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Like everyone else, I get busy, and sometimes I run out of food. Unable to keep pretending that raisins count as fresh fruit and olives are vegetables, this morning I finally went shopping at the local health food store.
As I happily placed my favorites into the cart—apples, blueberries, pears…broccoli, asparagus, tomatoes—a huge black man with a big fuzzy beard approached me, pushing his own cart full of packaged chicken. “You look like you work out,” he said. I cooed and preened on the inside. My eyelashes batted themselves. “I want to lose weight,” this 500-pound man told me. “What should I eat?”
“I’ve pretty much cut out pasta,” I replied. “No bread, no rice, no cereal either—not much anyway.”
“I already cut out the whites!” he boomed.
I’m glad he said that and not me, man.
“Do you eat organic?” he yelled.
“No,” I said. Instantly, every shopper standing within a ten foot radius stopped and stared at me. Heathen. Of course the guy asked me why not.
“I just wash everything,” I lied. I wasn’t going to tell him I enjoy the wax on apples, or that I feel germs and pesticides build up my immune system.
Thankfully another lady then approached me to get me off this hook. “There is a woman around the corner husking corn!” she whispered. I leaned in closer to listen. “I think she has Alzheimer’s! She doesn’t understand that it makes the corn unusable for other people!”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that—did she want me to conduct a citizen’s arrest on the Alzheimer’s patient? Did I look like that type? Before I could say anything, the lady limped off towards the corn display—a tiny lady with a hunchback, like me—and started husking. She was the one with Alzheimer’s! Those crafty devils.
Finally I headed over to the bulk bins to get my steel cut oats—which I tell myself is not really a white, but more like a biracial. I raised the bin lid and lost my grip on it immediately; it fell onto my spindly and malfunctioning hands, which have not yet recovered from the rain we had a few days ago. “Dang-ay!” I said, from the pain. “Godday….” Apparently the twin-speak that Jodi Foster spout forth with in Nell has burrowed into my brain a little deeper than I realized. Not that I swear a lot anyway.
A worker guy heard my gibberish and stepped over to help, cleverly propping the lid open with a scoop. “I’ve worked here for a year, so at least I know somethin’,” he said.
Hanging around this place, I bet he knew a lot more than that.