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Hello (again) subscriber,
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Writing to you from Friday, August 15.. Rather, making a template so that when I have something interesting to bring you, I can do just that.
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I did get a grocery basket earlier this week, so maybe I'll explain to you the wickedness of the Big Y.
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T-Minus 15 hours until 9 am Monday morning. Writing to you from my couch with a very uncomfortable left shoulder, and for whatever reason, not too much to say.
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39 Minutes until I *need* to send this, and I haven't left bed, not even to pee. I brought my computer upstairs with me last night, thinking I'd wake up with some inspiration that I could transform into something witty and profound.
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I mentioned last week that one of my faults is that I'm not very good at taking care of myself; this first week between emails was pretty good proof of that. I procrastinated folding the laundry until there were three baskets, rarely ate before the afternoon, and aside from the yoga classes I teach, I didn't move my body. I'm not looking for sympathy or advice; I'm just being transparent. You see, a huge motivating factor (that's a stretch, I clearly am low motivation if I'm writing this to you with nearly 30 minutes to spare) of this email list was to minimize my interaction with the internet. So, hopefully, a little accountability to my tiny audience will encourage me to do better this week.
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I mentioned the Big Y and left you with that cliff hanger, so I will elaborate.
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For those of you who are unaware, the Big Y is a grocery store chain where I live, and for whatever goddamned reason, I haven't pestered the right person to get any answer that I deem valid; they got rid of their baskets.
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Who does that? Why? Did someone get hurt carrying a basket? Sounds like their own fault for putting too much stuff in there.
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Realistically, they likely want me (yes, just me) to use a cart so I could buy more stuff, and a bigger area to tote my items around the store means I'm more likely to fill it up, right? Wrong, it has provoked frustration. Currently, it's the closest "big box" grocery store near me. Otherwise, my options are the local Whole Foods (that means a co-op; we also have a Whole Foods, but it's a 20-minute drive) or a small neighborhood grocery store where things are either twice the price, almost rotten, or somehow ancient and not expired? At least, those are my options if I don't want to drive 20+ minutes to an Aldi, Trader Joe's, Whole Foods, or other big box grocer that has Brighams. Regardless, I can't get all my shopping done at any combination of these stores because Western Mass is full of a bunch of vapid virtue signaling folk that likely think ketchup is spicy. What I'm trying to convey through that last sentence is not my disdain for the individuals, but rather, elude that they are white and although virtue signaling, don't actually understand culinary inclusivity because it's hard to be inclusive when there's nothing to include. We can discuss my frustration with food out here some other week; the inspiration struck too late, and I don't have enough time to really tell you how I feel. (You can ignore this, maybe. It will be a fun conversation about food, but keep in mind I lived in LA for a couple of years before moving to Western Massachusetts, and was spoiled with food options.
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Long story long, I have had a hard time finding Tajin out here.
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My beef with the Big Y- they got rid of their baskets, and this has further frustrated my grocery buying process since my options are as follows; succumb to their likely capatilist ways and use a cart against my preference (see I'm not good with a cart, I will leave it three isles over with my purse in it and simultaneously try to trust other shoppers and be overly anxious that someone is going to take the unassumingly heavy lemons and limes I didn't have on my grocery list), pack my groceries in my reusable tote and look like I might just walk out (and think that I might just walk out, its their fault they didn't allow me a basket to use), try to collect the items I wish to purchase in my arms, but of course I end up buying a 9lb pork shoulder that I requested the butcher to chop up for me, so now I need to put my affformentioned lemons and limes into a produce bag (also don't like produce bags, why take something just to throw it away? Sure you could argue the logic of a trash bag, but again, we're here to discuss the lack of carts) and hook them on my fingers while I stand around waiting for a butcher.
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Now, you're probably wondering why I decided to explain all of this to you without re-mentioning the grocery basket I said I got earlier this week. So here you go, I'm re-mentioning the grocery basket I got earlier this week.
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This frustration is not new; if you are one of the people I call and gripe on the phone to, or are one of the few I get to gripe to in person, you know how deeply this has bothered me. I LOVE grocery shopping, I think it's a wonderful date idea, and before we all scattered, I used to love taking my friends grocery shopping with me to be productive and catch up with someone. Taking away my autonomy by not providing me with a basket really put a stick in my spokes.
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Shout out to my lovely partner, Jeremy, who took it upon himself to get me my very own grocery basket. The man does many things to humor me, and to maintain some sense of privacy with the internet, I will not list off the many things he does to humor me, but if you've ever been in a relationship where you don't think you're cool, but the other person does, and vice-versa, well, I'm sorry, and the point I'm getting at here is that when people really do like you, they don't try to change themselves or you, but they will try to change the world for you. Its not about solving the big problems all the time, but solving the little ones that have the biggest impact.
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In conclusion, because I have less than 200 seconds until all you people start wondering if this was all an elaborate scheme to get your emails, I have a grocery basket of my very own now, and I feel super cool knowing that no grocery store can strip me of my preferred way to gather my goods.
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