Shopping While Hungry

If there's one thing I'll never learn my lesson about, it's going grocery shopping while hungry. 

I usually stick to the micro "grocery store" located in my local Target for weekly trips.  Once a month I'll drag my feet to an actual grocery chain to stock up on the remainders on my list that Target doesn't carry (Whole Grain Pringles, meat... fresh fruit if I'm feeling health-conscious.)  Every now and again I'll stumble into the super-mega-gigantico store located seconds from my office and get lost for days among the abundant selection of pasta, Pop-Tarts and frozen meals.  And, I usually tend to do this around dinner time when everything looks especially delicious and as absolute necessities to be added to my fridge.

I actually landed home in my kitchen with three different varieties of granola bars last night!  Sorry, make that six varieties, three different brands.  I don't even think Target carries six different granola types, so I have no choice but to experiment when given the fleeting chance.  Right?

Well, when finding yourself not quite lost but wandering though the fluorescent lit aisles of a super-mega-gigantico chain, you're all but forced to people-watch as well as make obscene purchases.  Like it or not, in order to get to the granola aisle you must first wade through a sea of super-mega-gigantico shoppers.

My first memorable encounter cut me off in the dishware aisle.  (Hey, I needed a cup!)  It was a teenage daughter whining at breakneck speeds to her mother about her best goodest friend that had the nerve to not confide in her about some issue I couldn't catch before they rounded the next corner.  My wish was not granted as I crossed them again, "She couldn't tell me this, but she could tell the lunch lady?!?"  And, again, "The lunch lady is more important confidante than ME?!?"  And, again, "THE LUNCHLADY, Mom???!!!" for the next four aisles.

I began to share the same forward-glazed stare of her poor mother, quietly tolerate, but offering no insight to her daughter's woes as she pushed her cart solemnly up and down each aisle at a robotic death march pace.  The only difference was that, on my end, I could escape to the dairy aisle and poor mother could not.  In her shoes I might have piped in with the suggestion that maybe Best Goodest Friend was simply defining her right not to have her business broadcast across the local super-mega-gigantico store.  But, I think poor mother's only take on this was a deep-seated yen to trade places with the lunchlady, if only for the moment.

The dairy aisle alerted me to an egg thief on premises.  I had to open three cartons to find one with all egg slots full!  I only can hope the burgled eggs found their way to a hungry child's stomach and not to the windshield of my SUV parked out front.

It was around the breakfast aisle I came across the annoying sound of human whistling.  Bird whistling is fine in my book.  Even children's whistling I can live with.  But, the sound of a grown man forcing spittle through his lips and out into the inhaled oxygen of the general public is just a pet peeve I rank right up there with nails on a chalkboard.  Don't argue with me that it's a sound of jolliness.  Any jolly spirit-choosing-to-whistle's jolliness is negated by the robbery of the audience's jolly.  (Got that?!)

Even more annoying than the general whistling, was the chosen tune!  It was a repetitive loop of what started out to be the Jeopardy theme song and ended up segueing into the first two lines of "Deck the Halls."  He'd seemingly forget the next lines, pause for twenty seconds and then launch back into The Jeopardy theme... wait for it, wait for it... oops it's Deck the Halls again!

This went on through my insane granola purchase and then four subsequent aisles of frozen food.  By aisle three, the peeve-ranking got raised a notch when the small child in the seat of Whistler's cart started chanting "Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi!" into his face.  Whistler just kept on whistling as if he was oblivious to the fact that he had, at some point in his life, procreated.  'Tis the season to be jolly... "Hi. Hi. Hi! Hi!"  This may have been the only word the young one had learned so far in his short life. But, I'm pretty sure it could be interpreted as, "Hi Dad!  Remember me?  I'm that kid that loves you and I'm twenty-four inches from your face.  Do you see me down here?  Hi!  I think I've inhaled just about the right amount of your spittle for now.  Thanks for the jolly tune!  Hi."

By the time I exited the frozen section, I was pretty much done.  I had just the bread aisle to go as I gazed into the trappings of my cart.  Holy smokes!  This is just food for one?!  I had visions of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman taunting, "Big mistake!  HUGE!"  But, instead of holding Gucci bags up in the air, I had processed cheese, real cheese and cheese by-products (...if those exist.  Do they?  If they do, they were in my cart.  "HUGE!")  I even ended up with a frozen ham and cheese sandwich that comes with it own small vat of cheese dipping sauce.  Yes, I'd even selected cheese that you heat up and dip into more cheese!

This is the point where you're supposed to come to your senses and start dropping things in the candy and magazine racks that are conveniently located near the checkout for the purpose of discarding unnecessary items.  But, nope, I was still hungry, it all still looked delicious and every thing ended up on the conveyor belt.  Three brands of granola bars in six varieties, cheese sandwiches you dip in cheese and all!

I didn't let the cashier boy (who made very clear in body language and facial expression that I had ruined his day by choosing his register) ruin my food booty high.  I even helped him bag my purchase.  Then I drove right home, nuked a frozen mushroom burger (with Swiss!) and proceeded to have a slightly severe bout of indigestion for the next 24 hours.  That's where a trip to the super-mega-gigantico store will get you!

You'll find me at Target next week.

Thanksgiving Traditions

Here in Detroit, we are not watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade this morning.  No, no.  Currently my television channel is set to the local NBC affiliate that is airing Detroit's own America's Thanksgiving Day Parade.  Yes, as humble and decrepit as our city may seem to the rest of the country... back off!  Today is Thanksgiving and we have our own parade and our very own football game too.

Living in the metropolis surrounding a core city that's experienced such loss (money, leadership, neighborhoods, Boblo Island!) there's alot that economics can't take away from metro-Detroiters; our spirit, hometown loyalty and traditions.

The parade lives on and is my background commotion this morning as it has been every Thanksgiving in the past thirty-eight years.

In our childhood home the parade would be viewed in the living room.  A quartet of kids, cozy in pajamas, crunching on Cocoa Puffs and hearing the clank of preparations in the next room.  Mom would be rifling through pots and pans and going through her methodical preparations:  Crisco-ing the turkey, lining up the boxes and cans of sides, ironing the good tablecloth and waiting on the electric double oven to heat.  Meanwhile, we kids remained nearby but out of the way.  The Detroit parade, its marching bands and mega balloons being the perfect distraction.

One year, I distinctly recall a local reporter dropping an expletive during the live broadcast.  A giant balloon of an adorable puppy was being commandeered down the street by its bundled-up handlers.  The female reporter, who either was imbibing in holiday spirits a little too early in the day or simply didn't realize that her mic was still live, remarked to her co-host, "Could you imagine if that thing took a *bleep* on your carpet?!"  (only without the censoring bleep!) My eyes went large and my stomach went sour.  That was a word I knew we weren't allowed to use and I wasn't sure I was even supposed to know of its existence!  I peripherally checked my siblings and not a flicker, not a comment.  I don't know if the slip had missed them or if they too were sitting wide-eyed in disbelief.  The purity of my holiday was soured for a moment.  This was not a holiday memory I ever wanted to cherish... but, here I sit with that annual remembering creeping up as tradition.

Eventually Santa would end the local parade and we'd take turns cranking through the six local channels to find more Thanksgiving fun.  Usually another of the major networks would be airing a medley of parades from across the country. They would swap coverage from New York to Hawaii to L.A. to even brief footage from our own humble parade.  It was always odd to see sun and palm trees mixed with turkey celebrations.  We locals associate the November holiday with cold, sometimes wet, sometimes crisp and sometimes snow!  Coconut-shelled hula dancers were always an odd mix in the variety of footage seen that day, but it became tradition too.

At some point we'd be urged out of our flannels and into our clothing.  And, about the time the scent of turkey would start to waft it would be time for the kids in the living room to turn the channel to Charlie Brown. 

Now, for some reason in the mid-eighties, they didn't air the Peanuts Thanksgiving special on Thanksgiving Day.  In the era before 24-hour holiday viewing on cable networks, you could only catch these specials once a year.  Charlie's holiday of popcorn, lawn chairs and toast would be aired an evening or two before the holiday itself.  On Thanksgiving Day, for some reason, the chosen mid-afternoon programming became Race for Your Life, Charlie Brown!  Yep, the special where Charlie, Linus, Peppermint Patty and crew somehow got involved in a water rapids race while away at summer camp.  The Peanuts had to battle the typical camp trials including the navigation of confusing military time, missed buses, nature's elements, Charlie Brown's ineptness and a gaggle of bullies which, of course, included an evil brown cat.  It was never my favorite Peanuts special, but with only six channels to contend with and most other p.m. coverage designated to the NFL, Race for Your Life became a part of our tradition as well.

Around the time the scent of turkey was joined by the additional aromas of rolls and pie, was the time we started crayoning out place settings and watching out the family room picture window for the arrival of grandparents and cousins.  Most major holidays were celebrated with my mom's side of the family.  Thanksgiving would include Lion's football on the tube for the men, a (weather-permitting) half-hazard round of touch football in the yard for the kids and who-knows-what for the ladies because we ran off and left them trickling back and forth between the kitchen and dining room.

Dinner always (and pretty much still) consisted of turkey (which my older cousin would always try to convince me was chicken, so I'd stop making gag-faces and try it), gravy, Stove Top stuffing, Hungry Jack's mashed potatoes, corn, canned cranberry sauce ("the red stuff"), some kind of pistachio dish my grandma would always make ("the green stuff"), sweet potatoes ("the stuff with the marshmallows in it") and heaping piles of split-top rolls.  Dessert was always an assortment of pies, pumpkin always present, and us kids trying to swipe mouthfuls of whipped cream, sans pie.  There is also a birthday cake for my grandmother who's birthday falls on the 25th.

After the carb-load someone would always fall asleep (one or two of the men), the women would sit chattering at the table and us kids would run off and play and/or try to spy on what the women were talking about (and maybe still be trying to swipe the whipped cream.)

Thanksgiving now rotates between venues with basically the same crowd; only now with the addition of spouses and new cousins/great-grandchildren/nieces and nephews (titles dependant on which branch of the family tree you reside.)  We thankfully still celebrate Grandma's special day along with the holiday (Her 93rd, this year!)  The company of my last-living grandparent I still cherish along with the fact that the rest of the family still shares love and company with one another after all these years.  God and is as good to us and he was decades ago, despite lifes ups and downs.  And, the comfort of the parade currently broadcasting in the background is one more way that I'm assured that home is home.

Election 2012

Only eighty hours until "No More Political Ads" Day!  For this, I am grateful.

 

The last presidential election nearly gave me a stroke.  They say there is no physical indicator of an increase in blood pressure, but I'm sure the months-long burning in my ears could refute that claim soundly.  This combined with the emitted steam and their blinking red hue, well... let's just say I spent the Fall of 2008 resembling a Donald Duck cartoon from the neck up.  The tips of my ears managed to develop a pulse of their own separate from the rest of my body and I could evaporate falling snow just by walking through it.

 

Thankfully, I've either matured or gotten lazy in the following years and the only body part that's developed its own pulse this election season is the pimple that claimed squatter's rights on my right temple a week ago and refuses to evict.  Even this, due more to dairy than political furor.

 

I'm the kind of voter every election campaign loathes.  I'm a devoted American, but mistrustful of government.  I'm an active citizen who hates politics.  I'm a moral person who realizes that I can still be the same, no matter who is in office and what becomes law.  The reason campaigners hesitate at my kinds' doors is because people like me don't see the world in black or white (or red and blue, I should say.)

 

My kind isn't swayed by attack ads.  We don't stress over which hospital on which continent people were born.  We're not impressed that we've received robo-calls from both Bill Clinton and Clint Eastwood (though, we might be mildly amused.) We don't think either candidate is pure good or full-on evil.  We won't hand someone a career of national control because we happen to agree upon one social issue.  We don't judge a whole being based on one thing that fell through the cracks during their career, the joint they smoked in high school, the domestic skills of their spouses or who their daughters might be sleeping with.  And, we certainly don't want to be constantly told why we shouldn't be voting for the other guy.  Why should we vote for you?

 

There's a certain type of person that chooses politics as their career and those are the people we must elect from.  Mother Theresa never ran for government.  We won't see "Jesus Christ" printed on the ballot.  So there you go.  Deal.  Perfection is not an option, so quit expecting people to vote based of that specification or implying that it's even a possibility.

That said, it's time to get a few things straight:

Contrary to your Facebook posts; I am not an idiot, racist, war-monger, disillusioned pacifist, moron or R-word-that-we-don't-use-in-our-house if I don't punch the same chad as you on Tuesday.  You calling me those names will not shame me into changing my vote. (Because, that's your intention, right?)

I am not prejudice if I choose red and I am not sinful if I choose blue.  My vote does not count any less because there are no signs in my front yard.  (Lawn signs don't sway voters, by the way... they're just calling cards so teenagers know which houses to egg and neighbors know who they might want at their next barbecue.)  I'm not uninvolved because I'm not shouting my vote from rooftops and I'm not staying quiet out of shame either.  I have my convictions, you have yours.  My opinion shouldn't be regarded any higher or lower than yours; or yours than mine.

Contrary to the television and radio ads, when I vote on the local proposals I'm not choosing between children and bureaucrats (as one ad suggests.)  I'm not voting for things in opposition to particular vocations or lifestyles.  I'm not voting against ideas that  can't be further tweaked, improved upon and voted on again.  The people making these ads are doing so because they're paid to.  Not, because they understand the issues inside and out from both sides.

Contrary to the weight we like to put on the position of the presidency, I'm responsible for researching my local congress and senate candidates as well. When people get mad at the president, it's usually over something that's being bickered about in one of those other large white buildings in Washington.

Most importantly, this is not the Super Bowl.  No matter what the outcome on Tuesday, promise me this: Don't cry.  Don't brag.  Don't taunt.  Don't loot.  Don't crumble into a heaping mess.  Don't move to Canada (because that's just the dumbest threat ever... unless you actually have family there.  Then you can go.)  Don't kick your neighbor's dog.  Don't relieve yourself on passing cars.  Don't call people names.  Don't type your Facebook posts in all caps.  And, please, no fanny-wagging!

Believe it or not, whatever happens on Tuesday is not the end or salvation of the world.  Move yourself forward.  Propel and be the president of your own life.  No one in Washington is in charge of who you can be.  Continue to be a good citizen, neighbor, family member and friend.  We're just hiring someone for a temp job, for goodness sakes.  Get a grip!  Slap on that blood pressure cuff, vote and then breeaaaattthhe...  We'll have to do it all again in four more years.