Whole Foods is great…but there’s only one problem.  It ain’t cheap.  And it doesn’t carry my little ladies’ favorite brand of kitty litter.  So, as fate would have it, the grocery store hater now has to make two stops…one being the pricey prima donna palace, and the other…the packed pick-up joint. 

Since Sunday night’s trip was driven mainly by my gals’ need for more than a centimeter of kitty litter, Kroger it was.  I did mention that it was a Sunday night, right?  The night which, in the West Gray grocery world, is on par with the grand opening of Hyde in LA or Pure in Vegas.  In short, parking spaces are scarce and tempers are short.  That’s why, when I saw a space up front that didn’t have a handicapped sign in front of it, I felt like this dreaded errand may not be so bad after all.  I pulled in, powered down my newly rebuilt Honda (that’s a story for another time), and stepped out with my head held high.  Not high enough, however, to miss the large handicapped sign painted on the ground beneath my car.  Shit!  I rush back to the Honda to get back in line behind the throngs of others vying for the limited spaces.  But in my rush…as I threw open the door and swung my body toward the driver’s seat, I miscalculated my height, and, well, I rammed my head, with remarkable force into the unforgiving metal - just below the outer edge of my right eyebrow.  Crack!  Literally, it made a noise…a loud noise…and I briefly saw stars, right before the searing pain set in.  I grabbed my face and slithered into my seat.

My first thought:  “Ouch…ouch…go away, pain.  Please, go far, far away…”

My second thought:  “My God, I have to go in this grocery store full of hip-dressed suitors, flashing solid proof (in their eyes, at least) that I am a victim of domestic abuse.”  I abhor you, Kroger.

The small goose egg hid itself fairly well under strategically placed makeup, although I constantly pulled out my compact mirror - sure that my damaged noggin would soon turn an uncoverable shade of black and blue.  Of course, fellow shoppers assumed I was checking myself out to ensure a “competitive edge” amongst the hords of single sassies.  When in reality, I was working to save myself from the looks of pity or passing suggestions for nearby ‘women’s centers’.  Had the scenario presented itself, I had a prepared rebuttal:

“I DON’T HAVE A DAMN HUSBAND…HELL, I DON’T EVEN HAVE A BOYFRIEND!!”  That should shut ‘em up.  But folks want to believe the dramatic…they don’t want to hear about the unfortunate meeting of an innocent Honda door frame and a slightly accident prone lassie.  They want the dirt.  If it ain’t a husband or boyfriend, maybe it’s a jealous lesbian ex-girlfriend.  Yeah, there’s the dirt.

No matter…I picked up all the groceries before the growing bump became too noticeable and I raced out of the parking lot.  I needed Kroger in my rearview mirror - fast.  Kroger! (Newman!)  Argh!

Once home, I packed away all the groceries…all except a frozen bag of edamame which I carefully placed on my sensitive, swollen (that sounds risque) brow bone.  I’m two days out now, and still a bit painful to the touch.  But I’ve realized something.  Maybe Whole Foods is worth every penny…maybe it’s time to switch the girls to organic, unscented litter.  Maybe…

As fate would have it, this long-awaited moment can not immediately be celebrated with a cold, frosty beverage.  Why?  Because we live in a world of irony.  And I am oft showered with its head-shaking gifts.  Its latest sweet offering?  The beautifully swollen and incredibly painful lovliness that is strep throat.  So tonight, instead of basking in a festive celebration with friends and family, I will gargle hot salt water and pop my 3rd dose of Z-Pack (a pill that, although magical in its healing ability, can wreak havoc on an already fragile system…I’ll spare you the horror of elaboration).

I will, however, likely be feeling close to 90% by the weekend.  I’m encouraged by that timing.  And I will celebrate right up to the edge of relapse.  I’m dangerous like that.

Without another major writing project on the horizon (or at least not one with a deadline), I will have plenty of time to reevaluate my current career, social life, and other general major life happenings.  This is not good.  Too much thinking about such subjects can lead to the “what ifs”:  What if I hadn’t left New York?”; “I hear Seattle’s a great place to dig in your heels”; “Maybe I should have been a dog groomer (allergic), a chef (can’t really cook), or a rock star (can’t play an instrument)”.  What AM I doing with my life????

But let me “turn that frown upside down” for a moment.  I can go to New York if I so choose…momma’s got some contacts.  And I love dogs, but I don’t want to swim in their hair all day long.  I just signed up for Kraft’s email list…I can try out some fabulous fatty meals.  And GET THIS…I finally picked up my guitar from my parent’s house…the one I never learned to play.  I also found someone who has agreed to teach me.  How long he will be able to handle my complete lack of musical knowledge, I don’t know.  But I will give it my all, folks.  And one day I will play in front of an audience (of two to three family members).  It’s all about the dream…fanciful goals…and complete insanity.

Look for me in the neon lights…of New York…or Vegas…or possibly Cali…maybe even Houston.  Who knows.  The world may soon be ready for a pie-makin’, dog bathin’, guitar strummin’ diva.  And when they are…I’ll be there waiting…with a Z-Pack in my gullet and a smile on my face.  Cheers, my friends!

So, how did it feel?  When you gave the volunteer your name, and followed the pointed finger to the voting station?  How did it feel when you finished, and walked out, shoulders back, through the field of signs and throngs of exit pollsters?  It felt good, didn’t it?  Admit it, it felt amazing.  Because you voted in an historic election.  A black man on the ticket for President.  A woman for Vice President.  It was history before the results came in.  And however the pendulum swung, it would be history the day after.  YOU were a part of that!  You.  Whether you sit here today deliriously happy or sorely disappointed by the outcome, we are embarking on a new era.  Both candidates proposed change.  It is badly needed.  And I hope President-elect Obama will begin to steer this slightly damaged ship in the right direction.  Whatever your political leanings, we all want what’s best for this country.  Be proud that you were part of a democratic process that so many around the world can only dream of.

I don’t envy the soon-to-be Commander in Chief.  He has some steep mountains to climb and high expectations to contend with, but let’s do our best to support him.  It’s in our best interest.  We don’t always have to agree.  But we can be open-minded to new possibilities.  We clearly haven’t faired too well in recent years, and more dramatically in recent months.  New ideas…new approaches to old problems might bring about some good.  We’ll see.

The speeches by both candidates last night were truly amazing.  McCain was incredibly gracious, and I believe, humbled himself by the election of our first African-American president.  McCain is, first and foremost, a proud American.  He was part of history, and I truly think he ‘gets’ that.  We saw a side of him last night that was missing during the endless campaign.  It was nice to see him back.  And Obama’s speech was inspiring, humbling as well, and seemed to seek the uniting of those who supported him and those who didn’t.  He mentioned Dr. King at one point, and this morning I plugged “I Have a Dream” into the search feature on YouTube.  I watched that historic speech, and goosebumps popped up all over as I realized his dream had, in large part, come damn close to reality.  Dr. King dreamed of a day when his four young children would ’live in a nation where they would not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character’.  Take a look at the speech when you get some time.  Sometimes it’s good to check back in to the bigger picture:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PbUtL_0vAJk.

Although I’ve made a semi-legitimate profession out of writing, and may be considered by some to be a “creative” individual…I am as craft-challenged as they come.  Believe me when I tell you this.  Because I know it in my soul to be true…creativity does not always translate to crafty.  I am living proof of that.  But I don’t want to knock myself about too much.  I do come by this affliction honestly.  My mother is even less comfortable than I traversing the knick-knack laden, scrapbook-filled halls of Michaels.  In fact, years ago, in a sad moment of complete denial, we decided to attempt the seemingly simple and straightforward art of silk flower arrangements.  After several glasses of wine and no clear plan, we broke into gut-busting fits of laughter.  Because the atrocity before us can only be described as the devil’s garden.  Random cattails jutting at odd angles, pockets of nothingness next to packed flowers…and overall, no apparent rhyme or reason.  It was so awful that we decided to keep it as a reminder that we should never, under any circumstance, attempt such a project again.

The point is, I did not spend weeks or even days planning my Halloween costume.  In fact, it could more accurately be measured in hours.  Most of which were spent combing stores alongside other procrastinating, slightly testy, non-crafties. 

For my costume, I’d decided on the late 50’s / early 60’s era gal…based mainly on my obsession with the “Mad Men” TV series (if you haven’t seen it, check it out).  And, to be honest, it was a decision based also on my (inaccurate) assumption that a pencil skirt and sweater would be an easy find.  Twenty stores and two very sore feet later, I had what I felt would be a passable imitation of the outwardly sexy (yet inwardly downtrodden) ad-industry secretary.

Because the hype around Halloween is often on par with New Year’s Eve or Valentine’s Day (and therefore built-up expectations are often squashed by a squabbling couple or botched fireworks), our crew decided to play it safe and guarantee at least amazing people-watching.  In other words, we went to a locally famous gay bar where crafty costumes would be an understatement.  And it didn’t disappoint, people.  The costumes?  Unbelievable.  And to be honest, some were a little, well…let’s not go there.  Just use your imagination, and then double the “What the…” factor.  It was beautiful.  And highly entertaining.  Susan and I eventually moved on to other locations, to enjoy the company of men a bit more interested in slightly enhanced bosoms (courtesy of the old standby Charmin toilet paper).  But one of our earlier companions, Susan’s good friend and coworker, Lealon, later won a costume competition for his incredible Boy George get-up. If we can’t be crafty, at least we can hang with others who are.

Here are a few photos for your viewing pleasure (or for a good midday laugh).  And don’t forget to vote tomorrow.  It’s not just a right, it’s a privilege! (And you can legitimately attend that rockin’ “Results Viewing” party)

P.S. It appears the feature to upload pictures into blog posts is on the fritz.  In the meantime, I’ve posted some of the Halloween pics in my ‘Paparazzi’ (Flickr) section to the right.  Enjoy!

It’s time to switch things up a bit…get the ball rolling…add some new skills to the repertoire.  I suspect there will be some mighty fine blog posts as a result of said changes.  Hold on tight…it could be a bumpy ride.