So, it’s been a bit.  And I got married.  And I have a new job which is interim and I’m hoping will be permanent in a couple of months.  It’s really hard and I work a lot and am tired a lot.

Also, We got our yard done and lots of work on the interior of the house.  Did I mention we got married?  Oh, and then there’s that whole election bidness in a couple of days.  No on 8, k?

But, friends, I’m here for a short while today to speak about a grocery store.  Yes sir.  Yes ma’am.  All those other things, they take time and thought and care.  This is just about happy in the ‘hood.

I’m not the first to notice.  Sandra Tsing Loh, who I would probably follow into the fiery pits of hell should she ask, noticed. Twice.

I don’t know where Loh lives in the part of the Valley she refers to as “The Nuys” to give it new cache.  But I’m close to Fresh and Easy.  Remarkably close.

Today, my spouse slash wife (of two weeks) slash partner (of fourteen years) and I went there.  Oh it is a bright place.  With Jam.  And chips that taste like Doritos.  Except, and here is the clincher, they’re SPINACH and ARTICHOKE kinda-Doritos.  Maybe I should have told you to sit down before I told you that.

It occupies a space that used to be a Ralphs.  Not a good Ralphs.  just a ralphs.  It’s not any longer.  Soy milk.  Fresh fruit.  Teeny pies.

It may not be love, but color me intrigued.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…

Fresh and Easy

It’s a neighborhood market.  In my neighborhood.  My my.

Hugs and kisses and lots of foons,

Sporks.

Teresa told me yesterday about a friend and colleague of hers who used to be subjected to his mother’s one and only dessert recipe which involved bananas and Miracle Whip (and water and sugar).

All day, while trying to make some sense of the mess that is my office, my brain loop (and my brain is VERY loop-rific right now) keeps slinging by the banana/Miracle Whip combo. Brain loops drive me crazy. They seem to have gotten worse as I’ve gotten older. I worry sometimes that in 20 years or so I’ll only be able to think about one thing. Corn Flakes. An episode of Cheers. Poppies. While I’m not focused on any of those things right now, if you had told me 24 hours ago that one (of several) of my current obsessive brain loops would be bananas and Miracle Whip, I’d have laughed. I never know what road signs my brain will think to linger by.

I just Googled bananas and Miracle Whip and came up with a large hit total. 244,000 hits. Many of which recipe.

I loathe Miracle Whip, by the way, so I’m doubly horrified at the idea of two hundred thousand web sites that concern themselves with it vis a vis bananas.

The additional problem with this loop pattern is that it inevitably leads me down food free association roads best not traveled.

Peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches (which I have been offered on multiple occasions).

Pimento cheese.

Mushrooms.

Tomato mucus.

Goose grease French toast.

I could go on. Given the current state of my brain, I probably will internally.

Shudder

When trying to branch out of lunch ruts, I have learned a lesson or two (or ten):

* Wandering around Trader Joe’s doesn’t help. They have what they have.

* Foil packets of Indian food and microwaved frozen naan seem like a good idea.

* Foil packets of Indian food and microwaved frozen naan are NOT a good idea.

* Nausene is just cola without the carbonation.

* Coke is better than Pepsi for everything including stomach upset.

* Diet Coke doesn’t help much with stomach upset. Neither does Fresca. Both are
good at other things. Mostly providing no calorie, tasty, carbonated beverage
experiences.

* Mints do not function like Tums.

* Neither does Advil.

* Do not undertake a rut break-perunity without Tums

* Tums smooth dissolve mint flavor taste like party mints AND helps stomach upset.

Honey and I like a restaurant in the heat pit they call the Valley that we both refer to as “Fancy.” Fancy is not. It is a really good Mexican restaurant, the older, but smaller sister to another really good Mexican restaurant right around the corner. (I’m trying to give Valley/L.A. people a hint about location).

Fancy has seven or eight tables inside and another six or so outside. The food is reasonably priced, fresh, and good.

Fancy? Not really. Your order from the counter, get your salsa in little plastic buckets, and they call out your number in Spanish and English. The folks who work there are nice and it’s one of those L.A. places where people from all sorts of cultural backgrounds sit next to one another, including those who by birth should know good Mexican food. It’s next to an express lube place. Why do we call it Fancy? Because it is. To us.

Fancy is on the way home from work for me and since Honey has been commuting by bike, I’ve been trying to take up more of the cooking slack. My two choices tonight were cooking fish and picking up Fancy.

So, I walk into Fancy and there’s a line. I get in it and stand for a few minutes as it inches forward. Then out of nowhere, a young woman in truly ridiculous shoes steps in front of me and says, “I was in line.”

I look at her in shock and amazement. “You were?”

She gestures impatiently behind me. “Yes, I was over there.”

I turn to look and realize that she had been sitting (though I did not and could not have seen her) in a chair five feet away from the end of the line hidden behind a stack of high chairs.

“You were sitting there?”

“Yes and that was how I was in line.”

I glance down at my feet (clad today in Teva sandals) to think for a second and notice that she is wearing five inch teeny spike white high heeled sandals.

Now, what I want to say is:

“If you didn’t have on those stupid shoes, you could actually STAND in line like the rest of us.”

What I actually say (trying to sound deeply contemptuous):

“Oh.”

I’m so brave in my head.

Fancy still tasted terrific and Honey enjoyed her tostada without ever having to see those stupid shoes. The sacrifices I make for love. It’s how I’m so brave. In my head.

I came back from lunch with a colleague today and walked through our conference/eating area to the bathroom.

My staff eats. A lot. Badly. Do(gh)nuts. Cake. Cheetos. Almost everyday someone brings something in, always high in fat and calories. It drives me wild. I’m not the most food resistant person in the world. I try to resist. Sometimes it works. Other times, less so.

So, today I was walking by and there were two things sitting on the table with those “it’s for everyone” markers recognized the world over. Both items had small plates next to them and food serving devices nearby.

I stopped. I gaped. I may have gasped. I certainly sighed.

On the table was: a VERY gristly steak and next to it (on a seperate plate–a small mercy) there was a chunk of flan swimming in sauce.

Steak and flan. Both room temperature.

Here’s the good news: I had no trouble resisting. For your evening update, I should note that the flan was consumed and the steak is still sitting there. Anyone want some?

Ok, I know some of you like gum. That’s fine. People like the Yankees and pimento and mushrooms and golf. There is no accounting for what appeals to people. Look at them. Like alien eyes staring.

I loathe gum. I don’t like the way it tastes. I don’t like the way it smells. I hate that people leave it places so I have to see it. Or step in it. I can and have been pretty fucking rude when it comes to gum. I can’t help it. I probably could help it. I don’t want to.

Once I liked it. When I was a child. I would poke around in my mother’s purse. She usually had Trident, sometimes Juicy Fruit. I was beset by braces (and not the kind glue-on kind but the mean wrap-around-your-tooth kind) when I was but a lass (10 or 11 I want to say) and being the good girl I was, duly gave up gum. My orthodontist was a big guy with very hairy hands that creeped me out under his rubber gloves. Hair under translucent rubber=not pretty.

By the time I had my braces off, I was in my rebellious phase (don’t ask) and rarely wore my retainer and once accidentally threw it away in the trashcan at The Varsity. The Varsity is a wonderful place, and I order right. It’s also a place where grease takes hold. Rooting through The Varsity trash looking for my retainer was a more base experience than most in my life. The irony was the trash rooting resulted in naught. Well, it resulted in greasy hands and clothes, but no retainer.

Hairy-handed orthodontist died while I was a teenager and I took it as a sign that I should move on from corrective dentistry. That was not the signal the universe was sending and my teeth have drifted. Still.

I vividly remember getting my braces off and how slick my teeth felt. I immediately wanted some gum. I had some. I wanted to vomit. Ever since I have an aversion, a revulsion, a repulsion to gum.

Last night I stepped in some. It got all over my car floor mat and floorboard. It took 30 minutes to clean up. My car still smells like spearmint and every time I think of it, my gorge rises.

So, gum chewers of the world, hear my pleas!

1. Don’t chew it in my car.

2. If you must chew gum, dispose of it properly.

3. Consider mints. Mints I like.

That is all.

Things I’m not going to write about:

*How busy I am.

*How the wildfires make me want to camping. Not where they are, mind you, but because wood smoke makes me want to go camping. I should feel bad about feeling this way.

*How a student made me look stupid while I was being observed in class the other day.

*How a colleague pretty much refused to do work he’s already been paid to do, which will make me look bad.

*How much I’m looking forward to getting out-of-town this weekend, but how panicked the missed time is making me.

*How little grading I’ve done on papers that came in a week ago. (None).

*How much I need to finish an article.

*How behind I am on blog commenting/reading.

*How I need to stop this list RIGHT NOW or will feel worse, not a little purged.

*How much I look forward to Lost every week. (no stress factors in that last comment).

Anyway, what I will say, however briefly, is that I’ve been enjoying these little Italian yogurts from Trader Joe’s that come in pleasing little glass bottles.

Honey and I had a running joke about them because I wanted to try them for the bottles and she didn’t think I’d like them because they are too “wangy.” To translate: sour/overly yogurty, etc.

This is how it would go, “Honey do you think I’d like those yogurts?”

“No”

Ok, so it’s not that funny, but we liked the patter. Then I saw them in apricot and I’m a bit of a fool for apricot, so I got them anyway. I really like them. They ARE wangy, but wangy in a good way.

So, I’ve had four of them at work so far and have been washing and displaying their little bottles. I can’t decide how many little bottles is too many little bottles.

Here’s what the little bottles look like:

Aren’t they cute?

I also like the company’s English translation of their blurb on the product:

“…[T]he traditional processing of the dense double layer yoghurt, where the ferments join the milk and pot after pot the unmistakable texture is achieved. Finally it is packed in its traditional glass pot Biospega.”

I want to go to the place where the ferments join the milk. I’m guessing it’s right in the center of the land of wang.

I have one “pot” on my desk and three others on my bookshelf right next to my woodblock Colosseum. At least I’ve got my vaguely Roman stuff together.

My conclusion, if I stay in the land of wang, I may be ok. At least there are cute little jars there.

I’m a posting MACHINE!

Can you tell it’s spring break and I have less everyday pressure? I’m working on real stuff, too. I’ve graded 10 midterms a day all three days this week, wrote two probationary performance evaluations, reviewed an article for a journal, created some new curriculum, cleaned out my e-mail, and it’s not even noon on Wednesday.

Anyway…I have been in cereal crisis. Honey and I like cereal for breakfast and for the past few months, we have given over to the magic that is Kashi. Honey likes Go Lean Crunch. I like it too. But I found personal cereal nirvana in Strawberry Fields. What’s not to like? Organic? Check. Available at Trader Joe’s? Why yes. Tasty? Mmm Hmm. Soggy danger? Low.

That’s all well and good, until it disappeared from Trader Joe’s. No shelf space disappeared. One week there were a few boxes. The next, no space. I searched for it. Honey, sweet person that she is, went to another Trader Joe’s looking for it. No luck. What was I to do?

I made do with Cinnamon Harvest, which is tasty. Then I went to Trader Joe’s Vanilla Wheat Squares. Bereft probably best describes my cereal feeling as I spooned the vanilla pockets into my mouth on Monday.

Then I remembered that there’s a wondrous new invention called the internets. You can type something into a box and it will spit back information. So off to the internets I went and found Kashi’s own site. I was hoping they’d have a way to match my cereal desires with a store in my area. Kashi did me one better. For a small fee (a pittance really), they sent me a CASE of Strawberry Fields in a big brown truck. Incredible!

This morning, I opened the box and there were twelve friendly box tops staring back at me. Waiting to be my cereal.

A nice Wednesday today, a fields of berry of straw morning and a labor settlement with guaranteed raises for me and my kind. *Contented Sigh*

Our office doesn’t have a lunchroom per se. We have a conference table that doubles as the lunch table. The area has a sink and years ago someone brought in a small refrigerator which gets complained about regularly. Its maintenance is taken VERY seriously by everyone. If other things were taken that seriously, I would be happy and the office would work better. We can’t replace the refrigerator with state money (it’s against the rules), so that rule also gets discussed with some frequency. I’m usually blamed.

This morning, as happens more regularly than I’d like, one of my staff had a birthday. I suppose they’re all allowed. Given that there aren’t that many of them, though, it seems to me that the birthday thing happens more often than it should.

Some time ago, I dictated a new rule that we would no longer have the office fund (to which I contribute rather disproportionately) pay for lunch or breakfast AND a cake. Instead, I decreed (like Caesar) that the birthday celebrant could choose lunch or breakfast OR a cake and have it be paid for from the fund to which I contribute disproportionately.

Fairness aside: How disproportionately? Between 3 and 6 times more than anyone else. Why so disproportionately? I was told it was my obligation based on a precendent set by my predecessor who makes at least $30K more a year than I do. How do I know what she makes? Because as state employees, all our salaries are published in a book every year which is kept in the library and consulted often by many.

Anyway, my Caesar-like proclamation (I wish I had one of those dudes to go announce what I had decided in the forum like Caesar’s dudes did), was met with some resistance and some negotiation. I capitulated to our newest employee having a lunch/cake combo for her birthday because it was her FIRST birthday with us. It wasn’t her first birthday, mind you. Though her clerical skills would be really notable had it been.

Anyway, this morning, one of my employees was celebrating her birthday and had chosen breakfast as her celebratory meal. Office Manager showed up with the breakfast we had each ordered. This was a change from the last birthday, where two of us didn’t get our food and OM spent a good portion of her meal trying to get me to eat fried chicken livers despite my attempts to avoid said food. This morning, I ate the small thing I had ordered and then got up to walk into my office. I wasn’t being anti-social, I wanted to check the currently ongoing woot-off for stupid stuff that I shouldn’t buy. Why is the woot-off so compelling? Same reason I think garage sales and thrift stores can be. As Honey’s mother says, “you never know.”

As soon as I left, the loudness and mirth level at the table rose. People were talking and laughing as they hadn’t been a few minutes before. After a while, our one year old clerical wonder brought me my water cup, assuming (hoping?) that I was not coming back. I pointed out that breakfast would be followed by staff meeting and that’s why I had left my cup there. She seemed a little deflated by the idea of staff meeting. It happens every Thursday morning. It may be deflating every Thursday morning. I don’t know. I know I don’t exactly go to bed Wednesday night with joyful anticipation in my heart.

As I began this entry, I was waiting for a pod of staff to finish at the lunch table. When they did, I got up and went eat. I eat with them sometimes. After the mirth increase this morning though, I didn’t want to today. When I first started here I remember sitting in my office and listening to them having lunch. It seemed really nice then.

I found salt packets and plastic spoons in my predecessor’s desk. It’s possible that she felt as I did. I’ve pictured her salting her food at her desk.

I’m trying to resist talking about the lunch table in school and the day I asked if I could sit down with a group of kids and was told no. Didn’t resist it very well, did I?

Tomorrow is our annual staff retreat. I’ve designed team-building activities. I hope they help.

I wonder if I could design one called “talk to sporks like a human even though she’s the boss.” Probably not.

Now, who do I see about one the Caesar announcement guys?

I was in line today for lunch after my professional development workshop. The professional development workshop was actually pretty good. Though a colleague of mine, who is not fond of institutions, noted that the whole idea of professional development workshops was predicated on the notion that we all wanted to be professionally developed. I do, truth be told. I didn’t learn how to administrate things or negotiate the vagaries of a large and complex bureaucracy while studying what I studied in grad school. Why anti-establishment colleague works for an establishment of this type is probably a subject for another time.

Back to the lunch line: the fare was the usual array of sandwiches and sides. They were arranged thusly: beef…vegetarian…sides…turkey…sides

The effect, while standing in line, was that for all appearances it looked like you had two choices, beef and veggie. The turkey was sort of a surprise at the end of the table.

The level of panic exhibited over the seeming lack of a poultry choice was palpable. There was tinge of hysteria as person after person, all with advanced degrees and lots of responsibility, asked in quavering voices, “is there turkey?” The level of panic was heightened by the general and pervasive panic about the number of Diet Cokes available. People eyed the drink table from their vantage points, and I could tell they were counting the number of Diet Cokes in their minds and comparing it to the number of people in line. A number of people gave up their places and got a Diet Coke with little triumphant smiles on their faces. Some then got in the back of the line, others sat down to have, I guess, Diet Coke for lunch.

I was at the table farthest from the line and observed all of this as I waited at the back of the long line. My closest line-mates were deep in a conversation about something that interested me so little that the turkey and Diet Coke panics were more engaging.

When I got to the head of the line, the catering people had realized the panic state. There was a man stationed behind the tables near the beef sandwiches who said over and over, “there’s turkey at the end of the table. There’s turkey at the end of the table.” As I grabbed some tongs to get a roast beef sandwich, he spoke loudly and directly to me (though I had not been looking at him), “THERE’S TURKEY AT THE END OF THE TABLE.” I smiled my acknowledgement and took a beef sandwich anyway. He went back to chanting his mantra, turkeyattheendofthetable turkeyattheendofthetable.

I got a Diet Coke and enjoyed my beef sandwich. The lemon bar panic was mild which is good. I’m not sure some people could have handled more.

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