This year Dar is going to a new school and she rides a city bus to get there, so we've stopped going to Whole Foods every day. Thank God. I hate that goddam place. I mean, come on, I love it too. It's perfect and beautiful and delicious and if you shop there every day you'll have a long, happy, and healthy life, but fucking hell, enough is enough. Now Harry and I stop in this coffee shop on the corner of Cuhuenga where this Asian guy who wears booty shorts made out of worn-out thermal underwear sits in a chair talking to himself and giggling, and I feel much more comfortable. Here's an oldie I wrote about me and Whole Foods a while back.
Dirty Hands
What the hell did people used to do before there was antibacterial gel at the supermarket? I was wondering this while I watched some woman slather it up to her elbows and then onto her child’s tiny dimpled hands. As if that wasn’t enough, then she squirted a load onto the handle of the shopping cart, and rubbed it in like she was a crack-whore giving it a five-dollar hand job. She knew what she was doing, this gal. And she was smiling! Smiling as if to say, I am taking control of my life, I will never allow germs, bacteria or possible bits of fecal matter to enter my world and cause me, or my precious family members, to get flulike symptoms. I have to say, it was mesmerizing. The whole procedure was so strange and wrong and oddly titillating, I wanted to drop to the ground and roll around like an old, happy dog on top of a dead squirrel.
Instead I gave her a self-righteous glare: Seriously woman? You think you’ve got it all under control? Everything all clean and perfect? Well it’s not! You’re going to get sick, you’re going to get germs, you’re going to get golden, oozing infections just like the rest of us, only yours will be worse because they will be rare anti-bacterial-gel mutations. “Now go buy your organic produce, YOU FREAK!” And I let my glare follow her all the way into the store.
Going to the grocery store is exhausting.
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