Trader Joes

I’m not particularly proud of what I’m about to say, but I seek solace in the fact that I know at least of few of you have done the same.

So here goes: I park my big-ass station wagon in the parking spaces that are clearly reserved for “compact” cars.
And I don’t give a flying fig.
I really don’t.
I’ve wasted enough of my precious life circling the Trader Joe’s parking lot that I’m willing to brave the sideways stares and heckling in order to salvage what little time I have left. And truth be told, nobody’s ever said a word. I even have a little speech prepared, one that informs the self-appointed parking-pain-in-the-ass that as shocking as it may seem, the radius of my car’s chassis is equivalent to that of a Jolt. I have no idea if that’s true and I’ve never had to give the damn speech because nobody cares!

So why do they label them that way if we all disregard their “suggestion”?

It’s for our public safety. Let me explain.

The “compact” spaces are not any shorter than your average space; where they differ is in the width.
How do I know that?
Because every time I park my station wagon in a “compact” space’; an angel gets its wings—not really—but close.
Every time I park my vehicle in a space barely three feet wide (they insist it’s nine, but who are they kidding?) I leave a little of my vagina on the stick shift. Seriously.

As hard as I try, I cannot get enough space between my car and the one next to me to be able to open my door wider than my mouth, and I don’t know if you’ve tried lately but I cannot, even if I suck in my stomach, fit my entire body in my mouth. A large apple, maybe—a gigantic piece of pie, sure—a fist? Don’t ask.

But I cannot squeeze my entire personage through a space that small.

I also don’t want the Prius driver next to me to go all passive-aggressive and dent my driver’s side door.
So I park thisclose to their passenger side in the hopes that they have no friends, and I give myself the space on the other side—the Tesla driver’s side—so they can’t ding me.

But that leaves me in a pickle.

I have to climb around in my front seat, arms and legs akimbo, in order to get my entire self OVER the middle console, my purse, the phone holder/car charger gizmo, and the dreaded stick shift in order to climb out my passenger side door.
(As an aside, this can be extremely narrow as well. I usually fast that morning, stretch, and wear my yoga pants.)
My friend Steph transforms herself into a mist. Swear to god, I’ve seen her do it.
So, this bold move across the console is where I generally lose my va-jay-jay. Not because I want to! Because it’s hazard I’m not able to avoid! Have I mentioned I’m 61 and I’m not as bendy as I used to be?

Oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch—it grows back.

And besides that, it’s worth the sacrifice! I rarely have to circle more than once which leaves me more time for all the things in life that really matter. Like jaywalking and running with scissors.

Carry on,
Xox

The rain was monsoonal, something as out-of-place in LA as a face with so much as a hint of a forehead frown line. 

I watched it coming down like an aggressive shower curtain of water slapping against the window while I waited in line at Trader Joes. So much for timing my run to the store in-between squalls. I knew I shouldn’t have lingered over the bone broth. What’s the thing with bone broth anyway? It’s like the second coming of Christ. And why do I do that? Why do I decide to do the deep dive into researching an item on Google, before deciding whether to buy it or not while I’m actually STANDING IN THE STORE?  

When I see people like me I just want to kick ‘em! Don’t you? 

Anyway, TJ’s was packed, just like most places are when it rains. It’s a phenomenon I can’t explain but it’s real. Ask anyone who’s ever worked in the service industry and they’ll tell you that the harder it rains the more people decide to put on pants (or not) under their raincoats—and shop. Or eat out. Or eat out then shop. 

It’s a thing. Trust me. 

Once I snapped out of my weather induced coma, it occurred to me that my line wasn’t moving. Isn’t that one of life’s great mysteries? How we always manage to get in the slowest line? Even after I do my due diligence by standing back and carefully sizing them all up! Even after deciding on the speediest checker, somehow, SOMEHOW, mine is the checkout line where the old ladies’s eggs fly out of the carton. Or the nice young man who’s bagging the groceries and has been blessed with the gift of gab discovers he went to middle school with the customer in front of me’s daughter and what a perfect time to get all caught up! Or the twenty-five pound bag of dog food (the only thing the man in a hurry in front of me is buying because god forbid he shows up at home without it—I’ve seen that look from Ruby) springs a leak right when he picks it up and kibble sprays like it’s coming out of a firehose, EVERYWHERE or, or, shit!

I decided it’s just the fickle-finger-of-fate and there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it now. Meanwhile, our line was at a standstill. So naturally, like a morbidly curious lookie-loo at the scene of an accident, I moved in for a closer look and you’re never gonna guess what it was that was holding us up. 

Go on, take a guess! Nope. Wrong!

The guy behind me must have seen it too because he went apoplectic. “Oh, sure, that’s just great!” he announced in his outside voice as he craned his neck in search of a quick escape.  

Here it is. Here’s what was causing the delay and subsequent pileup: The woman in front of me was going to WRITE A CHECK!

That’s right. A paper check. Like, one that’s been happily retired, living in a checkbook with all of it’s antiquated friends for the past several decades. I felt like I’d slip streamed the timeline back twenty years. Back to when I was thin and blonde, and..hey, maybe this wasn’t so bad…

Anyway, she was mid apology when she overheard the guy behind me loose his mind. Flop sweat appeared on her upper lip as she looked around nervously. Then she asked the checker for a pen. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so embarrassed,’ she said.

I was embarrassed for her.

“No problem,” replied the checkout girl, but I could tell it was a huge problem for her since she couldn’t find a pen that worked.

Having once been a Girl Scout, I fished one out of my purse and handed it to her.

“Here you go,” I said.

“Thanks,” she replied, and proceeded to write as fast as a human hand can move a pen across paper.

“Oh, for the love of god!” Cried the mom with two kids dressed in matching yellow rain coats who’d just gotten into line behind me. “Really, a check?” She was livid.

“What’s a check mommy?” one of the kids asked as she huffed away. “It’s a relic from our distant past,” she answered in her snarkiest mommy tone.

The woman in front of me was shaking as she handed me back the pen. Our eyes met as an explanation tumbled out of her mouth like popcorn does at the movies.

“My entire backpack was stolen in Barcelona, along with my wallet and passport,” she explained to no one in particular. “I had to go to the American embassy just to be able to get back in the country.”

I nodded sympathetically. I’ve traveled extensively in Europe and that sounds like my worst nightmare. I can’t imagine what she went through. 

“We got home late last night and there’s no food in the house…”

The cashier interrupted. “So I guess I can’t get any ID then, right?”

The hungry woman shook her head.

I’d heard enough. I pulled out my wallet but the manager, who I’m sure had noticed the back up, showed up right about then. “It’s cool,” he said. “I’ve seen her here million times.” He smiled a reassuring smile while scribbling his initials on the front of the check. “Haven’t done THAT in a while,” he said as he walked away. 

My anger had long since dissipated. After an entire line at the market had check-shamed her, now all I felt was compassion for the poor woman. No debit card to get cash. No credit cards. No drivers license. How else was she supposed to eat?

I imagined being in the same predicament and doing the exact same thing. 

Man, there were SO many lessons in that encounter.

People! Slow down! What’s the fucking rush?

Shit happens. 

Barcelona is divine but criminals live there too. 

American Embassies are essential in times like that.

There’s SO MUCH distracting candy around the checkout counter at TJ’s that found its way into my cart that it’s ridiculous. 

Have some compassion. Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.

Carry on,
xox

It’s the little things in life that make me happy—that is while I’m waiting for the bigger things like world peace, a decent vegan cheese, and rain to fall in California.

Thank you, thank you, thank you Trader Joe’s for finally stocking peonies.

Now for those readers in Mauritania, Saudi Arabia, Brazil and all the other countries that read this blog, let me explain. I adore peonies; we can’t grow them here in So. Cal; and Trader Joe’s is the poor man’s Whole Foods.

It carries all sorts of unique varieties of food I’ve never heard of, let alone thought of sampling, hence, TJ’s (as us regulars call it) has made me a much more adventuresome eater over the years.

And while Whole Foods had a broader selection of gluten-free, vegan and organic foods; it is my humble opinion that if I were subjected to a blind taste test, EVERYTHING that was delicious, that my husband would eat, would originate at Trader Joe’s.

Plus, one cart full of food wouldn’t cost the equivalent of the gross national product of Andorra.

Just to prove my point, you must try their gluten-free chocolate chip cookies in the bag. They make me swoon and I’m not given to swooning over anything with the words gluten-free in the description.

That being said, I was feeling a tad let down lately by their blatant lack of peonies. You see I count on those six stem bouquets of loveliness to show their beatific, tight budded faces around March or April; so you can imagine my panic the last couple of weeks when I thought I had possibly missed their short annual visit.

It was a microcosm of the larger macrocosm of my life. ”Am I unlucky enough to have missed out on that thing I love that makes me happy?”

Hey! I wasn’t being completely batshit insane—it is late May you guys!

In my rat bastard of an imagination that sometimes sends my head adrift to places terrifying and massively disappointing, TJ’s had a literal plethora of peonies for five days back in March when I was confined to bed with a nasty head cold or even worse yet…the week my dog died and I couldn’t bring myself to shower let alone grocery shop.

That’s what I’ve been thinking the last four weeks or so. That I was the only one in the greater Los Angels area to have had the misfortune of missing the peony window at Trader Joe’s.

“These are such an amazing deal, better than at the flower mart,” enthused the woman next to me in a crowd of forty plus peony addicts. I kid you not. “They’re more than double this price,” she breathlessly informed me as she swiftly and expertly sorted through the various colors and conditions of the bunches.

Everyone knows you have to find the perfect bouquet. Of the six peonies in the bunch you want two to be half-open, two of them three-quarters open for color, and two in a tight bud to open later in the week.
You only get the ones that are open all the way for a dinner party that very night (and shame on you for waiting until the last-minute) because they will be unsightly the following morning. Opening all the way too soon, they go from gorgeous to ghastly—like a Catholic schoolgirl on a first date…

I suppose THAT should be the moral of this story…but it isn’t.

Here’s the point I want to make:
Take pleasure in the simple things;

Don’t be like me and worry that you are the sap that misses out on all the things that you love;

And for god sakes don’t sweat the small stuff;

And if you’re ever visiting from outside the U.S. it is imperative that you put Trader Joe’s and those chocolate chip cookies on your must see list.

That’s all, carry on,
xox