When Jamie was away last March, I took out the 24' x 14' rug in our family room.
When he left for a road rally, I removed the wall-to-wall carpeting in the bedroom.
When he traveling to Pennsylvania to get some track time, I ripped out the wall-to-wall
carpeting in the hall and front stairs.
When he was on a business trip, I removed the flagstone walkway and laid out a new one with red pavers. (Laid out does not equal properly installed.)
When he was at work last spring, I laid out a little patio area with the above-mentioned removed flagstone.
When he was at a party with friends, I turned the laundry room into my closet and removed the door.
When he was at a meeting, I removed all of the bookshelves from our living room and redistributed them throughout the house.
When he was asleep in bed, I have, over the past year, purchased several rugs, runner, and carpet treads.
But it wasn't until he arrived home from a quick trip to the store only to find the front door blocked by the kitchen table which I had gotten stuck on its way from the family room to my study where I had decided it needed to be my desk (a decision made before I started to move the desk and accidentally hit my head on the side of it and probably gave myself a slight concussion) that he finally said, "Do we have to make arrangements for you to be supervised when I leave?"
So now I'm on par with the dog.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Questions and Observations, Take 142
Who decided a "serving" of girl scout cookies is two cookies? It's one row. Same for Oreos. And pretty much anything that comes in rows.
Is anyone else started to know that not only are there women out there who are so out of it they don't realize they are pregnant, but that there are enough of these space cadets that TLC has a whole series about it?
Why do ghost hunters always assume the gobbledy guk on their EVPs is in English?
We're having six people for dinner on Thursday. We have four chairs. Is it rude to ask two people to stand? Or would it be better for me to volunteer to eat on the couch (like every other night)?
If there is an English version of a show and a foreign version, watch the foreign version. The FCC ruins everything.
There's a commercial where this woman in an ugly sweater and poorly bleached hair tells me that her fridge is her perfect partner. And I thought, Lady, couple that with the sweater and you really should be somewhere with doors that lock from the outside.
Why do all of the animals follow me into the bathroom? ALL of them. EVERY time.
I consider my dog's job to guard me not only from burly intruders intent on stealing my shoes and thumb drives, but to protect me from ghosts. The dogs are supposed to warn me when some confused spirit is around and just waiting for the right moment to scare the shit out of me. And so I find it highly unhelpful to discover I have adopted a dog that bays and howls in the night, every night. He's in cahoots with the ghosts, no doubt telling them the exact right moment to spook me for maximum scare payoff. "Noooooooooooooooowowowowoowwwwwooooo! Scare her noooowowoowowowowowoowowowowowowwwwww. Before Jamie comes hoooooooooooowowowowowoowowowowooooomm."
I thought putting the chocolate in the garage was enough of a deterrent. It's not.
If I tell you my dog bites and you decide that you are smarter than my dog, and you can, in fact, mess with him and he bites you, what does that tell you about your intelligence?
Is anyone else started to know that not only are there women out there who are so out of it they don't realize they are pregnant, but that there are enough of these space cadets that TLC has a whole series about it?
Why do ghost hunters always assume the gobbledy guk on their EVPs is in English?
We're having six people for dinner on Thursday. We have four chairs. Is it rude to ask two people to stand? Or would it be better for me to volunteer to eat on the couch (like every other night)?
If there is an English version of a show and a foreign version, watch the foreign version. The FCC ruins everything.
There's a commercial where this woman in an ugly sweater and poorly bleached hair tells me that her fridge is her perfect partner. And I thought, Lady, couple that with the sweater and you really should be somewhere with doors that lock from the outside.
Why do all of the animals follow me into the bathroom? ALL of them. EVERY time.
I consider my dog's job to guard me not only from burly intruders intent on stealing my shoes and thumb drives, but to protect me from ghosts. The dogs are supposed to warn me when some confused spirit is around and just waiting for the right moment to scare the shit out of me. And so I find it highly unhelpful to discover I have adopted a dog that bays and howls in the night, every night. He's in cahoots with the ghosts, no doubt telling them the exact right moment to spook me for maximum scare payoff. "Noooooooooooooooowowowowoowwwwwooooo! Scare her noooowowoowowowowowoowowowowowowwwwww. Before Jamie comes hoooooooooooowowowowowoowowowowooooomm."
I thought putting the chocolate in the garage was enough of a deterrent. It's not.
I started to clean today but got bored half-way through, so now we have a pre-battle tableaux: vacuum in the hall, 409 on the counter, Tilex on the tub ledge -- at any moment, the war will start. "Parties For People You Don't Like But Need to Impress" Tip: If you spray any cleaner that smells of bleach in the air, people will think you spent way more time cleaning than you did.
If I tell you my dog bites and you decide that you are smarter than my dog, and you can, in fact, mess with him and he bites you, what does that tell you about your intelligence?
The case of the vanishing lashes
by tess
So I don't wear a lot of make up. It's not that I think it's evil or anything - I used to trowel that crap on in high school. But now it just seems kind of silly. My daily routine consists of smearing a pencil somewhere (anywhere's fine really!) near the outer edges of my eyes, followed by three-slashes-per-eye of mascara. I've noticed over the past couple of years that my lashes were getting really sparse but assumed that like so many other parts of my body that have given up on life, my lash-loss was simply another sign of the times.
Two weeks ago, my pencil turned up empty so I replaced it, and, on a whim, decided to replace the mascara, too. Imagine my shock and awe when using the mascara showed eyelashes that actually protruded from my eyelids. I mean they're not Johnny Depp lashes but there are actually itty bitty hairs there. And so I realized that I hadn't lost all my lashes, my tube of mascara had just been empty for the past year or two, and I'd been applying air to my lashes each morning.
And that's admittedly pretty funny but what's even funnier is that I've become so accustomed to wiping my eyes whenever I want to that now I perpetually sport raccoon eyes. I was embarrassed the first day or two but now think it's high-larious to discover at the end of each day how much I resemble a pre-lapband Courtney Love fresh off a gig at Satyricon.
So I don't wear a lot of make up. It's not that I think it's evil or anything - I used to trowel that crap on in high school. But now it just seems kind of silly. My daily routine consists of smearing a pencil somewhere (anywhere's fine really!) near the outer edges of my eyes, followed by three-slashes-per-eye of mascara. I've noticed over the past couple of years that my lashes were getting really sparse but assumed that like so many other parts of my body that have given up on life, my lash-loss was simply another sign of the times.
Two weeks ago, my pencil turned up empty so I replaced it, and, on a whim, decided to replace the mascara, too. Imagine my shock and awe when using the mascara showed eyelashes that actually protruded from my eyelids. I mean they're not Johnny Depp lashes but there are actually itty bitty hairs there. And so I realized that I hadn't lost all my lashes, my tube of mascara had just been empty for the past year or two, and I'd been applying air to my lashes each morning.
And that's admittedly pretty funny but what's even funnier is that I've become so accustomed to wiping my eyes whenever I want to that now I perpetually sport raccoon eyes. I was embarrassed the first day or two but now think it's high-larious to discover at the end of each day how much I resemble a pre-lapband Courtney Love fresh off a gig at Satyricon.
Thanksgiving
by tess
We have two gray stray cats who hang out at our office. The nurses from the plastic surgery office next door pet them. The counselors from the drug rehab center across the office park talk to them. And we feed them. The cats have been here for years and must be scrappy little dudes to have fought off interlopers who want a cut of their prime territory.
I don't know what everyone else calls them, but since they're virtually indistinguishable, we call them both Mr. Gray. Mentally, I refer to them as Mr. Gray and Mr. Grey because everyone deserves a special name. Not special like Apple or MoonUnit, but special in the you-may-be-just-a-stray-but-someone-somewhere-thinks-you're-a-very-good-baby-who-deserves-a-name sort of way.
Anyway, Welli and Qman have decided that they're not terribly fond of one particular brand of wet food so I brought it to the office. On days when we give Mr. Gray and Mr. Grey the wet food, they lose their minds in pleasure. Seriously, Tom-Cruise-on-Oprah's-couch frenzied pleasure like you and I wish we could experience at some point in our lives. But won't.
And that's the meaning of Thanksgiving for me this year - as bad as things might be for these little guys, they're deeply and overwhelmingly grateful for 65 cents worth of love. I think there may be a lesson there for us. Or maybe not.
We have two gray stray cats who hang out at our office. The nurses from the plastic surgery office next door pet them. The counselors from the drug rehab center across the office park talk to them. And we feed them. The cats have been here for years and must be scrappy little dudes to have fought off interlopers who want a cut of their prime territory.
I don't know what everyone else calls them, but since they're virtually indistinguishable, we call them both Mr. Gray. Mentally, I refer to them as Mr. Gray and Mr. Grey because everyone deserves a special name. Not special like Apple or MoonUnit, but special in the you-may-be-just-a-stray-but-someone-somewhere-thinks-you're-a-very-good-baby-who-deserves-a-name sort of way.
Anyway, Welli and Qman have decided that they're not terribly fond of one particular brand of wet food so I brought it to the office. On days when we give Mr. Gray and Mr. Grey the wet food, they lose their minds in pleasure. Seriously, Tom-Cruise-on-Oprah's-couch frenzied pleasure like you and I wish we could experience at some point in our lives. But won't.
And that's the meaning of Thanksgiving for me this year - as bad as things might be for these little guys, they're deeply and overwhelmingly grateful for 65 cents worth of love. I think there may be a lesson there for us. Or maybe not.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Rollerskates and Olivia: The Gateway Drug
They say to confess is to release a burden from your soul. And so, I find I must confess.
I watched Xanadu last night.
No, it gets worse.
After that, I ended up turning on Lawrence Welk. And I didn't just pause on it while surfing, I went past it and went back. Intentionally.
And then Spongebob.
Oh, God, and then The Worlds Strictest Parents.
What is wrong with me?
If I tune in Hannah Montana, I'm going to have to get rid of my cable, clearly having violated my TV-watching privileges.
Damn you, Olivia Newton-John and your 80's version of hammer pants and feathered hair and lip gloss!
I watched Xanadu last night.
No, it gets worse.
After that, I ended up turning on Lawrence Welk. And I didn't just pause on it while surfing, I went past it and went back. Intentionally.
And then Spongebob.
Oh, God, and then The Worlds Strictest Parents.
What is wrong with me?
If I tune in Hannah Montana, I'm going to have to get rid of my cable, clearly having violated my TV-watching privileges.
Damn you, Olivia Newton-John and your 80's version of hammer pants and feathered hair and lip gloss!
Blanket Power
I need my blanket. I've heard of people who can sleep without one, but they're freaks. You need that protective shield from cold air, bugs, and boogie men. You need a blanket when watching scary movies to hide behind when it's too much to watch (every scary scene I've ever watched has been through the tiny holes in a knit blanket; safer that way). You need a blanket when you have to share your bed with a sibling: one on top of the blanket (don't let it be you), and one underneath. You need a blanket to throw over the head of the person on the couch who is annoying you (try it sometime; it definitely ends a line of conversation).
Blankets are comforting, reminding us of warmth, an embrace, the feeling of your mother throwing a quilt over you in the middle of a chilly night. Because your father turned the heat way down.
I had long believed the power of the blanket to be for humans alone, but it isn't true.
My dog believes in the power of the blanket.
This is the only possible explanation for his insistence on spending at least 60% of his time buried under one. I realized the other day that it is effective armour when my cat decided to sit on him. No blanket = raging fight, much fur flying, and serious injuries (to the dog). Blanket = both of them slept peacefully for an hour. Until I tried to take a picture and then everybody moved.
The other night, I put the dog to bed in his blanket-laden crate. Fifteen minutes later, I heard screaming. I ran downstairs only to find the cat in the crate with the dog. Apparently, he, too, had been embracing the power of the blanket and was in the cage when I put Leo to bed. The cat won the fight. Easily.
So, you see, everyone loves blankets. They are a highly-prized possession. And it is therefore, in my opinion, a despicable crime when someone tries to steal your blanket from you in the middle of the night when it's freezing cold and then holds that blanket hostage by rolling over it and pretending to be "asleep" and "unaware" that all of the blankets are now on one side of the bed -- and not yours.
I'm not saying it's worth a life sentence in solitary, but blanket stealing: it's up there.
Blankets are comforting, reminding us of warmth, an embrace, the feeling of your mother throwing a quilt over you in the middle of a chilly night. Because your father turned the heat way down.
I had long believed the power of the blanket to be for humans alone, but it isn't true.
My dog believes in the power of the blanket.
This is the only possible explanation for his insistence on spending at least 60% of his time buried under one. I realized the other day that it is effective armour when my cat decided to sit on him. No blanket = raging fight, much fur flying, and serious injuries (to the dog). Blanket = both of them slept peacefully for an hour. Until I tried to take a picture and then everybody moved.
The other night, I put the dog to bed in his blanket-laden crate. Fifteen minutes later, I heard screaming. I ran downstairs only to find the cat in the crate with the dog. Apparently, he, too, had been embracing the power of the blanket and was in the cage when I put Leo to bed. The cat won the fight. Easily.
So, you see, everyone loves blankets. They are a highly-prized possession. And it is therefore, in my opinion, a despicable crime when someone tries to steal your blanket from you in the middle of the night when it's freezing cold and then holds that blanket hostage by rolling over it and pretending to be "asleep" and "unaware" that all of the blankets are now on one side of the bed -- and not yours.
I'm not saying it's worth a life sentence in solitary, but blanket stealing: it's up there.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Transformational Moments
On Monroe Avenue sit the two most important stores in Rochester:
The Wegman's Flagship Store and PetCo.
And because everyone in Rochester wants to go to these stores, traffic is a slow-moving, bumper-to-bumper fat caterpillar of annoyance. So, you've got some time to observe life while you sit in your car and wait to be rear-ended by a Pittsford Wife talking on her cell phone in her Hummer. And by the way, why is she even going to Wegman's? It's not like she's consuming any calories that aren't in Chardonnay form.
But enough of my petty annoyances/holding the mirror up to reality.
It was on one such journey that I had a few moments to observer a down-trodden man sitting on a bench. He was scruffy -- greasy-bearded and dark, cloaked in a long, green threadbare coat, dirty jeans, and sneakers nicer than mine (what is that?). He was hunched over, his head hanging down, silent. And he was young. Maybe 25. And it broke my heart. What had happened to him to land him on the street? Was it the economy? Was it a failing grade in 10th grade PE that, like any of us, he didn't think would go on his permanent record and affect the rest of his life? When had he last eaten? Was anyone taking care of him? Who knew he was here? Or was he lost -- forgotten and alone, wandering?
And it occurred to me as I sat in my warm car, the one I complain is getting old and dirty, that I want to replace for no good reason, that I needed a shift in perspective. While I complain about what really are petty annoyances in my life, here was a man who had real problems. I needed to take a deep breath and realize that I have a great life; truly nothing to complain about. And while I contemplated that and its devastating impact on my writing "career," I looked a little closer at that inspirational man, that man who made me shift my perspective, to laugh at how much I had though I often think it's not much. He sat there. Head low. Hands in his lap. Was he praying? I might pray. Wait. He's not praying. Nope. He's texting.
Hobo is the new black.
And I will never stop complaining about petty things.
The Wegman's Flagship Store and PetCo.
And because everyone in Rochester wants to go to these stores, traffic is a slow-moving, bumper-to-bumper fat caterpillar of annoyance. So, you've got some time to observe life while you sit in your car and wait to be rear-ended by a Pittsford Wife talking on her cell phone in her Hummer. And by the way, why is she even going to Wegman's? It's not like she's consuming any calories that aren't in Chardonnay form.
But enough of my petty annoyances/holding the mirror up to reality.
It was on one such journey that I had a few moments to observer a down-trodden man sitting on a bench. He was scruffy -- greasy-bearded and dark, cloaked in a long, green threadbare coat, dirty jeans, and sneakers nicer than mine (what is that?). He was hunched over, his head hanging down, silent. And he was young. Maybe 25. And it broke my heart. What had happened to him to land him on the street? Was it the economy? Was it a failing grade in 10th grade PE that, like any of us, he didn't think would go on his permanent record and affect the rest of his life? When had he last eaten? Was anyone taking care of him? Who knew he was here? Or was he lost -- forgotten and alone, wandering?
And it occurred to me as I sat in my warm car, the one I complain is getting old and dirty, that I want to replace for no good reason, that I needed a shift in perspective. While I complain about what really are petty annoyances in my life, here was a man who had real problems. I needed to take a deep breath and realize that I have a great life; truly nothing to complain about. And while I contemplated that and its devastating impact on my writing "career," I looked a little closer at that inspirational man, that man who made me shift my perspective, to laugh at how much I had though I often think it's not much. He sat there. Head low. Hands in his lap. Was he praying? I might pray. Wait. He's not praying. Nope. He's texting.
Hobo is the new black.
And I will never stop complaining about petty things.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Dear Tess
Thank you for your recent correspondence. It's been far too long but, as you might have heard, we've been pretty busy this year. Running the country by day and attending musical soirees in the evening sure takes it out of a guy! Sure, Joshua Bell and James Earl Jones were inspiring but Alison Krauss and Sheila E. rocked The (White) House! Get it? Peace Prize, schmeace prize - still funny after all these years. (Special Olympics joke notwithstanding ... Doh!)
Niiiiiiiiice. I'm facing the worst recession since the 1930s and healthcare reform from hell but the only advice I get from you is "Good luck with that mess, dude!" To out-pith you: HOPE 4 CHANGE. Bwhahahahaha? Get it? Hope? Change? HA!
So sorry to hear about your ongoing problems with the time change. Bo hasn't adjusted yet either so I feel your pain. After I wrap up Gitmo and cap-and-trade, I'll look into dumping daylight savings time. In the meantime, you could move to Arizona, most of which doesn't use DST. (Note to Rahm: What's up with that?!)
AWESOME idea re: sending Britney, Paris, Lindsay, Speidi, and the Gosselins to Iraq. Hillary reviewed your plan but, sadly, the Geneva Convention specifically forbids us to use target-wearing celebutards as cannon fodder. Major bummer!
And ITA, General Hospital is smokin' right now. Flove Sweeps! I called Headwriter Bob Guza per your request but he said that he can't hire anymore writers until "...the economy stops sucking it." You gotta admit, The Guz Man has a way with words!
Hope you can stop by next time you're on this side of the Potomac. The girls would love to see their Auntie Tess and Uncle Hubs again soon. Michelle sends her thanks for the videos, especially "Ten Minutes to Tighter Triceps" and "Your Inner Icon: See It and Be It."
Cordially,
Barack
Niiiiiiiiice. I'm facing the worst recession since the 1930s and healthcare reform from hell but the only advice I get from you is "Good luck with that mess, dude!" To out-pith you: HOPE 4 CHANGE. Bwhahahahaha? Get it? Hope? Change? HA!
So sorry to hear about your ongoing problems with the time change. Bo hasn't adjusted yet either so I feel your pain. After I wrap up Gitmo and cap-and-trade, I'll look into dumping daylight savings time. In the meantime, you could move to Arizona, most of which doesn't use DST. (Note to Rahm: What's up with that?!)
AWESOME idea re: sending Britney, Paris, Lindsay, Speidi, and the Gosselins to Iraq. Hillary reviewed your plan but, sadly, the Geneva Convention specifically forbids us to use target-wearing celebutards as cannon fodder. Major bummer!
And ITA, General Hospital is smokin' right now. Flove Sweeps! I called Headwriter Bob Guza per your request but he said that he can't hire anymore writers until "...the economy stops sucking it." You gotta admit, The Guz Man has a way with words!
Hope you can stop by next time you're on this side of the Potomac. The girls would love to see their Auntie Tess and Uncle Hubs again soon. Michelle sends her thanks for the videos, especially "Ten Minutes to Tighter Triceps" and "Your Inner Icon: See It and Be It."
Cordially,
Barack
Monday, November 2, 2009
Cage Fights and Badger Chasers
It's been coming for months.
Leo the Lionheart came barging into Mischievous Mookie's house in March -- disinterested in anything resembling a pecking order. Like Mookie himself, Leo raced in arrogantly and immediately assumed pack leader status.
Mookie wasn't into this at all.
Mookie wasn't into sharing the bed, the couch, the attention, the water dish, the taunting of Laney (the female dog). He did nothing. He's a cat. So he plotted.
For months, Leo tunneled under blankets and Mookie crept forward to sniff. Leo knocked Mookie out of the way when racing in and Mookie acted like he had planned on that all along. Leo ran off with not only his own toys, but Mookie's as well. Mookie decided those weren't his toys. Lying on his back, Leo answered Mookie's tentative curiosity with a low growl. As Leo raced past, Mookie swatted at him. If Leo was in The Prime Spot in the bed, Mookie sate on him on top of the covers. All very passive-agressive on Mookie's part.
And then: a break-through. I saw them close together outside, I thought they might be kissing. I thought they were in love. I thought wrong. In truth, they were disposing of a body. Proudly arriving home with his Kill, Mookie presented the nearly-lifeless chipmunk to Leo, who ate it, thereby destroying the evidence.
This was their bond. They were partners in crime. The one who captured and tortured and the one who disposed of the body. Or tried to (sometimes The Cop came running outside in a green bathrobe and fuzzy slippers to save the body for a more dignified burial: over the fence in the neighbor's yard).
At least it drew them together. I guessed that was something. At least they were friends.
And the friendship continued.
Leo the Lionheart came barging into Mischievous Mookie's house in March -- disinterested in anything resembling a pecking order. Like Mookie himself, Leo raced in arrogantly and immediately assumed pack leader status.
Mookie wasn't into this at all.
Mookie wasn't into sharing the bed, the couch, the attention, the water dish, the taunting of Laney (the female dog). He did nothing. He's a cat. So he plotted.
For months, Leo tunneled under blankets and Mookie crept forward to sniff. Leo knocked Mookie out of the way when racing in and Mookie acted like he had planned on that all along. Leo ran off with not only his own toys, but Mookie's as well. Mookie decided those weren't his toys. Lying on his back, Leo answered Mookie's tentative curiosity with a low growl. As Leo raced past, Mookie swatted at him. If Leo was in The Prime Spot in the bed, Mookie sate on him on top of the covers. All very passive-agressive on Mookie's part.
And then: a break-through. I saw them close together outside, I thought they might be kissing. I thought they were in love. I thought wrong. In truth, they were disposing of a body. Proudly arriving home with his Kill, Mookie presented the nearly-lifeless chipmunk to Leo, who ate it, thereby destroying the evidence.
This was their bond. They were partners in crime. The one who captured and tortured and the one who disposed of the body. Or tried to (sometimes The Cop came running outside in a green bathrobe and fuzzy slippers to save the body for a more dignified burial: over the fence in the neighbor's yard).
At least it drew them together. I guessed that was something. At least they were friends.
And the friendship continued.
Leo stinks (not enough bath time in the world to deodorize this little hound). A month ago, I bought new bedding for Leo's cage. Because it stank. And something interesting started to happen: Mookie would rest in the cage. After Mookie became so filthy he needed a bath, he recovered in the cage. When he got stuck outside in the rain because he's stupid and decided it would be a great way to spend his day, he dried off in the cage. One would think the cat, who never ever stinks, would hate that warm, musky, vaguely-reminiscent-of-teenage-boy odor repulsive. Nope.
I decided they were definitely in love. They were sharing a bed! Love.
Saturday night, I put Leo to bed. I went upstairs, put on my pajamas, brushed my teeth, examined my wrinkles in the mirror, got into bed, turned on the TV, surfed, had a conversation with Jamie about Excel (we're really exciting) and started to read a few pages of my book. And then we heard a horrible, frightening sound. The dog was squealing with fear, howling and screeching and barking. As we flew from the bed down the steps I fully expected to see a dirty, demented, old man cutting Leo into little pieces (in defense of my morbid imagination, it was Halloween). But I did not see a dirty, demented, old man (we don't have those in Brighton). I knelt down in front of the cage and I saw .....
Mookie.
Mookie: standing tall and proud and dignified by the door. And way in the back, in the dark, curled up and cowering, was Leo. Leo the beagle mutt, the breed bred to fearlessly go into holes and flush out badgers. Have you seen a badger? You have to be some sort of crazy brave determined dog to get into a hole with that. Or with a white cat.
Apparently, Mookie was sleeping in the back when we put Leo to bed. And apparently Mookie was not so keen on sharing the cage.
Leo has a slice on his nose, a deep gash in his ear, and he cried for an hour.
Mookie was fine.
And so I have decided they were not lovers.
But then I started thinking: maybe only lovers could have such a violent fight.
Yesterday, Mookie killed two deer mice outside. Leo didn't eat them. He had run and hid in his crate at the site of Mookie an hour earlier. And at this very moment, Mookie is in teh cage and Leo is under the blanket next to me. Badger chaser indeed.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Supermarket Snobbery, Sniffles, and Insights
Tops or Wegmans.
There is no middle ground in Rochester -- you are one or the other. And most good Rochestarians are Wegmans.
We started with Hegedorns, a nice little family-owned supermarket that employed many high school kids and provided my brother with his one and only crime (stealing a candy bar) and my first job. When we went shopping, we were always excited to head down the baking aisle with the chocolate chips. Our mom told us if the bag was broken, you could eat them.
This is not really true.
Wegmans moved in and we were quickly lured in by the size, selection, and ambiance.
We felt like traitors.
Traitors with better, cheaper food.
So I've been Wegmans for 20 years.
I have never been Tops.
I have, of course, been to Tops. Much like Britney sometimes has to slum it in a gas station bathroom, I've found myself in Tops. Annoyed. And yet, strangely, a bit intrigued.
I am amazed by the number of people in there. Where do they come from? Are they bussed in? Are these my neighbors? Because they don't look like my neighbors. Then again, I've only seen three of my neighbors. Who the hell knows what they look like... Wow. That's kind of sad. I feel like crying. Just a little bit.
I am confused by the layout. Nothing is where it should be -- you know, where Wegmans has it. Wegmans is open to the public. There is nothing stopping someone from Tops to head over with a pen and paper and write it all down and then fix their store. When I get lost, I get scared. And sometimes, when I've found myself in the little maze by the pharmacy, I find there's a good chance I might cry.
I am blinded by the light. Sure, a supermarket should be bright and clean and cheery, but seeing as how I'm in there to hide, I wish it was a bit dimmer. Also, it makes me think of changing rooms, bathing suits, ghastly-white skin, and cellulite. Which makes me want to cry. So any time I do have to go to Tops, there's a good chance I might cry.
I've never met a Tops cashier who wasn't cranky and/or annoyed that I was there, interrupting her day. Even the chick who mans the self-checkout area who is doing basically nothing. I want to be liked. So these women make me want to cry.
Even the food is cranky and/or annoyed. During one trip, I walked by the bread display and found a loaf on the floor. I can tell you one thing, it didn't fall off. it was a good three feet from the shelf. It was kicked out. The other loaves kicked it out. And I had to wonder: what did it do? Was it annoying? Did it smell? Had it committed some sliced-bread crime? Was there a trial? Did one loaf just get tired and kick it out? What happened? A few minutes later, I saw a block of cheese in a similar state, which was fascinating because the other cheese had to kick it up and over the refrigerator wall to get it out. What's happening there? Why the hate? Hate makes me cry.
Tops people have no problem hogging the whole aisle. Now, I understand we aren't all like Tessa, who (last I heard) liked to park her cart at one end, go get her stuff to stay out of people's way, and then return. However, I find it surprising that people in Tops will guiltlessly block the aisle and make no attempt to move. Even when to come clicking down the aisle in your heels -- clearly in a hurry -- and then suddenly stop. Mildred and Edward do not care. They are in that space for as long as they damn well need to be in order to figure out which flavor of Doritos they need. Could take all day. I get so frustrated, sometimes I think I could... um. Yeah. Cry.
I did learn that Tops is even more convenient to some people than a convenience store. And I say this having stood in line behind The Wealthy Protestant. This well-dressed woman was purchasing cookies. Just cookies. No other food, beverages, condoms, just cookies. Cookies she got in the bulk section. Cookies she didn't have the time to weigh and label which meant the cashier had to look them up and that took awhile and then she paid in cash (a $50), and that took awhile. And I thought that this woman must really have nothing going on in her life because she had just wasted time driving to Tops, parking, walking in, heading all the way back to bulk, getting her cookies, (but too busy to label), getting in line (not express), paying in cash, getting back in the car and driving home. And why was I so annoyed by this woman who took too long in line and made me spend MORE time in Tops? Because the grand total for her purchase was $0.37. Thirty-seven cents. Paid with a fifty. Ya feeling me, people? Seriously. It's bulk food. Just walk through, eat the four cookies you bought, and leave. You'll save all of us time and tears. Because waiting in line behind such a bobohead made me think about crying.
I'll give Tops one thing, however. Tops customers don't judge. Step into the line with oreos, beer, potato chips, Preparation H, and diet coke and no one cares; they've got their own carts overflowing with beef jerky, nachos, beer, wine coolers (seriously), vagisil, People magazine, and diapers. Do that in Wegmans and you are likely to get judgmental stares from the tight-faced, coiffed women toting their over-priced health food, expensive water (WATER, PEOPLE), and Vogue. Oh yes, the Women of Wegmans do judge. You better walk in there with your game on. Unless you are hitting the East Ave Wegmans. Then anything and everything is cool. Except two old men fighting over bagels on Sunday mornings, screaming and yelling in another language, lots of spitting and eventually some one's dentures land on the floor and it goes downhill from there -- I think that's why they hired Security there.
So remember, if you are: in a hurry and it's on the way, wearing a rig, not wearing make up, not groomed or showered, ready to encounter cranky cashiers and tough food, interested in getting lost on your way to find the beer, need to buy something embarrassing, or have $0.37 burning a hole in your pocket, Tops is tops. And, if you are finding you have some emotional block that you can't break through and you need to let it out, head over to Tops for awhile. I promise something there will make you want to cry.
There is no middle ground in Rochester -- you are one or the other. And most good Rochestarians are Wegmans.
We started with Hegedorns, a nice little family-owned supermarket that employed many high school kids and provided my brother with his one and only crime (stealing a candy bar) and my first job. When we went shopping, we were always excited to head down the baking aisle with the chocolate chips. Our mom told us if the bag was broken, you could eat them.
This is not really true.
Wegmans moved in and we were quickly lured in by the size, selection, and ambiance.
We felt like traitors.
Traitors with better, cheaper food.
So I've been Wegmans for 20 years.
I don't know anyone who has ever been Tops.
Jamie and I drive 6 miles to Wegmans rather than 2 miles down the hill to Tops.
I have, of course, been to Tops. Much like Britney sometimes has to slum it in a gas station bathroom, I've found myself in Tops. Annoyed. And yet, strangely, a bit intrigued.
I am amazed by the number of people in there. Where do they come from? Are they bussed in? Are these my neighbors? Because they don't look like my neighbors. Then again, I've only seen three of my neighbors. Who the hell knows what they look like... Wow. That's kind of sad. I feel like crying. Just a little bit.
I am confused by the layout. Nothing is where it should be -- you know, where Wegmans has it. Wegmans is open to the public. There is nothing stopping someone from Tops to head over with a pen and paper and write it all down and then fix their store. When I get lost, I get scared. And sometimes, when I've found myself in the little maze by the pharmacy, I find there's a good chance I might cry.
I am blinded by the light. Sure, a supermarket should be bright and clean and cheery, but seeing as how I'm in there to hide, I wish it was a bit dimmer. Also, it makes me think of changing rooms, bathing suits, ghastly-white skin, and cellulite. Which makes me want to cry. So any time I do have to go to Tops, there's a good chance I might cry.
I've never met a Tops cashier who wasn't cranky and/or annoyed that I was there, interrupting her day. Even the chick who mans the self-checkout area who is doing basically nothing. I want to be liked. So these women make me want to cry.
Even the food is cranky and/or annoyed. During one trip, I walked by the bread display and found a loaf on the floor. I can tell you one thing, it didn't fall off. it was a good three feet from the shelf. It was kicked out. The other loaves kicked it out. And I had to wonder: what did it do? Was it annoying? Did it smell? Had it committed some sliced-bread crime? Was there a trial? Did one loaf just get tired and kick it out? What happened? A few minutes later, I saw a block of cheese in a similar state, which was fascinating because the other cheese had to kick it up and over the refrigerator wall to get it out. What's happening there? Why the hate? Hate makes me cry.
Tops people have no problem hogging the whole aisle. Now, I understand we aren't all like Tessa, who (last I heard) liked to park her cart at one end, go get her stuff to stay out of people's way, and then return. However, I find it surprising that people in Tops will guiltlessly block the aisle and make no attempt to move. Even when to come clicking down the aisle in your heels -- clearly in a hurry -- and then suddenly stop. Mildred and Edward do not care. They are in that space for as long as they damn well need to be in order to figure out which flavor of Doritos they need. Could take all day. I get so frustrated, sometimes I think I could... um. Yeah. Cry.
I did learn that Tops is even more convenient to some people than a convenience store. And I say this having stood in line behind The Wealthy Protestant. This well-dressed woman was purchasing cookies. Just cookies. No other food, beverages, condoms, just cookies. Cookies she got in the bulk section. Cookies she didn't have the time to weigh and label which meant the cashier had to look them up and that took awhile and then she paid in cash (a $50), and that took awhile. And I thought that this woman must really have nothing going on in her life because she had just wasted time driving to Tops, parking, walking in, heading all the way back to bulk, getting her cookies, (but too busy to label), getting in line (not express), paying in cash, getting back in the car and driving home. And why was I so annoyed by this woman who took too long in line and made me spend MORE time in Tops? Because the grand total for her purchase was $0.37. Thirty-seven cents. Paid with a fifty. Ya feeling me, people? Seriously. It's bulk food. Just walk through, eat the four cookies you bought, and leave. You'll save all of us time and tears. Because waiting in line behind such a bobohead made me think about crying.
I'll give Tops one thing, however. Tops customers don't judge. Step into the line with oreos, beer, potato chips, Preparation H, and diet coke and no one cares; they've got their own carts overflowing with beef jerky, nachos, beer, wine coolers (seriously), vagisil, People magazine, and diapers. Do that in Wegmans and you are likely to get judgmental stares from the tight-faced, coiffed women toting their over-priced health food, expensive water (WATER, PEOPLE), and Vogue. Oh yes, the Women of Wegmans do judge. You better walk in there with your game on. Unless you are hitting the East Ave Wegmans. Then anything and everything is cool. Except two old men fighting over bagels on Sunday mornings, screaming and yelling in another language, lots of spitting and eventually some one's dentures land on the floor and it goes downhill from there -- I think that's why they hired Security there.
So remember, if you are: in a hurry and it's on the way, wearing a rig, not wearing make up, not groomed or showered, ready to encounter cranky cashiers and tough food, interested in getting lost on your way to find the beer, need to buy something embarrassing, or have $0.37 burning a hole in your pocket, Tops is tops. And, if you are finding you have some emotional block that you can't break through and you need to let it out, head over to Tops for awhile. I promise something there will make you want to cry.
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