Friday, March 02, 2007Sisyphus in the Frozen FoodsSo last night at 10:30 finds me at Vons, wandering the chilly aisles like some demented latter-day Aqualung (an album I've been listening to perhaps too obsessively.) My hair is in my face, my eyes are glazed and tense, and I stagger behind my shopping cart like it's the only thing between me and total collapse.Thursdays are nightmares: I have had to leave work, pick up one child from one part of town, drop him off at one appointment, pick up the other child from the other part of town, pick up dinner, eat it in the car, pick up the first child and get him to another activity, then take other child to do homework while I tried to work on my book, all within a two-hour time frame. This week we have a number of situations on top of the logistics, all revolving around issues of time management skills and homework obligations which far exceed the amount of time they have to complete them. Once we finally get home I leave to take the dog on the walk (knowing if I stay and "help" any more I'll just end up making things even worse). I end up tyranizing the dog in the middle of my moonlit cul-de-sac while trying to have a civilized conversation with two well-meaning friends who are helping us out with my son's pinewood derby car this weekend. (Anyone who knows me knows that the words "pinewood derby" invariably appear near other words such as "chinese torture," "hellmouth" and, eventually, "vodka, straight up.") It was that kind of evening. And it is only after I come in from walking (and screaming at) the dog, hating my irrationality and thinking only of reclining on my vast, warm, comforting bed... that I realize I still need to go to the market for some staples. Otherwise it will be one more stupid errand I have to do over the weekend, which is already booked to the max. Cursing audibly, I trudge back out to my car and drive down to the market. But it could be worse: I have a list, the store is empty except for the crazy people like me, and it will get done. In the morning, if I don't annoy myself into a complete breakdown, I'll be glad I made this one final effort. Staggering through the aisles I start to think of the myth of Sisyphus. I'm not kidding. I actually do. I've always been of the opinion that it's the rolling the rock up the hill that's the bliss; it's the moments of consciousness while walking back down that's the curse. So what, I muse in a kind of dairy section delirium, is it when you think you've rolled the rock up the hill for the day, and then find that the gods have added another hill, just for kicks? These midnight runs to the market: are they uber-bliss or uber-curse? The bliss is that I'm going to be even happier when I collapse into bed than I thought I would be 15 minutes ago. The curse is, well, Vons at 10:30 pm. It only takes about 15 minutes to get everything on the list. The rock is nearly to the top (again.) I push my cart over to the checkstand and unload my groceries: Three big frozen cheese pizzas, four small frozen cheese pizzas, two small frozen mushroom and spinich pizzas... oh dear... two boxes of pop tarts, two boxes of Reese's Puffs... oh holy shit. Ah! Here's a gallon of milk -- that's almost like real food. And then all that's left is the milkbone dog biscuits, cat food, and rawhide chews. I look at the checker and the bagger and know exactly what they're thinking: My god, woman: you're taking better care of the stray fucking cat than you are your own children. I already hate my guts, remember. This just sends me over the edge. "God!" I say out loud, starting to laugh somewhat hysterically. "Can you believe all this? What a loser I am!" I can't help grinning madly: it's just AWFUL. And this is me -- the newly converted vegetarian, the person who just read a great article in UU World about eating closer to nature. I spend hour after judgmental hour regaling my friends about the horrors of caffeine, red meat and sugar -- and here I am buying not ONE item of "food" that isn't processed, fatty, sugary or all three. Not a thing on that conveyor belt, meant for human consumption, is remotely healthy (except, possibly the milk, but we could argue that too.) We'd all be better off sucking on the rawhide chews for breakfast every morning. The checker of course is trained to not make shocked facial gestures when she sees what her scanner is picking up. She glances at me when I start the soft semi-hysterical giggling and looks nervously at the bagger. "Uh, paper or plastic?" he asks gingerly. "I mean, look at this," I hear myself saying, shaking my head and wondering why I'd forgotten the ice cream. "Is this terrible, or what?" They smile in this perfect non-committal way and I suddenly realize that the store is minutes from closing and that my crisis over my abyssmal abilities as a mother is really low on their list of things to give a rat's ass about. "Plastic is fine," I say, attempting to pull myself together. And as I wheel my cart out into the cold clear night, I think, man, I can't wait until the morning comes. I need sleep. I need a clear start. And I need a sunrise that caries with it a clean sense of redemption. Which, I'm glad to say, it does. # posted by Katherine Doughtie Nolan @ 9:34 PM  
Comments: Whew! Here's to less frantic days! Just in case your readers want to check out Eating Ethically in UU World, I thought I'd share a link. # posted by  Philocrites : 5:26 AM
Know that you are not alone in your feelings about the Pinewood Derby. My own sufferings are documented here and here.
# posted by Bill Fitzgerald : 7:14 AM
I highly recommend checking out the UU article that Philocrites so kindly linked to. Even if you end up bumping into me by the ice cream freezer next week, you'll feel like a better person for having read it.
# posted by Katherine Doughtie Nolan : 8:52 AM
I'm glad I'm not the only one who suffers at the grocery store checkout lane. It's funny because when I'm only buying fresh foods I honestly do feel superior to the people behind me with a box of oreos and People magazine. I know this is absurd, but conveyor-belt mentality swoops in every time. I guess it's because I grew up with that stupid phrase "you are what you eat" on repeat from my elders. By the way - I've known quite a few kids who ate doggie bones for treats. Apparently, they really are good for you and your teeth! # posted by Sarah : 8:40 PM
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