all i ever wanted was to be your spine
March 16, 2011 § 2 Comments
On the heels of Jamie’s fabulous and timely post – first, that girlfriend in the commercial needs to get off her judgmental high horse and appreciate that she dates a guy secure enough in his manhood to suck a red popsicle in public, and second, you could get all the children of Brookline to harvest potatoes in the cold if you call it a “day camp” and charge their parents several hundred dollars per week, and third, I can ignore the rest of it because the images are killer – I must vent about shopping for food. Which is a step along the path of eating, which is part of our raison d’etre, non?
Okay, Stop and Shop. You know who you are, squatting there on Harvard Street all unassuming and harmless. I am tricked every time, lulled into a false sense of safety by your sixties-designed parking lot and brick walkway, almost smelling the magnolias growing wild around the similarly laid-out Publix of my Florida childhood. I walk in and gather my purple basket, and I wonder every time at the color choice, as it clashes in my peripheral vision with the varied orange and yellow hues that otherwise surround you. You tend to smell like meat, raw meat, and even that I don’t judge because on a bad day I tend to smell like meat, cooked meat.
Our problem is this, Essie – why you wanna kill me with your music selection? By the time I reach canned fruit, which is not very far in if I follow your body the way you want me to (in a counter-clockwise zig-zag motion), I’m wondering why I haven’t dropped my purple basket and hanged myself from a high carpenter’s beam. “Wild World” (I included a version from Skins because it was better than the grocery store cover), a wrist-slashing ditty from Josh Groban about feeling totally alone and misunderstood, one time I stood in amazement listening to an Elliott Smith downer. Shit, dude, if you want me to buy groceries, you have to reinforce the notion that life is something worth continuing. Every time I leave, my paltry selections look like those of a morbidly depressed college student – which, admittedly, is not so out of character for me, but still – rather than a colorful and healthful variety of foodstuffs meant to nourish and sustain my family. Are you so insecure, Stop and Shop, that you need me to be unhappy in order for our relationship to feel equal? Who needs love like that?
I’m over it and on to Trader Joe’s. Five minutes in and I’ll be overcome by pedestrian and consumer rage, but at least my death impulse will be directed outward, I’ll recognize the energy necessary for such large-scale action, and I’ll stock up on food. TJs for the win.