I skip through the supermarket in my thinnest cotton skirt with goosebumps on my arms. 101 outside, frosty inside. The joy of air conditioning. A few minutes of freedom to buy a few little essentials. So much easier on my own, it's like a day at the spa but much cheaper. I hurl in a sack of giant pull-ups but can't help perseverate over a few percolating phrases from Nonna:- "why are you always so cheerful?" Cheerful is not a description that I have ever considered applicable and doesn't jive well with my grumpy existence. I chuck in a bag of ice as the freezer is on the blink again. A checker says hi and "nice colour!" which strikes me as odd for a black skirt, but none the less welcome for that.
The Parmesan is expensive but will make the difference between 'good enough' and 'superb' when it comes to dinner time. It's so hard to think of things to eat that don't require cooking in the heat. Some day soon we shall learn the art of the 'barbeque' rather than the sacrificial cremation. Nonna's voice reverberates around my brain, "ooo you look like a gypsy in that!" Was it a compliment? I think it was a compliment. I think of the programme I watched on the telly which explained that people see patterns where there aren't any as the human brain shuns the notion of random. I lean over the freezer counter as I hear a male voice say "nice black man." I flip around as he disappears around the corner. I remember that I am in America where the terminology differs as does the emphasis and timing. I'm so glad I'm wearing a skirt otherwise I might have something else to worry about in my tiny mind.
I dither over ketchup as there is far too much choice. I'd choose to avoid it completely but if I want him to eat broad bean and salami salad, then at least a cupful of the red stuff will be required.
I nip out to the teeny weeny car with one canvas bag of groceries as a woman struggles with her children in the next parking space, "get in the f**king car!" I glance across at small and stumbly people. "Whatcha lookin at!" It's more of an accusation than a question. I unlock the door and avert my gaze. I already know that I'm feeble at confrontation. "You single career women make me sick!" she yells as she slams her door. She's right! I am a woman. We both look at my wedding ring that rests on the top of the little car, "childless then! Baron bitch! You know nothing." She reverses out at high speed and departs. I start to breathe. This is the second occasion where I have had a similar experience. I must have the wrong sort of face.
I suspect this is punishment for using the car on an unnecessary trip, increasing my carbon footprint on the planet. If I'd walked I'd have missed her.
Whiplash from Mother earth no doubt.
9 hours ago
