Grocery Store Assault

My neighborhood grocery store was an absolute insane asylum this evening. For a Wednesday, the store was cram packed full of people. Normally only two registers are manned, but tonight all seven were running fast and hard with at least four people in line.

The night before Thanksgiving (Thanksgiving Eve?) everyone and their brother who is in town from Uttica were in the store with cell phones plastered to his and her ears asking how much, which brand, where's it located? People wandered through the store eyes glued to the shelves, reading the titles cans, boxes, and frozen items, while in their hands were the deep blue handbaskets filled with crackers, drinks, and random meat.

The line was four deep to stare absently at the vegetables as the younger male who was waving a cell phone in hand and squeezing onions in the other. He even took a picture of the onions, waited, talked, and then picked up the sweet onions. In the cheese section, the myriads of shredded cheese in multi-colored transparent bags flummoxed a family of five. The Mom was handling each bag, focusing on the shredded Mexican mix and comparing it to the varieties of mozzarella. While the Dad was intent on the sharp cheddar, and the older daughter (young 20s) was all about swiss slices. The two younger children, probably high school, were busy throwing the red-wrappered chunk cheese at each other.

It was the same in every other section of the store. If it wasn't so cute and amusing to watch, I would have lost my mind while waiting on the hordes of indecisive fools, wanding aimlessly through the grocery store.

Ah, Thanksgiving, I'm gonna skip ya' this year.

Sweetness is . . .

I've been brooding and dark lately, no wonder, and have been a total hothead and take things way out of context. I needed to so chill out and lighten up; however I didn't any relief coming any time soon. Even friends weren't the salve I've been needing.
Instead, my lightness returned in the form of an essay. A simple essay from a very simple kid who absolutely adores me, and who knew I desperately needed a laugh.
I assigned the students a Thanksgiving essay about someone, anyone they wanted, coming to Thanksgiving dinner and hanging out with the family. I was expecting famous musicians (I got some), actors (none), and sports figures (some). I never thought a large number of the students wanted to have dinner with me (about 45 percent). The best one, while not well written, but written with heart, made me laugh until tears were streaming down my face, I was gasping for air, and pounding on my desk.
According to the essay (i would reproduce it, but, it loses some when not translated), I arrive at the student's house. And save the family from a marauding T-Rex who has eaten the family dog.
After teaching the T-Rex manners and how to be smart, I then move on to a random monkey that showed up. I name the Monkey "Bacon" then fry it up and eat it.
Next, with a belly fully of bacon, I scream in excitement as all the Green Bay Packer football players show up at the house. I precede to dance with each one of them, and enjoy the experience so much, I take the team hostage.
Without warning, the FBI storms the house, because I have taken the football players hostage, and demand that I release the team or else I will be carted away.
The essay ends with me making a big decision - but what that decision is I'll never know.

The picture is representative of me, dancing - a blue booby.

Waiting

It's rainy and dark and cold. Ick. Winter is around the corner it's supposed to sleet tonight and I have to drive to work in the morning.

But, the kicker here is that my car is broken and sitting useless in the driveway.

The reason it's sat there for the last few days is that 1. it was too late when it died to go to a store and buy a new battery 2. Again, now, it's late and the store closes in two hours and my spouse who isn't going to be my spouse in a month went to a meeting and won't be back till late.

I sit bored, not really wanting to watch television because the offerings there are just quite pitiful, waiting. That's all I've been doing lately. Just waiting. Waiting for the people around me to wake. Waiting for me to wake up. Waiting for life to start again. Waiting to move on. Waiting on someone else to move on. Waiting to lambast another person who is waiting on the same reason I'm waiting.

Waiting is the worst waste of time, it's deconstructive and tears at the fabric of sanity. Gosh, I'm tired of waiting.

The worst part is that I'm not a great waiter. I hate it. When I want something done, it best well be done NOW, or even better yesterday. Life ceases when a person has to wait. So much actual life just floating by on the stream of time while I sit on the bank staring listlessly, wanting so much to jump in, and yet, being restrained by constraints not placed by myself, and yet, I'm adhering to them.

I'm being good; my eyes may be watering watching it all pass me by - watching others go zipping by without realizing I'm still sitting here - like I'm supposed to be and so should they.

I can see an end to the lazy stream - it's just right up ahead. All I have to do is walk a few unsteady and tentative steps to this great big yawning ocean where delicious waves and sunrises and sunsets await to capsize me into a new world where the waiting is of a better sort - the kind I want. And the kind that, hopefully, wants me.

Crossroads

Crossroads are paradoxical shifts in the space-time continuum of people’s lives; and more often than not they don’t even realize they’ve been through one. That they’ve made a decision and have selected a different path and are now traveling at a rapid pace away from what they originally wanted and are ow heading toward a new destination which may not have been their ultimate goal. Missing the crossroads or being oblivious to the new direction has unintended consequences and by the time you comprehend that you’ve chosen the wrong dirt or grass or macadam road incorrectly, it’s too late to hit reverse and do it again. And other times, crossroads are very evident; smack-you-in-the-face-stand-there-and-stare evident.
Both types are equally self-destructive or enlightening. Just a lucky few get to stand in the middle one and are not be bothered by the swirling mist of times past. The how-you-arrived portion of your life. Mostly we stand and with squinted eyes looking back on what we’ve done and groan as we see the better solutions materializing or slap our heads in frustration because the reasoning and meaning behind actions crystallizes into a pure thought. Too many times we get caught up in the backward view and force the future to fit into the what-should-have-been category. There is a reason we’re supposed to see the past clearly sans blinders of everyday life – so we don’t make the same mistakes. Those who can’t take a safe and unbiased view of their past are the ones who fail time and again as they make the same choices and repeat patterns that have ended in misery.
After facing down the past, the dark oblique world of the future can be even more daunting. There is no mist, there is nothing but blackness. But the blackness isn’t a scary evil type, it is the unknown type. The dark that precedes the dawn. The dark that ebbs and flows as soft as a mountain stream. The dark that envelops us when we sleep, and offers a respite from the harrowing misery of the day, or a break from the joys of life. Few want to walk into the black without having some inclination as to what they face. As the preconceived notions of what we think will happen melt into a blur, and forces the dark to be a terrifying prospect, while not physically scary, it holds its own terrors. New roads and surfaces are forged in courage and those willing to move ahead and follow their own path, alone, are the visionaries.
Of course, as with any crossroads, there are the two divergent side roads. And this is where the devil stands. He of the big smile and easy laugh; ready to sell what you can not afford but so greedily want. Give me your soul, he says dripping with confidence and lust, and I will show you which path to take, which is the easiest version of life. It costs but little and I only collect when you die. Sometimes, taking his hand and letting him lead you down the “safe” road is the most comforting choice, there are no worries because you know the future and can apply the past. Everything is laid out for you, there are no surprises and you get what you want, not what you need. Those who take his offer, what they can’t see because the truth is too painful, already proffer their soul. These soulless wander aimlessly with no real goals or ambitions because the smiling man has paved their way into a life of meaningless movements one no better than the next.
So, as I stand now, facing the receding mists of a damaged past and the vortex of an empty future, I eschew the smiling man and keep my soul’s virtue intact. With a deep breath and facing forward with extreme trepidation I’m taking the first step on a road created by hope.

Feeding the Beast

I feed a beast everyday. This beast is one of the most integral parts of my organization. Nothing would be accomplished if the beast’s hunger wasn’t satiated. The whole of the organization would come crashing down around the professional employees’ ears. Many would stand in dumbstruck horror as the beast, disabled by its almost perpetual appetite, stood silent – ground to a halt by the lack of caloric intake.

As it is, only a few brave souls dare brave the beast’s dangerous and darkly satanic hunger pains. Us brave few, we calm the monster; know how to assuage its demands; how to tame the raging tiger best so the rest of our staff can safely continue their day, as if none of us were in mortal danger.

I have taken to using the crazed creature only in limited quantities – I take no chances of rousing the anger of the gods – it would be akin to poking a sleeping bear or taunting a trapped bull, stuck in a corner with no hope of escape. To ensure a safe passage into the beast’s world, I always submit an offering. No matter how limited or sparing, the offer is taken into consideration by the static creature and it grants me safe passage.

Having proffered the beast my gift with humbly bowed head, and a cross of the fingers for a successful cooperative venture with the creature, I slip my request into its cold jaws and allow the beast to do its job. Take my work and make it more. Make it plentiful. Make it into hundreds of cloned copies. I rarely breathe while my work is in the beast’s capable innards, if any air escapes me, it is a quick prayer for a quick and fruitful end to my appeal.

The slightest growl leaves me spasming in terror as I imagine the horror of crawling through the creature’s inner workings to relieve its pain, to fix its soul before it will spring to life again at the touch of my fingers. Sometimes, if the damage is too much, if the beast decides to self-terminate without warning, to attack my person with foul directions and orders, I call in help. The beast is not averse to tying up the attention of two fully capable college-educated adults.

And yet, not many will take the time to learn the gentle tricks needed to calm the beast; the ability to quench its desires so the rest of the staff can tread with success and make a hasty retreat back to their own cubbies. These types are the ones who rouse the beast, who antagonize the creature stirring in the small, hot, crowded room. After using the monster, they, often, run as fast as they can from its cave – not bothering to replenish the required food source.

It is then that I wander into the dank little room and face sharply glaring red “eyes” while a clanging klaxon, capable of waking the dead, blares from the beast’s very mouth. Using what guile I can muster, I locate and grab the quickest food source and hastily hurl the needed nourishment into the belly of the beast. I utter curses suitable for the devil himself when someone has carelessly left behind a growling monster.

Then, when the monster has eaten his fill, I press the start button and my copies pop out the other end.