  ”Okay! Okay! It was Col. Mustard in the library with a monkey wrench, for chrissake!”

False confessions were futile.

How about pleading?

No.  Pleading would deplete too much needed oxygen and I needed all  I could get just to keep from fainting.

I have never known such pain and that’s not a joke.

And it was joyous!

That’s not a joke either.

It made me cry, this pain.

I could not get enough.

Two hours of torture flew by in the blink of an eye as this sprite of a woman, 90 pounds soaking wet, rolled over my twisted anatomy with arms of steel.

I think she may be bionic but I can’t be sure.  I’d have to see her run.

I cannot wait for my next appointment.

Where I will cry again.

But this shit better work or I’m bustin’ the Plexiglas.

 

Lying: The New Truth

It’s kinda like gray being the new black but more fucked up.

My first experience with a person who used bullshit as their own reality was in the third grade.  Her name was Carla.  I won’t give her last name even though she is one of only about three kids I remember from grade school.  There was also Lisa and Jay, both of whom smelled like urine….always.

I was envious of Carla’s page-boy haircut and freckled nose.  She was darling.  I can still see her.  She did not smell like urine.

But she did have a dark side.

I remember being profoundly puzzled by Carl and her strange, manipulative behavior.

Funny how childhood lessons suddenly come flooding back when you’re faced with the adult version.

It takes on a more disturbing tone when you’re older.  You know what I mean.

So Carla….

She was just like the rest of us, I thought.  None of us kids had money or family with money or friends with money or friends of friends with money (except cousins of my father who ran a farm implements company rumored to have had money despite the fact they never wore anything that didn’t have an Oshkosh B’Gosh label on it).  We were accustomed to never asking for anything because we knew we couldn’t have it.  On the rare occasion that I DID ask, my mother threatened to pull out the infamous “ledger” to show me just how hard it was to raise 4 kids and there wasn’t anything more boring to an 8-year-old than looking at a bunch of numbers in a 3-ring binder.   My mother knew how to shut us down.

The only claim to fame I had as a little kid -  besides brick rather than ply-wood on the front of our house – was a green stingray bike (not a Schwinn) and anything that the great outdoors had to offer which was free.  This made it all the more fascinating when Carla claimed to have the latest Barbie Dream House and an Easy-Bake Oven.  She knew I lusted after the Easy Bake Oven with its tiny little cake mix and single, bright lightbulb that gave it delicious, gold-brown life.  I don’t know why I was so fascinated by this invention but I was and obviously made that known throughout the halls of Rosewood School.

If only I had an Easy Bake Oven.  How grand life would be!

And there-in lies the problem.

Carla promised to give me her Easy Bake Oven.  All I had to do was come to her house and play.

You have got to be fucking kidding!! (of course I didn’t use the F word since the only curse word I knew in 3rd grade was “hell” but if I were in third grade today, I would probably use the F word)

After the choruses of Ode to Joy faded away, I remember thinking this was odd because I would have gone to her house to play even without the toy bribe but this offer was beyond my wildest dreams!.   Can’t blame a kid for caving to temptation….every good pervert through the centuries knows that, right?   Obviously, Carla was no pervert but you get what I’m saying. I also asked myself how all this wealth had been so well hidden for so long.  Hmmmm.

So off I went to Carla’s undoubtedly palatial estate that had mysteriously escaped detection in our metropolis of 15,000.

It was not what I expected.

Carla lived in a single-wide trailer.

Her parents were nowhere in sight.

She did not have an Easy Bake Oven nor a Barbie Dream House.

I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed but it was a profound day in my very young life.

It was when I learned that not everyone tells the truth.

It was when I learned that there are those who cannot see past their own desires and will do and say whatever it takes to get what they need be it friendship, money, recognition, a career.

For the record, Carla and I had a perfectly fun day doing what all small-town kids did in those days: making up stuff in the great outdoors and just being kids.

Lately, I’ve thought a lot about Carla and her need to tell such big lies at such an early age. It had to be more than a single-wide because none of us had a whole lot more than that and nobody cared.  I wonder what deep and ugly place that need came from.   Carla taught me the dark and pathetic side of lying that day and it stuck with me all my life.

Not long ago I saw a news segment about an author who wrote a book directed at recent college graduates.  In a nut-shell it was about why one should lie to get ahead because if you don’t, the next person will…better you than them.

I do not understand this thinking.

Never will.

I’ll tell you what else I don’t understand and that’s  how that tiny lightbulb could actually bake a cake.

 

Old Rocker Chics Never Die

They just start looking ridiculous if they never ditched their acid-washed jeans and tooled leather purses.

Fortunately, I evolved.  My jeans sit fashionably below my belly button rather than under my armpits although I’m uncertain how long my belly button will remain in the same place.  I’ll cross that raging river when I get to it.  For the time being, I think I’m safe – if only in my own mind – as no one has pulled me aside for a dressing-your-age talk.

But….back in the day, I considered myself quite the rocker chic.

Not a groupie, you understand (although a quickie with Keith Richards in a stadium bathroom was not outside the range of teenage fantasy).  Just a lover of all things rock and roll and everything it represented.  It was rebellion, freedom, artistry and self-indulgence all rolled into one and since I started to rebel around the age of 6, it was the perfect muse for my wandering soul and fiercely stubborn need to learn everything the hard way.  It seemed to me at the time to be the attitude of every other rock and roll front man  considering the many unfortunate drug-related incidents that beat them silly until they realized it might be a good thing to stay sober so they could still tour when they’re 65.    I was in good company with my stubborn attitude…. that’s my story – or my excuse – depending on how you want to look at it.

Growing up, the whole music culture scene fascinated me to distraction.  I spent many a blissful night in the blue haze of a concern stadium making my way down to the floor to get closer to the altar of a visiting messiah like Pete Townsend or Joe Walsh or Ian Anderson all the while deep-breathing my way to a gentle contact high; or  wearing a gauzy Indian shirt on a sweltering, Midwestern summer night at the Mississippi River Festival, swaying to the soulful lyrics of Jackson Browne or  the sexy growl of Gregg Allman while hopping from blanket to blanket in search of the best weed or a cooler full of Boone’s Farm.

Sometimes, when Classic Rewind on my satellite radio actually plays something that I consider “classic”  I am propelled back to a time when I’d lay awake at night carving the names of rock bands and front men into the soft, pressed wood of my cheaply paneled bedroom as the last glow from my patchouli incense faded away to ash.

It was so different then.

Innocent, almost.

Like it was okay to be a teenager pushing the envelope of what was acceptable according to your parents.

Glorious!

There was no fear that I can recall, no violence to speak of.  Only a little benign juvenile delinquency that never hurt anyone like getting caught smoking pot on school property.  What can I say? We were caught off guard.   The approach of our crew-cutted, polyester-wearing  football coach was drowned out by the  Robert Plant’s falsetto blaring from a tape deck in someone’s beat up Trans Am.   Copious amounts of marijuana + Immigrant Song + football coach who hated non-football playing boys with chains attached to their wallets = call your parents and tell them you’re a pot-head.  An unfortunate chain of events that I hope my long-suffering parents have forgotten.  I can still see the What-To-Do-With-Your-Pot-Smoking-Teenager  pamphlets that appeared atop my patchwork bedspread, placed there by bewildered adults who had no idea what to do with their nightmare spawn.

From time to time I have considered apologizing to my parents for putting up with me but love means never having to say you’re sorry and I try to live by the rules of profound movie lines that have stood the test of time.  So…I’m off the hook.

But I digress because the purpose of this post is to encourage anyone reading this to RUN not walk to the nearest  movie venue when It Might Get Loud comes to your town.  I won’t spill everything about this amazing  rockumentary because you should get the full impact of its profound message and nostalgic power from the worn-down velvet of a theater seat surrounded by a Lucas-inspired sound system that will make your ears bleed.

I will tell you only this:  It features, Jimmy Page, The Edge and Jack White with whom I am secretly in love even though he is a mere child which is to say he is under the age of 60 which is not my preferred age group but I’m making an exception.

This could very well be the holy trinity of rock and roll:

Jimmy Page is God the Father.

And The Edge is Jesus

And that leaves Jack to play The Holy Spirit which makes perfect sense to me.

Long live rock and roll!

 

The Incident

More often than not, I question my own smartness.

I wonder if it I’m coming down with some sort of environmental retardation that hand sanitizer can’t kill.

I mean, I thought I was generally intelligent.  I can spell my own name and fill out rudimentary forms.  I know enough to wear clean underwear in case of an accident and sometimes I think I have TiVo figured out.  But the other day my confidence was dealt a serious blow.

Truth be told, this kind of thing is happening more often than I’d like to admit but to hell with pride and shame.  I might as well us these idiotic vignettes to my advantage since I’ve taken the time and effort to keep this blog going in all its self-indulgent glory.

“The Incident” as it shall be known henceforth, went a little something like this:  (names have been changed to protect the intelligent and formatting is not within industry standard)

INT. RESTAURANT – DAY

TWO COUPLES, a PROUD GRANDMOTHER, a 2-YEAR OLD and ME occupy a large round table.  A high chair adorns one end.

PROUD GRANDMOTHER

You know, our little Cally here took swimming lessons this summer.

She points to the beautiful 2-YEAR OLD who is deeply focused on picking up minuscule pieces of chicken between her thumb and forefinger.

ME

Cool!  I love to see kids in those little blow-up water wings.

PROUD GRANDMOTHER

Oh, no!  She doesn’t wear those things!

ME

That’s a little scary.  One time I saw this National Geographic special about how infants naturally hold their breath underwater.  I thought it was kind of disturbing seeing week old infants being tossed into the deep end of an Olympic-size swimming pool.   But come to think of it, they DID hold their breath.  And they sort of did this little dog-paddling thing that I found even harder to watch.  I don’t know, they just didn’t seem to…well….have any choice.  The concept seemed a little out there for my taste.  Then again, those catchy phrases like “sink or swim” had to come from somewhere, right?

PROUD GRANDMOTHER

Well, that’s not how they do it these days.  When the babies cry, the teacher just dunks them under and they stop.  They get used to it after a while.

ME

Okay.  That sounds so much better.

The Proud Grandmother reaches for her cell phone and opens it.

PROUD GRANDMOTHER

She goes underwater, eyes open, mouth open grinning ear to ear.  She can dive clear to the bottom and back up again.

The Proud Grandmother hands me the cell phone on which there is a darling picture of a smiling 2-year old, eyes wide open floating weightless in crystal clear, chlorinated splendor.

And I thought to myself….I wonder how they managed to get that cell phone under the water to snap that picture.

When I accidentally dropped mine in the toilet, it stopped working.

 

Hard To Kill

I do not have a green thumb.

I wish I did because I love beautiful flowers and lush green stuff growing in fertile earth reaching for the sun with joy and enthusiasm inspiring the human soul to go forth and plant and nurture and create a symphony of organic life.

And then….there is me.

Alas, as soon as I appear with one of those cute little metal shovels dragging a steaming bag of compost into my back yard, all things green shudder and shrink away.

If plants could talk:

PLANTS

Good god!  Will this human ever give it up?  Hasn’t she killed enough of us already?  If she would just Google the term “root bound”….

For which I would reply through appropriate legal counsel:

APPROPRIATE LEGAL COUNSEL

Said human is determined to make restitution for her past gardening homicides.  Actually, to clarify they would be gardening manslaughter as they lacked intent….see above disclaimer about wishing for a green thumb.  This technically gets my client off the hook because wishing for a green thumb effectively eliminates the possibility of any  premeditated killing of plant life. 

Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, here’s my plan.

Succulents.

Thanks to an article in my local newspaper, I’m convinced this is the way to go.

There is hope for me.  

“Succulents are easy to grow and hard to kill.”

Oh, happy day!!  This is music to my ears!

I am overjoyed.  Born again!  Saved!

(Although, I would have felt a little better if they were IMPOSSIBLE to kill but hard to kill is good enough for now).

At last….something that can live with little care, does not wilt in the sweltering sun, can even survive occasional neglect and grows in a minimum amount of soil. 

Can this be?

I can’t say for sure but it’s in the paper so it has to be true, right?

Yes…today I choose to believe these printed words.

I shall extol the virtues of succulents!  I will spread the Good Word and witness to my fellow black-thumbers.  Go forth and kill no more! The newspaper has declared it so!

Oh, man. This is better than finding God (who is generally only found in prisons or by recently released felons bullshitting the average Joe during a 60 Minutes p.r. roadshow about how they’ve changed and need to be forgiven so they can restablish their sports career and…..don’t get me started) .

In the name of all things green and sacred, I declare my faith in succulents.