I just spent an hour in the grocery store (could you guess?) and I am in the depths of depression. I usually single-girl shop at the local "gourmet" grocery store and the deli across the street. Portions are reasonable (where else can you buy one pork chop?), the fresh produce is respectable and they have some familiar foods from frenchieland that I would otherwise miss. What little cooking I know, I learned there, with those ingredients, so I enjoy having them. And they have cheese. Real cheese.
However, in a recent drive to save pennies (for a car, oh the pun!), I've decided to cut back my somewhat luxurious food budget. Into the Fred Meyer I go.
What a mistake. You know what I really noticed? Not one single human being anywhere near the food. Oh shoppers and cell-chatters sure, but service people? No. No butcher. No deli person. No cheese man. Even the humans at check out have been eliminated: U-Scan.
I looked hard, but didn't see much food either. Only plastic. Everywhere I looked, everything packaged, boxed and wrapped in plastic. Vacuum-sealed, sealed for my protection, economy-packed, you name it.
Call me crazy, but I want an aproned man touching my chops before he wraps them. In paper. The car can wait.
all the American euphamisms I can come up with for a certain part of the female anatomy:
Rack
Melons
Hooters
Set or Pair
Hoo-ha's
Peaches
Knockers
Cha-cha's
Tits (though I prefer the more informal "Titties")
Am I forgetting any?
Just when I think I can't take it anymore, American life throws another one at me: strawberries.* A simple fruit treat, right? Wrong. Now they are "GIANT" strawberries. Even the ones not labeled "GIANT" are monstrously-proportioned specimens.
That I can't fit in my mouth. And trust me, I can fit alot of things in my mouth (sorry Grandma). Am I the only one who enjoys popping in a berry and enjoying it in one bite (maybe two)? We're talking four, five bites a piece here people. They're not strawberries, they are miniature melons from the planet Giganto.
I dreamt of a book I wish I could write last night:
'BIG AMERICAN LIFE'
Why we believe bigger is better, and why we might be wrong.
And don't even get me started on cell phones---and I do get that, contrary to everything else in our expansive land, they are actually getting smaller and smaller, to the point of being ridiculous lozenges. Lozenges that rule people's lives. When was the last time you let a shrill, screeching, interrupting annoyance rule your every waking minute? Isn't that why we leave our mothers?
*I know this will all wear off in time, but I hope that a few things stay with me---the calm I feel when I realize that I don't have to answer a ringing phone. The desire for little more than I need. The pleasure of a regular, sit down evening meal, even with just myself. The health of walking, rather than driving, to the corner store. I'm writing these things down, so when I get lazy and re-accustomed to this fastness and hugeness, y'all can find this page and remind me.
I nearly lost it in the dental care aisle of Target the other night---too many toothbrushes to choose from. Seriously, there must have been nearly 200 different types on display. I didn't know where to begin. Why I should be made to decifer and contemplate MEANINGLESS differences in type, features, benefits?? Either it has bristles or it doesn't. Either it's a toothbrush or a stick.
Other than size and softness/firmness differences; any dentist will tell you that they are all the same. It's HOW you use it that makes the difference--don't you remember those little pink pills in second grade? Oh, I'm ranting...but really...
Does having so much choice TRULY improve our lives?
I had the BEST DAY EVER yesterday. Why? Because of cheese.
The selection at a local gourmet-ish food market down the street has been reliable for chevre, parmesean, and the occasional good gruyere, but yesterday, yesterday, that magical day...Mimolette Vielle!
Four little hunks of it, snuggled in the corner of the cold case. So what if each hunk was ten times the price of what I previously paid for a whole wedge? These little hunks were actually the result of hacking up a decent sized wedge--criminal, but forgiveable, they don't know never to cut cheeses outside of their shape--dumb you-know-who's.
It looks like France, smells like France, tastes like France. And it's not even the best (by a long shot) French cheese out there, it's just my everyday favorite.
Quick, someone send me a baguette sandwich from Rima's!!
New names for the obvious. A sign on the bus uses the term "mobility device" in reference to a wheelchair. When did 'wheelchair' become offensive? Is it not a chair with wheels? Why is that wrong? I'm going to start calling my purse a 'personal object transport device'.
Large hunks of meat under heat lamps, guy in little mutton chop paper hat serving--ah, the classic buffet dinner. Stuffed mushroom anyone?
Puritan priorities run amok. Why is a naked nipple more offensive than mutilation murder? And don't get me started on video games with features like 'first person shooting'. (and these games are running violent ads in prime kiddie-time---which doesn't technically bother me, but show two chicks holding hands while wearing white and you'll start a riot? I don't get it).
Responsible parking. Ok, so this is a good thing. But not nearly as entertaining as seeing a Mini or Smart or Citroen bump it's way back and forth into a non-spot between two poles. Or better yet, between two other cars.
Why the f*** are strangers smiling at me all the time? Do I know you? Oh, right, people are friendly here. Still working on dropping the suspicious 'street face'.
Cross-merchandising. When I go to a deli, I expect to find cheese, sausage, sliced meat, and the like. I don't want to search for my sandwich goods beyond 1,000 square feet of picture frames, glass-jarred pasta no one will ever eat and stacks of scented candles. Scented candles in a deli?? Cheese-scented ones, that I could take, but jeez...stick with the main goods people.
Expensive coffee that doesn't cut it. Hot and wet is the bare minimum requirement; sometimes it misses even that boat, and---HUGE does not make up for crappy. Yes, I swear to god for the fifth time today, like I do every single day, that I do "really only" want the 8 oz latte. Not 12 oz, not 16oz, and god help me I'll never need 32oz of ANYTHING. I really do mean "small". Trust me.
Signs for the stupid. "Do not sit on sharp spikey things" "Do not use these stairs if you have heart condition, diabetes, or other disability" "Do not insert fingers into electric outlet" "Don't cross in front of moving train" "Contents May Be Hot"--and my favorite on this, the update: "May be hot and cause burns"---now we have to explain what hot liquid can do??
Oversized. The grocery store designs, prints, distributes and displays a MAP of each location. Not a city map listing their locations. No. A map (or 'plan') of the interior of each individual store should you have trouble locating the milk (which you will, because it is hidden behind 8 rows of scented candles). Shit is just so big.
I'm back! What a journey (!), and it's really just begining...
The huge suitcases (2) met the wieght limit (70 lbs each) by just a hair--after I removed a few things at the counter into an impromptu carry-on. Ruby was boxed and loaded, tagged and transfered, customs checked, off-loaded and re-loaded, lugged and finally, let loose. To pee on our keeper's carpet. Oops.
Flying over the eastern seaboard at night---an unexpected pleasure--the lights of the city grids, harbors and highways were gorgeous ---orange,white and blue designs on black out into the horizon. If only my seat mate had been so attractive.
Everything----everything!----is so LARGE. Cars, sandwiches, roads, buildings, --all of it, the scale--I'm thrown. Don't even ask me about the frightening muffins.
getting free drinking glasses just for buying pickles
baguettes, baguettes, baguettes
air-dried laundry
smoking anywhere, anytime
shutters
Visiting the notions stall at the market this morning, in search of a very large, fat crochet hook:
-Yes, Madame, what are you looking for?
-I need a big hook please.
-Like this?
-No, I like it much bigger. Like this. (hand gesture, you can imagine it)
pause.
-Will this do Madame?
("like"? why, why did I use the verb for 'like" when I meant 'want?', ok, 'want' doesn't sound much better.)
The sun is shining. I have a fresh baguette in hand. All is well with the world. A woman, graceful and long-limbed, sun shining through her hair, is walking towards me in a gorgeous dress; the kind of dress you used to see in the movies: perfectly cut, white and fresh, a small pleated piece of old-school glamour. She looks stunning. I love the dress, it's just the kind of thing I'd cherish to wear. I'm nearly a bit enamored of this distracted, lovely woman. I stop not more than a foot from her, turn to say "What a lovely dress, Madame", because it's just one of those share the feel-good feeling days. As I open my mouth...
She reaches down and scratches herself. There's no mistaking this: a good, full, obviously satisfying scratch.
I kept walking.
The heat is back. Though, it is less oppressive than last year, with fewer plants (or elderly frenchies) suffering the consequences. Or at least that's what we like to think, that it's the heat that kills them, not us. Only had to put one out of its misery this week.
They were huge. Well over six feet tall, and nearly as wide. Giants of the species: 'Obnoxious-Americanus-Onvacationus'. Draped in matching, yes matching, red floral oversized-print shirts and squeaking about in shocking-new-white sneakers, tree-trunk legs bare, there they were. Right in front of me, emerging from the museum's permanent collection, waddling in our direction. I had heard the tell tale voice first--from the male, booming like he was on stage--"I've been here so long I can understand French!" (he was listening to English--ha, ha, never heard that one before).
To be honest, I don't clearly recall the remainder of his attempts at witty conversation...I was too busy dodging, climbing observatory stairs I never intended to venture up (veritgo)...anywhere, anything to escape...
My classmates and museum going companions had a good chuckle---seems they could read my thoughts all over my face: "This is why I have to say I'm Canadian!"
The roman shade on the back balcony door blew off a few days ago, during another afternoon of 'grosse vente' (big winds), and landed smack-dab in the groundfloor garden next door where a little old lady tends to her lavish plantings. Looking down three stories, over the railing--Yep, there it is: sad little thing crumpled on the ground. The shade didn't look too good either.
Next day, she greeted us excitedly in the lane---"I have a strange beige piece of fabric! It's so dirty! Is it yours?" (At this point, we're so excited to have it back that I miss the full impact of her little comment.) "Yes, Yes!"
She takes us into her house. IN. HER. HOUSE. Did I mention she's an elderly French lady? Her building is nearly an replica of our own. Only ours is 4 apartments. Hers is still one house. Loaded with original features. Like flocked and flowered wallpaper on every surface, including the ceiling--and I hadn't taken my Dramemine. The glimpse of the stairs down to the cave (basement larder) itself was a wonder: sausages hanging, wood barrels, corked bottles, all manner of things dried and preserved. But her husband was in the kitchen.
Little Old French Lady continues to talk up a storm as we try to take in the hords of antiques, knick-knacks, doilies and general accumulation of more than fifty years. And that was just the hallway. I jump back to attention mid-sentence, translating when I can; but the gist is the gist of a thousand old lady nieghbor conversations world-over: prying. "The downstairs couple are Italian, aren't they? They only come on weekends, right?" and the kicker: "Which floor do you live on?"
"Ah, you're the ones with the unfortunate plants! Tsk, Tsk!"
Oh, yes, that would be us. The Nieghborhood Plant-Killers. Prediction: lugging home newly-purchased plants is in my future.
despite over six years now, collectively, of living in tourist destinations i cannot fathom what thought process allows overwieght middle-aged men, most often overly-blessed in the body hair department, to depart with their shirts if the temperature rises above 70F degrees. a particularly popular thing to do when walking around town or sitting next to me at an outdoor cafe.
Voila! Here's Mike and Matt's complete online photo album of their visit to Paris and Antibes---some great shots, those boys are so damn cute. Has it been nearly a week since they left already? Miss 'em so.
