Monday, February 25, 2008

Seniors' Day at the Market


In one sense I’ve been lucky. For years cooking wasn’t my thing. Fortunately I’ve dated men for whom it was. I had an attraction to guys who would feed me. There were a few things I made well: spaghetti, stir fry, cheesecake, and ambiance were among them.

As I was leaving our home during our divorce, I asked my ex, “Will you show me how to grocery shop?” So he did.

At first I was nervous, stepping gingerly amidst all that food, wondering what I would do with my purchases when I brought them home. But a short time later, say, a year, I had the chore pretty well licked and was ready to go it alone.

Like an archaeological dig, I ventured into new territory, unearthing exotic finds with verve. At home I perused Bon Appétit for ideas on preparation and presentation. The next thing you know, I was a budding Martha Stewart, making the house look like Home Extraordinaire, throwing dinner parties with all the right wines, and truly enjoying this newfound talent, if memory serves.

Then one day my grocery shopping escapades stepped up a notch: they became social events! I’d draw lipstick on my best smile, primp my attitude, slide into my red shoes, and cruise to the store with anticipation.

Calling most employees at this huge supermarket by name, my greetings are personal, “Hey, Bob! How’s that colostomy bag holding up?” “Wow, Sherry! That liposuction is really working!” “Jim! Don’t hold those melons too long.”

Some go out of their way to share a grope. Others have opened a checkout lane just to catch up and chortle. The fun flows into other lanes, and people start smiling all over the place like a flood. The only thing missing at this affair is wine!

Being a freelancer, I shop when I have time, need, and money, not on a particular day. Mornings are usually best because there are fewer shoppers (but fewer checkers). The clientele varies, depending on the time of day and the day itself.

One morning I walked into the store around nine and saw a stubby bus parked by the entryway. Being a regular Sherlock Holmes, I deduced that it was Seniors' Day at the Market. Sure enough, like freshly fallen snow, cotton-tops had infiltrated every aisle. They were everywhere, cautiously pushing carts as if blindly furrowing their way, reaching out every so often to drop something into their baskets.

In my own senior moment, I stood lost, reading the directory for guidance, when I caught something moving in my periphery. Gradually moving toward me, head turning left and right, was a petite, doddering old woman, eyes level with her hands firmly gripping the cart’s handle.

She sees me, I thought. Yes. How can you miss a tall girl like me…or my nose?

Like Jaws swimming nearer her catch, crash! she struck me with her cart. I tried to catch my balance with a step or two sideways, but landed on my rear on the floor. Without a blink or word, she just kept on rolling past me…and I sat bruised in a puddle of giggles, watching her amble around the corner, toilet paper stuck to her shoe.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/02/seniors-day-at-market.html

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Babies and Boundaries (Illegal Immigration)


(Puzzle piece number 9 of 38.)
Imagine knowing you are not welcome somewhere, but you decide to go anyway—like crashing a rival frat party. Your determination is so strong to get in that you don’t give a rat’s tail what people think. They may look at you with disdain, distrust, and disgust, as if you’re some kind of alien, but hey, maybe you’re used to that.

Your goal is to get in and see if they’ll notice. If they do, maybe they’ll even like you, yet looking in the mirror makes you wonder.

After you’re there, maybe you can make some exchanges and take advantage of freebies, like food, a T-shirt, some liquor, maybe even a place to stay and have sex at no cost, except maybe a social disease, which you probably already have.

When you get in, maybe you’ll just blend in with zillions of others who somehow made it past the door. And at the relative rate of reproduction, you’d fit right in. Yet the ones who were invited see you for who you are and don’t respect you or the way you handle yourself.

They don’t like your polluting the air with your smoke, from your mouth or your car, and tossing cigarette butts and waste out your window. You just don’t care about the environment, inside or out, and they start to mistrust you.

And since very few like you have been educated to understand there is a limited supply of sustenance, including water and clean air, others dedicate time and energy to have you removed, like refuse.

Unfortunately for everyone, after you sneaked in, you lacked self-control and irresponsibly used zero contraception, so now a baby’s on the way. And soon, maybe another, knowing your history. No one taught you to read or to think.

Who’s going to take care of all these babies? you ask yourself. Are you going to lay the blame on that party you sneaked into? “Yo, looky here. You left the door unlocked and now I got a kid. Here! You take it! We got plenty more of these back home.” Back home.

Do you have the wherewithal and the desire to change?

You can sneak into Free Land, but once you foul yourself and our environment, where then will you go? Oh, right. You’ll be dead soon or we’ll be feeding, clothing, and housing you in one of our prisons.

So don’t worry. Be scared.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/02/babies-and-boundaries.html