Three E-Z Steps for Better Grocery Shopping

I've been thinking of a new "invention" if you will. It serves to alleviate every one's headaches with grocery shopping but mostly it will just make me happy. Behold my draft letter to all grocery stores.

Dear Sir,

I am assuming that you are a man. I've never seen a picture of a woman grocery store manager. Forgive me if I'm wrong; however, if you are a female grocery store manager that looks like a man, you're probably used to the confusion.

If grocery shopping was a recognized skill, I would be considered an expert by now. However, I'm just another consumer. But what I represent is all consumers. I know you are gathering my statistical information from my debit card transactions. You're wanting me to take brief surveys. The clerks are always inquiring "Did you find everything you needed today?" and "How are you today?" Your information gathering leads me to believe that you're interested in my opinion. How beneficial for both of us, because I'm ready to talk.

THREE E-Z GROCERY STORE IMPROVEMENTS

1. Re-think your carts.
Does it make sense to have the coffee holder at the END of the cart? No, that's stupid. It needs to be on the handle. You'll also need a horn to make people move out of my way. I know you're concerned with the horn sound, so you should make the horn say different useful phrases like: "Tickle Tickle Tickle!!" "I'm more important than you!" and "This isn't a parking lot Fucker!" I would like a GPS ("Grocery Pointing System") that will point me in the right direction of the millet and other things that a 17-year old store clerk has never heard of. I would also like pointy things to shoot out of the end at other people, but I'll assume you will not entertain that suggestion due to liability and injury.

2. Segregation.
It's impossible for us all to shop together. I've taken the liberty of outlining some groups that would be compatible and the times they should be allotted.

a) Hootchie Mamas and Mid-Life Crisis Men. Men are the hunters, women are the gathers. This presents a traffic problem for both sides. Here, the Hootchie struts around with her "Juicy" sweats, CFM Pumps, Wonderbras, and Bump-its just demanding sexual attention. The Mid-Life Crisis Man is thereby side-tracked and stays in the store longer, throwing silly things in his cart to impress her like extra large condoms and Mens Health Magazine. The optimum shopping period is between 9:00 and 11:00 every night. The MLC Man will sneak out of the house to "pick up some shaving cream" and the Hootchie is getting her Cooks Sparkling Wine for later that night. Once there, they'll spend extra time and extra money. That's good for you, right?

b) Old people and Women without Children. Our senior citizens need someone to help with getting things off the shelf, counting their change, clipping their coupons, starting the scooter, reading the labels, etc. Obviously a woman without a child is the only person equipped to help, a man can't even touch a coupon or their masculinity will be tainted. A woman dragging their kids to the grocery store already has too many other jobs to do. It's only fair.

c) The Moms and Firefighters. This is a perfect pairing. We mothers have many unwritten rules that we follow that include, pulling your cart the right side and parking it. Having payment ready before you're at the register. Chatting with friends. Going down every isle just in case we're forgetting something (i.e., gathering), touching every single fruit and vegetable. We also forgive other moms when they have to say horrible things to their children like "No! Just hold in your poop, I'm not stopping in the bathroom AGAIN!" and "I will buy you anything in this store if you'll just shut up!" and other secret sayings we have. We are perfectly paired with firefighters because we make them feel great about themselves, and I just like having them around. So do my kids. We should have absolute control and power in the grocery store from 2:00pm to 8:30pm. During which time no old people, Mid-Life Crisis Men, Hootchie Mamas, or Women without Kids, are even allowed.

3. Buttons to wear that express your wishes.
a) Don't talk to me.
b) Extra Free Samples, Please.
c) I'm in a hurry.
d) P.M.S.
e) I'm usually better looking

I don't expect you to initiate all of these suggestions at once, but you should really consider the underlying message here: Get your act together and figure out what we really want!!!

5 Things People Don't Tell You

If you've ever had a sneaking suspicion that there are things people aren't telling you, you're right. The paranoia you feel around a group of strangers is justified. Here are 5 things that I think you should know:

1. You know the Thank You cards that you hate to write? You put them off as long as you can. It's worse than ironing or doing the bills. The guilt you feel for not being a caring thoughtful person seeps into your psyche until finally you get those little suckers out in the mail. The secret is that's how everyone else feels too! It's not just you. Every Thank You card you've ever received preceded along the above path. Most people would sacrifice the present rather than write another obligatory Thank You card. That's why whenever I give a present, I say "... and as part of your present, I'm letting you off the hook for the Thank You card. I insist that you do not send me one." They are forever grateful. For real.

2. If you have to ask someone if the pants make you look fat, they do. Follow your instincts on this one. By the way, it may not be the pants, it might just be your butt. I'm not trying to be mean, I'm only trying to help. Sometimes the truth hurts, but so do tight pants.

3. Everyone is tired. So don't expect any pity from us.

4. When someone says "Well good for you" and their head tilts just a little to the side and their voice sounds sweet like a nurse about to give a shot ... they're really trying to say something else like: "Are you fucking kidding me?" or "You bitch! You get everything I want!" or "You are a complete moron." Just wait until the next person says "Well good for you" and you'll understand what a patronizing passive aggressive slap in the face this really is. So you should just flip them off and walk away and scream "Well good for you too!!!"

5. If you believe you know what your teenager is doing, just you wait until they turn 23 and tell you all the things they got away with. You are not as cool as you think you are.

The aforementioned 5 Things People Don't Tell You is based solely on own my self-centered perspective and wretched experiences. You may see things differently. In any event, I'm still right.

Feel Better About Yourself in Five Easy Steps!

Feeling bad about yourself? Lost your job? No relationship, or worse, a shitty one? Stop what you're doing and take these five simple self-help steps to improve your self-esteem.

1. Find a spiritual self-affirmation book. Perhaps something with rays of sunlight or footprints on the cover. Say a daily affirmation each day for seven days. On the eighth day stop. Reflect on the past seven days and thank God you're not the kind of person who has to do that shit every single day.

2. Play a board game with a child. It's really easy to win and you'll feel smart.

3. Hang out with people fatter than you. If you cannot find any, hang out with skinny people and visualize them sticking their fingers down their throat and eating snickers in the closet. There, now aren't you glad you're not like them?

4. Stick a dime in someone else's parking meter and save them from a ticket. Leave a note on their car telling them what you've done. Make sure they know that you did it out of the kindness of your heart because you are a selfless and generous person. Then just sit back and wait for your karma reward.

5. Wear a turtle neck and listen to public radio in your car loud enough for people to hear it and think "Wow, she is so evolved."

Have a better day!

"You're Fat"

I had a stirring deep in my belly like goldfish swimming in Jello. It was a funny tickly feeling that was pulling at memories from years ago. I placed my hand gently on my soft belly and noticed that, yes, it was larger and more smushy than before. I casually wondered if I had stomach cancer, because I always think I have cancer. For instance, when I'm tired, I think I might have a touch of sleep cancer. When I have a headache that feels serious, I consider brain cancer as a diagnosis. Then there's the lovely note I got after my very first mammogram "We have detected an area in your x-ray that is irregular" and then it goes on to say "Check back with us in six months for another x-ray" What?! I could be dead by then.

So a sea monkey in my abdomen sounds like either stomach cancer or a spiky green parasite that I must have picked from grocery store sushi. Either way, I'm screwed. So I went to the doctor. He was not my regular O.B. who looks like Professor Honeydew from the Muppets. This guy looks more like Herman Munster without the heavy pancake make-up and platform Doc Martens. He fully examines me on the table. We know what that means, right girls? He's quiet for a minute then says "Get dressed and we'll talk."

Like I said, I'm screwed. I don't know what kind of bomb he's going to drop so I'm completely unprepared for my dramatic reaction. Throughout my life I've rehearsed all my reactions to terrible news, just in case: The crying like a Baptist Minister's Wife; the stoic Angelo Saxon widow; off the deep end with drugs, booze, and men like Marilyn Monroe. But what roll shall I play today?

I'm dressed and waiting. A quiet pause from the doctor is accompanied by averted eyes and shifty body movements, like a 14-year old boy at a school dance. He finally says "Sharon, I have good news and I have bad news: The good news is that you're not pregnant. The bad news is that you're fat." And then I wake up.

I had that dream when I was turning 40. I had reached my largest weight ever and I had tried buying new shoes and more make-up, but nothing worked. So I got a personal trainer and he kicked my ass into a beautiful piece of art.

That was four years, one ass, and a spine ago. You see, after I competed in the triathlon last year, my back and neck have not been the same. My exercise has been very limited. Like, swimming only. I can pretty much just swim. That's okay for a while, but I've gained back almost all of my yucky weight. On Saturday I decided I needed to organize my nutrition so that the monster that I turn into at night, the one who makes me eat Napoleon Dynamite style nachos and frozen taquitos, will be beheaded. My personal trainer put me on a great program a few years ago. The only problem is that I HATE math. I also have no memory. I just want someone or something to keep track of it for me. Is that asking too much? I mean, I keep track of the girls' sport schedules, my husband's work schedule, both school's schedules, my daughters food allergies, and all the other things we all do. So for once, can't someone else just help a girl out?

I'm trying a free 7 day trial from Calorie King and so far, I'm pretty happy. What I already learned is that my night time feeding shark crazy sessions are probably due to the fact that I haven't had enough protein during the day. So last night I had some tuna and voila, I stopped eating. I have already lost one pound.

This morning I went to see my chiropractor and he asked me if I was pregnant. I was laying down on the Spine-o-lator, or something, and I turned my head like Regan from The Exorcist and said "What did you call me?" In a tone reminiscent of my teenage years as a bad-ass. He assured me he was just joking. You see, two of his other patients in the room were pregnant and we were all there at the same time. I had no choice but to go over his head and tell his chiropractor wife "Will you please explain this to him?" She gave me a nod of assurance. Boy, do I feel sorry for him. Well, not that sorry.

Bye bye fat wings!

The Honeymoon is Over

The only meaningful thing I've heard Mr. Doctor Phil say is [insert southern drawl] "Marriage is not a long date."

Dating is easy. Anyone can hold their shit together for four hours at a restaurant. If they cannot, then they're cast aside. "Next!" You'll say, and in comes the next applicant. Well, when you're married, you have to hold your shit together every day and every night. You can yell "Next!" all you want but the same person keeps coming back to the table.

My husband and I have been married for twelve years. That's a record for me and a first for him. During our honeymoon in Hawaii, we signed up for a kayak tour with a side of snorkel. Our guide was a young, presumably single, slacker who was probably wearing everything he owned. There was another couple with us who were celebrating their 25th wedding anniversary.

The guide, let's call him The Big Cooter, told me to sit in the front and Kent to sit in the back. I decided The Big Cooter was a egocentric male chauvinist pig because he unceremoniously puts the "husband" in the steering seat on the sheer presumption that since he has a penis, he'll steer the boat better. But sure, I totally understand that. I mean, what if I'm menstruating or PMSing and I just flip out and stand-up in the boat shouting "Fuck you all!" and I jump in. This, of course, will cause all the man eating sharks to circle our party and then men will have to come to our rescues by slinging their giant dicks over the side of the kayak so I can grab on and pull myself to safety. I had, in fact, been boating throughout my life, and Kent had not. I was also a firefighter and did not lack upper body strength. So, I was pissed.

As we tried to follow the guide in his kayak, we fell farther and farther behind. The old couple was keeping up just fine, but we could not coordinate our stroking and steering. We were talking "pissy" to each other and not being very supportive, to say the least.

By the time we got to the diving spot, I never wanted to get in another boat with THAT MAN again. I chatted with the other woman for a while before I had the courage to ask her "How long does it take before you can kayak together" and she smiled very knowingly and said "Years."

She was right. It did take years and I'm still not perfect and neither is he, I guess. We have not gotten back into a kayak together, but we've done other things that require cooperation: Family vacations, dinner, raising children, dishes, sharing a bathroom, deciding on cars, choosing a movie. All these moments of partnership and I've learned something about myself: I'm imperfect. I sometimes have to spend days of arguing in my head with a voice that nobody else can hear, I have to call other women I respect and beg for wisdom, before I can say something that's helpful instead of hurtful. I've learned that sometimes it's better to give in and go with the flow. I've learned that nobody wins an argument, but everyone grows.

If I were to go on that vacation again, I'd take one look at the kayak and say "The Honeymoon is over, Pal. Let's just go lay on the beach."