Food

It all begins with food. Sometimes, when life throws me off, gets me down, or pulls another one of those phrases that stand in for 'shitty', the best thing for me to do is go grocery shopping. At about 10pm on a Sunday. It's really the best time, but don't tell anybody that, because my Hannaford will be crowded, and that will suck. Then it'll become an underground club scene; therapy-grocery-shoppers trying to avoid each other via more and more obtuse places and times.

Anyway. Tonight I looked at raspberries, and realized I never eat them, ever, if they are in my fridge... the only time I find fit to eat them is when somebody else buys them. Tomorrow I'm helping my boss with my intern's evaluation. He deserves a great review; he put up with my obtuse, pie-in-everybody's-sky direction. I wanted his creativity to flourish, and it did, but not in the way I intended. He ended up persevering through my craziness, all in all.

Tonight I'm looking at the coffee. Sumatra, French Roast, Sumatra, French Roast. House Blend was all out. House Blend is the flavor of coffee for the people who are ashamed to be considering flavors of coffee. I am one such person, but tonight I have no choice but to make a choice. Sumatra won. Shortest name.

Black cherry seltzer. One bottle. Sometimes I like to pretend that I'm some kind of recovering alcoholic, and that I drink seltzer to fit in at parties. Yesterday I was fitting into a party, drinking tonic on the rocks. Luckily it was a 60's theme party, which means the one dance I know can finally be exercised: the twist. Pulp Fiction style. I know, I'm a bit of a douche. Luckily, movies give you the power to step out of yourself for just a second. Just long enough to pretend you are comfortable dancing, and comfortable fitting in.

Tonight I'm checking out. Of the store. There's only one line open, but that's the risk you take when you arrive at the grocery store in the middle of the night. Fine by me. I remember walking in and seeing one of the attendants balancing a grocery basket on his hand. He stopped when I walked in, but I smiled at another clerk to try to reassure her. I'm not here to stop your fun, I just want the food. Now the basket-balancer is my checkout guy. And he's really my check out guy. Two times I catch him looking at me and darting away his eyes. It's kind of juvenile, and I have no luck with the whole not-talking-but-still-being-charming thing. He was a little young, and working, so I left well enough alone. May the universe know that I am appreciative, however.

As I drove away from the grocery store, I sang along with the stereo. The car is the only place I sing. I'm not the only one, I'm sure, so don't judge. Mike Doughty: "happiness is coming for you" me: "happiness is coming for you" I believed him. I believed me.

-A