Grandma's little helper

While preparing to grind my coffee at Trader Joe's this afternoon a nice older woman approached the adjacent bread section.

"I'm sorry," I said, smiling, moving my cart out of the way. "Let me move this so you can get to those muffins."

"Don't worry about me, honey, nothing's going to stop me from getting to my sweets," she replied with the biggest smile. "What you're doing there is important work. And, ooh! I love that coffee! Good choice."

"Yes, I love this coffee too. I'm kind of addicted to it."

She laughed heartily. "Addicted, yes, I can be that way too. Although, these days I drink more tea. Do you enjoy tea, dear?"

"I do but I have two little ones, so I need my caffeine," I explained with another smile. "These days I seem to drink a ton of it."

"I've been known to overdo it a time or two myself," she confided, chuckling.

She was so likable, so easy to talk to! Such a sweet, grandmotherly type. Wow, I thought, apparently I need to come to Trader Joe's more often. It's the happiest place on earth!

The grinder hummed along.

"How old are your children?"

"Four and fourteen months."

"Ooh, you've got your hands full." Her face was full of understanding. She had been there. Long ago, but she knew where I was coming from. She seemed to be remembering her time as a mother, as she stared off into space for a moment. Okay, a long moment.

"I hope you take care of yourself in other ways," she nicely admonished, snapping back to today. "To keep yourself going? Supplements and, you know, things like that?" She had a curious look on her face.

"I do," I assured her. "I try to take care of myself. Can't keep up with two active kids with just coffee in my system, know what I mean?

"So, where do you get your, um, product?"

"Excuse me?" The grinder was still humming along, and it was fairly loud. Maybe I didn't hear her correctly?"

"You know, your product."

She can't be asking me what I think she's asking me. Can she?

"Uh, that little health food store near the independent book seller?"

"Oh yes, I know the place. There, huh?"

Oh God, what the hell is she getting at? "Yes, they're very nice there. Very helpful. You know, with supplements?" If she is asking me what I think she's asking me, maybe she'll get the hint now. Yeah.

"I'll have to try there, then. Yes, I'll go there now. Right... now. Yes." She turned her head slowly toward the exit.

The coffee machine had run its course and I was standing there, slightly gap jawed.

"Ooo-kay then. Well, nice talking with you."

"Yes," she said, slightly absentmindedly. "Very nice."

And with that she wandered away.

I'm not sure but I think I just send a nice, little old lady to my favorite health food store to ask for drugs. But worse, I'm just sorry I'm not a fly on the wall to see that conversation go down.

But I'm keeping my black shit

Friday afternoon, in the car:

Me: So, you heard John Hughes died, right?

Him: Who?

Me: [head threatening to explode] John Hughes? The man responsible for The Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Planes, Trains and Automobiles and many, MANY other excellent movies? The man who created Duckie and Bender? And "Blane? His name is Blane? That's a major appliance, that's not a name."? The man responsible for the shaping of our formative years?? THAT John Hughes???

Him: Oh yeah, that guy. Yeah, I think I heard something about that. Too bad, huh?

Me: [Boom]

Me: Yes it is too bad that he died - but kind of ironic in a way. I was just writing a post drawing a connection between a character in The Breakfast Club and personal blogging, more specifically my personal blogging...

Him: Come again?

Me: I know, weird, right? But let me explain. You know Allison, how she's always carrying around that big bag...

Him: Allison?

Me: [Boom again] Ally Sheedy?

Him: Right. Go on.

Me: ... She's got that bag and she keeps it really close to her at all times until that scene with Andrew and Brian - sorry, Emilio Estevez and Anthony Michael Hall - where they compare what's in their wallets with each other...

Him: And Anthony Michael Hall's got the bad fake I.D.?

Me: Right! Very good. You were beginning to make me question this whole relationship of ours.

Him:

Me: So, Allison steals Brian's wallet and then gives it back and then the guys start comparing the stuff in their wallets and it's kind of personal and kind of silly but most important - they're connecting on a more intimate level...

Him: High school boys do not connect on an intimate level.

Me: [stink eye] It's a John Hughes movie. The boys are very in touch with their feelings. Kind of. Maybe?

Him: Continue.

Me: Okay, so. Wallets, fake I.D., nudie picture... The whole time Allison is there clutching that bag to her chest like her life depends on it and you can see in her eyes that she wants to share so badly she can hardly stand it but she's been so quiet up until now that she's torn -- Don't give me that look. I've seen the movie so many times, I know that she's torn -- so she asks them, Do you want to see what's in my bag? To which they say, No. Like, emphatically. No. She's weird and there's that whole high school social pecking order thing...

Him: You need to get out more.

Me: [ignoring] Finally she can't take it anymore and she, like, dumps her massive bag out in front of them -- and there is, like, a ton of shit in there. Like, it takes forever to dump everything out of that damn bag of hers - and she has to defend why she carries all that stuff with her at all times while the two guys pick through it with this mixture of disgust and curiosity. And in the end you can tell she's totally relieved that she did it. Like a weight has been lifted off her shoulder. But at the same time she's horrified of what she just did... A woman's bag is a very important, very sacred thing, you know.

Him: Yes, I know.

Me: And in the end it's all worth it. She gets the guy and they kiss and she takes a memento...

Him: That scene always pissed me off. Right, in a fit of superhuman strength she rips the patch off the arm of his jacket? How did she do that? My patches were all sewn on by my mom and there was no way some girl was going to rip those things off with her bare hands.

Me: I think it was ironed on. You're mom really sewed on all your patches? Wow.

Him: Yeah, and you're, like, talking like a teenager, like.

Me:

Him: So how is this like your blog exactly?

Me: Dude! The bag is a metaphor for all my feelings and stories! People everywhere are comfortable sharing bits of themselves online. Don't you see? They're opening up their wallets! They're dumping out their bags! And even though I've been blogging for almost FOUR YEARS I still play things pretty close to the vest, you know? I keep the contents of my bag pretty secret. I stick to the fringe. Lay low. Keep my hair in my eyes.

Him: Are we still speaking in metaphors?

Me: Sort of. I can't wait until these damn bangs grow out. Anyway, now that I've been to a few of these blogging conferences, I've seen people who have shared intimate details of themselves building relationships with others who also aren't afraid to show their emergency underwear, so to speak.

Him: Did you ever think maybe not over sharing is a good thing?

Me: Maybe. I guess I wouldn't like strangers poking through my metaphorical tampons.

Him: Exactly.

Me: And then Andrew tells her she has problems.

Him: Yep.

Me: And then there's the thing of her being a pathological liar.

Him: Uh huh.

Me: And I never did understand why she had to get all pretty for the guy to like her.

Him: Mmm hmm.

Me: Why did she have to get a Molly Ringwald makeover? She was the same girl underneath all that black shit. Molly Ringwald should have let her keep the black shit! She liked the black shit! Although, I do believe the headband was an inspired choice.

Him: We're not talking about your blog anymore, are we?

Me: No, I guess not.

Him: Can we drop this subject then?

Me: Yeah, sure. I guess. But I'm totally, like, blogging about it.

Him: I wouldn't expect anything else. Will you warn me if and when you decide to dump out "your bag"?

Me: Like, totally. And for the record, your mom spent way too much time on your high school jacket. It's kind of troubling, actually. If at anytime you'd like to talk about it...

Him: Drop it.

Me: Okay, Sporto.