I Bagged Me a Good One

The last four times I have been to Stop 'n' Shop I have had the good fortune to have as my bag lady none other than Shuffles, our peculiar cabbage-faced neighbor. (Our affluent neighborhood welcomes those from all walks of life. It is home to the butcher, baker, barber, cab driver, ice-cream truck driver, mail carrier, illegal multi-family slumlord, limo driver, envelope-stuffer, bottle collector, and one lonely guy in a suit.)

Shuffles is perhaps our most recognizable character, with her jet-black wiggy locks and her thick black eyeliner. And, of course, her manner of shuffling right down the middle of the street. But as a bagger at the grocery store she has no equal. Not only does she bag with tenderness and extra-special care (taking note not to squish the fragile raspberries and the delicate bread loaf), but she actually sorts the food by type. That's right. I got home and realized that one bag contained only wheat products, another fruit, another frozen, and another dairy. And she does all this AND protects the food. She is a miracle of efficiency.

This week I turned into the checkout line and there she was again, waiting to do the job she does best. She looked at me with her big, owlish eyes. The cashier started ringing my food through. But suddenly, everything came to a halt. The cashier stopped the conveyer belt and held up a small bottle of Saffron.

"Do you realize that this spice costs 16 dollars and 99 cents?" she said, somewhat accusingly.

"Um, yes, I know."

"Do you...still want it?"

"I need it for a recipe."

Both the cashier and Shuffles gazed at me with blank, uncomprehending stares. Several seconds passed without anyone stirring an inch. Shuffles' left eyebrow raised almost imperceptibly.

"Are you sure you want it?" asked the cashier. "It costs 16 dollars and 99 cents."

"Yes, I'll go for it," I said lightly.

They both shrugged as if to suggest that this extravagant purchase would soon bring ruin upon my family. Its rare and bitter taste, redolent with money ill-spent and for foul purpose, would make our meal turn to ash in our mouths. The cashier sighed loudly and rang it through. (I wonder if this sort of thing happens at the Scarsdale Balducci's?)

I felt compelled to say something. "Well, it had better be tasty!" I said sternly. No one smiled.

Shuffles gazed at me as she dropped the Saffron into the last bag. "I know where you live," her mournful eyes seemed to plead. "And you cannot and must not buy this spice."

The Saffron was very good.

You smell dat smell?

Herewith, the most inane conversation I've yet heard between two children under age five. (This occurred while both were riding in a car on what was neither a highway nor a parkway, but a rural country road.)

Younger son: I smell sumfink. You smell dat smell?
Elder son: Dat is the highway dat you smell.
Younger son: No. I smell da parkway, not the highway!
Elder son: No, I am the one who smells the parkway. YOU smell the highway.
Younger son: No! YOU smell the highway. I smell da paaaahhhkway!
Elder son: No, I smell the parkway!
Younger son: I smell the parkway. You smell the highway!
Elder son: I smell the parkway! I always smell the parkway when we go on trips like this!
Younger son: No you do not. You do not smell the parkway. You smell the highway.
Elder son: YOU smell the highway!
Younger son: I am smelling the parkway right now, you!
Elder son: Oh, you give me a break right now!
Younger son: NO, YOU give me a break right now!
Elder son: I have had enough of this. Give me a break, all you people!

A beautiful diamond pendant from Kay Jewelers

I really believe that nothing says "I love you" like a beautiful diamond pendant from Kay Jewelers. That's why my husband is going to head right out to the nearest Kay Jewelers, write out a check for $99.99, and get me one of those pendants.

It's shaped like a heart, because hearts mean "love." And see the tiny diamonds embedded in it? Every one of those diamonds is like a precious teardrop of happiness for the years we have spent together, the sons I have borne, and the dishes we have each washed so that our beloved spouse did not have to suffer "dishpan hands."

Do you know how I know my husband plans to acquire this pendant for me on this very day--the day when lovers everywhere express their heartfelt love in the form of pendants that cost $99.99? When we were snuggled close the other night, watching American Idol and holding hands, a commercial came on for Kay Jewelers! And they showed this pendant! When I realized it cost $99.99, I hung my head, and two lonely tears fell from my eyes. Surely this lovely thing was much, much too dear. But then my husband turned to me and asked gently, "Do you want one of those, honey?"

"Oh, no," I cried, but surely he could see that I wanted one more than all the riches of the Earth. For what is more sweet and desirous than a Kay pendant? He gave a little smile that told me all I needed to know. The pendant would be mine, and soon. My lady friends would gnaw their own spleens with envy, and the pendant would bring me joys unknown to pathetic, single women who cannot afford $99.99 and would be too shamed to be seen shopping for their own jewelry prior to a National Holiday like Valentine's Day.

I expect my pendant to arrive shortly. I hope it comes in one of those Kay boxes, and that a single red rose is placed beside it when my beloved husband hands it over. Then he might say something like "Every kiss begins with Kay." And then kiss me! I [heart] Valentine's day sooooo much!

Then, when I give birth in the spring, I await this lovely piece. Because nothing makes 14 1/2 grueling hours of labor more tolerable than knowing that, at the end of it all, this tasteful necklace will be dangling between my engorged, painful breasts as I nod sleeplessly over a squalling infant.

McCain's Pet Gnome

Okay, you are 72 years old and your possible/presumed opponent in the campaign for the Presidency is 46 years old--the greatest age difference in presidential history. At your victory rally for the Potomac Primaries, do you:

a. Surround yourself with cheering, buoyant crowds
b. Speak with passion and enthusiasm
c. Choose a gnome and two towering, cadaverous old men to accompany you on the podium during your speech

After both Obama and McCain carried their primaries tonight, the difference in their rallies was palpable. Obama's crowd, while it no doubt contained a few of the old and stooped, radiated hope and energy. The enthusiasm was crackling. Placards were waved. People jumped about.

Then there was McCain. Speaking rather somberly, he was flanked by two old dudes in excreable ties, both of whom looked miserable and constipated. In the background, a woman who was no more than a rag, a bone, and a hank of hair kept squinting at the camera and clapping feverishly. Over McCain's right shoulder peeped what appeared to be a gender-neutral gnome with frosted, greyish hair. Repeatedly, the gnome bobbed and weaved so as not to have its line of vision blocked by McCain's body, but it was hopeless. The gnome was to be denied, and all that could be seen of it was the glimmer of its small eyes. Unfortunately, there was little for the gnome to see anyway—the one shot of the crowd made it look like coffee hour at the retirement home.

The two elderly male attendants to McCain's immediate left and right not only made the poor man look terribly short, but had the air of ominous spectres about to accompany him off to the Dying Place against his will. "Yes," their somber faces attested, "We will listen to your speech, but it will not find favor with us, old man." I expected the lights to darken and someone to rattle sheets of metal offstage to mimic thunder. Then, perhaps, the woman would have rent her garments, and the gnome would have started capering and gibbering weird predictions about the upcoming presidential race.

Maybe it is just me, but if I were old and my opponent had really white teeth and big ears, and was known to be a favorite among the young, I would strongly avoid the presence of extras from The Seventh Seal (yes, they were alive then) at my rallies. Maybe I would stack the podium with a few college kids, a woman who did not look like a wizened rat, and some fellows under 70 who were shorter than me. Just a thought!

My Son Danced With a Clown

A recent study from London shows that "clowns are universally disliked by children." This does not surprise me in the least. After my own dreadful experience in the Ob/Gyn Clown Ward, I am convinced that clowns are downright creepy. Nobody likes 'em! Except for, apparently, my eldest son.

I recently attended a children's event at which the clown pictured above was billed as the entertainment. She had been requested not to show up in white face paint because that was deemed too scary for the little ones. Nevertheless, the moment she skipped in, microphone in hand, one child started screaming as if he'd been bitten by the Devil. His father beat a hasty retreat while hot tears flew with dynamic, horizontal force out of the child's eyes. And this was before the clown had even started her act!

My own kids stared at her with round eyes, but did not seem fazed by her shrieky voice or floppy tam o' shanter. They watched with apparent interest her shoddy magic tricks and did not wince when the feedback from the mike sent chills up parental spines.

Distracted for a moment, I turned to speak to another parent. When I turned back, I saw a sight that made my jaw drop. My older child had run out and taken up position right next to the clown, and together--like an old, well-seasoned team of vaudeville actors--they were doing a lively version of the "chicken dance." The one that they do at weddings? Yes, that humiliation. I had seen it performed by an immediate relative only once before. It was not a sight I had wished to see again.

But there he was, flapping his "wings" and shaking his "tailfeathers." He had obviously positioned himself thus to be closer to the clown, maybe elbowing aside a couple of other kids to get there. And he was looking up at her with a googly mixture of awe, admiration, and love. Good god! I have never been prouder. Finally, my son had shown that he was not only fearless--daring to tread where other children wept and soiled themselves--but he was ready to enter into American life as a proud little conformist. He had danced with the clown. He had touched the stars.

My iPhone Virtual Keyboard Sucketh

I got an iPhone for Christmas and I do simply love it--its sleekness, its clean and lovely icons, its ability to deliver web pages and such. But I must take exception with its awful little keyboard. Not only does it make typing difficult (poke-poke-poke with one finger has been the only way I can master even a simple message), but it has an infuriating spelling corrector like a friend with a hearing disability who tells bad jokes. If you don't check carefully or you make a typo, every space return can bring you nonsensical results.

This is particularly offensive with the shorthand I try to use to avoid typing on the wretched thing. So:

sux = six
enuf = emu
shld = shod
new ro = new to
flee = foe

A hypothetical intended sentence: "New Ro sucks. Enough already! We should flee."
The result: "New to six. Emu already. We shod foe."

Messages also become truncated because it takes so long to type them. Therefore, a simple message like "on train" could lead to all sorts of misunderstandings. No "XO"? No "love"?

Supposedly you can use your thumbs to type on this sorry excuse for a keyboard. It's like trying to dial a phone using a hotdog. Good luck! I continue to use my right forefinger in a vain, lame attempt to communicate.

But for receipt, nothing beats this phone.

Valentines for Hillary?

I was out to dinner tonight with 5 people and we were struggling--each of us--to come up with even one, lone soul among all our New York friends and acquaintances who is a FAN and supporter of Hillary Clinton. No one could. Not one person. Then I realized that yes, I did know someone! A colleague at work. She likes Hillary, all right. But wait a minute...even she told me this very morning that she voted for Obama. The perfidy of it! Hillary's one known fan, a defector.

Yes, Hillary carried the state of NY, but in my numerous travels I have still not met one individual who likes her, nor one person who says that they voted for her. So, am I simply traveling in unusual circles? Are all the people I know similarly out-of-touch with the cadre of Hillary supporters that no doubt lurks behind every potted plant, in every coffee shop? So where are these people who are voting for Hillary? And more important, who are they?

Yes, older women--right. How much older? Are we talking severely doddering? Cane users? Lumpy, frumpy women of an uncertain age? Wig-wearing bed wetters? Soon enough I'll be "older" myself, but a few years on me won't make her crocodile tears seem suddenly charming.

Hispanics--right. See my friend Jack's comment on that phenomenon. Are there others? Aha! Maybe Bottle Gertie, the old crone who rambles up my street on recycling day with her shopping cart, looking for goodies. Both older and Hispanic! I'll wager her last tooth she likes Hillary. I'll bet Bottle Joe does, too. He's a man, but he looks like he'd like a "Vote Hillary" sweatshirt if I handed one to him.

Everyone I know, however, loathes her. Everyone they know also loathes her. So what's up? Have we been the victims of some cruel space-time ripple that has upended a bunch of southern yokels up here on voting day--who choose "Clinton" in the voting booth because the name "Obama" reminds them of that naughty, turban-headed Moooslim who knocked down our buildings? (The same lumpen swine who probably think "Barack" is another bomb-worthy country with WMDs hidden in the veggie patch and a swarthy leader at its helm.)

If you LOVE Hillary with a capital L, give-her-a-valentine, bumper sticker your arse with her face, bake a crumpet for her campaign kind of way, then please, write to me. I would like to say I know at least one person in the whole wretched state who carries a torch for the woman. At which point I will begin to expound upon Obama's massive ears (he can HEAR you, people!) and hopefully sway you to change your opinion.

As far as the rest of the country goes, I do know one woman in Vermont who likes Hillary. Everyone else I know across the whole massive nation loathes her.