tinned soup of devotion

Despite the fact that I was once described as "the lesbian June Cleaver" and my insistence that dishwashing can be good meditation, I am not much of a homemaker. I do not come with the tidy gene. I painted half the kitchen in March, and have not yet completed it. Dustbunnies the size of kangaroos lurk in the corners of my living room. I'm a terrible cook, and I believe that one of the best places to despair about humanity is the supermarket. My partner, while not likely to scrub the toilet unprompted, keeps his clutter off the coffee table, makes the grocery lists, and cooks virtually every meal consumed in our home. We wobble along by trading off the things we both hate, and occasional days where one of us puts in several hours making things clean, or pretty, or edible.

Today it was my turn to brave the Saturday throng in the produce section.You have to understand, however, that this was not just any shopping trip. For two weeks every September, students returning to school descend upon the bookstore where spook works, creating chaos, extremely long lines, and numbness. During this time, ten or eleven hour days are not uncommon, and he's there six days a week. Meal planning? forget it. By the time he gets home he is an affectless cave pixie who might remember how to chew if I put something in his mouth.

This year, I will be helping out at the store a couple of days a week for the wacky period, as well as working what are turning out to be full-time weeks at my new job, where I'm still learning the ropes. Therefore, I will have a seven-day week next week...which will probably turn into eleven working days in a row.

All of this translates into high-stakes grocery madness. If I don't buy the right things, we'll end up eating stale Tostitos with peanut butter. The shopping itself seems to have brought out the worst in me--a self-righteous fury towards the couple in front of me who kept stopping their cart in the middle of the aisle to wander aimlessly back and forth, making it impossible to pass them (is it really possible to be this clueless and not drown in your bathtub?) coupled with a profound sense of incompetence (why can't I think of anything to eat? there's no food in my food!). I had a particularly bad moment at the checkout (trained monkeys could pack groceries better than me!) when I realized that I had more bags than I could really carry. It's a good thing we don't live too far away. I floundered home, struggling heroically with my value-pack of toilet paper at the narrow doorway to our apartment building, trudging up the three flights of stairs to wrestle with my million-pound door. I am now experiencing intense nostalgia for the days when I worked part-time in a small health-food store and bought organic groceries with the lackadaisical grace of a bygone era. Yes, of course I go to the market every day! How else would I serve my family the freshest, most healthful meals? In those days (when I was living with someone who was an even worse cook than me) I approached food with a beatific calm. Now I'm more likely to be found approaching leftovers with caution.

Nonetheless, surveying my haul, I am pleased to discover that I bought fruit and carrots as well as ramen noodles. I am going to turn the Softies up too loud and spend the rest of my afternoon singing along as I do some cleaning and organizing.

"there's no reason we can't call it what it is: it's love, it's love"