“No, you’re garbarge,” says the Garbage.

I’ve been shopping more at Whole Foods these days. While I maintain that it’s because the prices at Whole Foods are comparable, if not better, than other stores in my biking radius, in truth, it’s largely because I think my boyfriend would have broken up with me had I continued to shop at the seedy local Save-A-Lot and glory in the purchase of super cheap meat of questionable content and origin:

Me: “Chicken breasts were 99 cents a pound -- so I bought five pounds!” Him: “Wow. How many breasts was that?”Me: “Uh...one. Is that bad?”

Sure, my local Save-A-Lot had some shortcomings, but I always felt comfortable shopping there -- and not simply because of the wide aisles and shelves well stocked with every brand of ‘ito product. Save-A-Lot didn’t judge me, which is more than I can say for Whole Foods. And I’m not talking about the Whole Foods staff, who are exceptional, or even the clientele, though more often than I’d like to admit I’ve strategically hidden some shameful-even-if-organic purchase from the model-mom behind me at checkout.

No, I feel judged by the store itself. It is worst in the produce aisle, where I can buy either organic or conventional. Conventional. It sounds so condescending. It’s as if the produce is watching me, thinking to itself, “Of course she bought conventional apples. She’s such a conventional girl!” And I want to say aloud, to no fruit in particular, “But I’m not conventional! I have tribal print TOMS in my Nordstrom’s online shopping cart! Tribal print!”

In the meat aisle, I feel slighted by the use of family pack labeling on packages containing more than one chicken breast. No, I don’t have a family -- I’m just an individual that appreciates both chicken and a good deal! The store even manages to get in a dig after I check out but before I leave the store, where the trashcan options invite me to compost, recycle, or to contribute to a LANDFILL.

I feel that Whole Foods the store tries to undermine my attempts to be a better, healthier person. (Sure, I’ll bring my own bag, but I’m keeping the 5 cent refund.) Maybe it thinks that I’m only buying fresh coconut water at Whole Foods for appearances, and that the real me is the one who can be found buying brand-x cheddar cheese and Gatorades at CVS. And that’s true, but only because I’m human, and aren’t we all works in progress?

I guess what I’m saying is that the Whole Foods signage could really stand to lose its attitude. And perhaps, I could stand to have a little more emotional fortitude in the face of perceived judgment by inanimate objects.

Something there is that doesn't love a [Tuesday]

If Robert Frost were a modern day office worker, metaphorically fenced in by the standard work week and not actually fenced in by a stone wall, I think his poem Mending Wall might have turned out a little differently.

I’m convinced that something there is that doesn’t love a Tuesday.

I don’t know about all of you, but the hardest day of the week for me is Tuesday. Most Mondays, I have a little residual glow from the weekend. I’m happy enough and not too worried about slogging through the whole work week. By Wednesday, I’ve accepted my lot. The week’s halfway over, so what’s the point in making a fuss? Thursday (or Friday-lite as I call it), is my favorite day of the week. I’m on the cusp of the weekend, the end is nigh so my spirits are always lifted, regardless of what trials I face at the office:

[Scene: the office printer]

Printer: Print toner low. Please replace.

Me: Oh. Hell. No. [Remeber it's Thursday.] Okay.

And Friday is the weekend as far as I am concerned and my productive will attest to that.  

But Tuesday grates. On Tuesday, any glow from the previous weekend has worn off and the next weekend still seems far away. And in that empty space between Monday’s residual glow and Wednesday’s flicker of hope is where my Existential Crisis starts to take root.

Depending on where I am emotionally, my Tuesday Existential Crisis can be as mild as an over-analyzing what my choice in lunch side says about me (Why do I order salad if what I really want is chips? Why can’t I actually want to order the salad!?) … or a downward spiral that leaves me wondering where my life is going, with the sinking feeling that the answer to that question is precisely nowhere. It’s dangerous. If I’m lucky, I’m able to pull myself out of it by the end of the work day. If not, you’re likely to find me in bed in my darkened room eating frozen cookie dough and watching re-runs of MTV’s True Life online, lamenting both my inability to be as happy-go-lucky as the ladies from True Life: I’m a Jersey Shore Girl and that the cookie dough is going straight to my thighs, ack!

Basically, every Tuesday I feel like a Cathy cartoon, but sadder and not nationally syndicated. When Tuesday rolls around, Wednesday can’t come soon enough.

Extracare Rewards

I’ve expressed before my concerns with technology and its power to make me feel like an asshat, but I’m wondering if it’s time to rethink my position.

To illustrate, I’ll recall a recent encounter at CVS. It was early on a Sunday morning and I chose CVS because of its proximity to my apartment, its wide variety of snacks and beverages, and because I knew I could use my debit card. I bought a block of cheese, a box of Wheat Thins, a Gatorade, and an 18-pack of toilet paper. As I completed my transaction at the self-checkout kiosk, unshowered and hungover in days-old sweatpants, my receipt printed out with coupons for:

• $2.00 off any 2 deodorants
• $1.00 of antacids
• $2.00 off two boxes of Kudos bars
• $3.00 off $10.00 spent on health care products

It seemed pointed, critical. As if the self-checkout kiosk could see me standing there in my glorified pajamas and the remains of last night’s make-up. As if it could sense my intention to consume all of the products (with the possible exception of the toilet paper) that morning, on my couch, watching episodes of Gypsy Wives on TLC. As if it could sense my impending emotional hangover and wanted to fan the flames under the guise of offering me friendly deals on health care products that might be good for me, unlike, say, an entire block of extra sharp cheddar at nine in the morning.

‘These Wheat Thins are reduced fat!’ I thought to myself, my indignation toward the kiosk slowly building until there, at the self-checkout kiosk of my local CVS, I had -- as Oprah might say -- an Aha! moment. Maybe this CVS self-checkout kiosk wasn’t judging me and trying to make me feel like a disgusting person. Instead, maybe the kiosk was trying to help me, to guide me by gentle suggestion via in-store coupon, to lead a cleaner, healthier life. Maybe it was just trying to give me the self-checkout kiosk equivalent of a friendly head tussle and suggesting that maybe if I popped an antacid, applied some fresh deodorant, and indulged in a few health care products, well, I might triumph over my emotional hangover yet.

More importantly, I realized that maybe the reason I felt terrible about myself was not because the CVS coupon generator determined that it might behoove me to buy some antacids and at least two deodorants. But rather, the reason I felt terrible about myself for being hungover in sweatpants buying cheese at CVS at 9am on a Sunday morning was precisely because I was hungover in sweatpants buying cheese at CVS at 9am on a Sunday morning.

You be the judge.

Continuing education

Yesterday at work, I got called into an impromptu meeting with my manager. Despite never having done anything to warrant termination, my immediate reaction was: I’m being fired. I was anxious and felt jittery. I started to sweat when, upon stepping into the office, my superior said, “You can close the door behind you.” The real reason behind the meeting? To let me know that I would be moving offices.

This is my general reaction any time a work superior asks to speak to me. Maybe it’s a function of today’s economic climate, or good old-fashioned Catholic guilt, but if I’m being honest, it’s more likely because I have yet to train myself how to handle this type of situation in an adult manner.

I think I need to attend some sort of Being an Adult education class, one that would include lessons on how not to break into a cold sweat just because your boss calls you into her office and how to be a good patient. It has taken me longer than I’d like to admit to learn that the person who asks smart and thoughtful questions at the doctor's office and the person undergoing the examination can, and should, be the same person. When my doctor ends our appointment with, ‘Do you have any questions?’ it still takes me a minute to remember that I’m supposed to respond to that question -- with actual questions. It’s like I’m waiting for my mom to show up, tell me to sit up straight, and pull a list of questions from her purse, even though I haven’t gone to a doctor’s appointment with her in nearly ten years.

You can take a classes on flower arranging or starting a freelance business. What I need is a class about being a real adult, about handling situations with aplomb, so that I can control my reaction when my boyfriend starts a conversation with, “I need to tell you...,”--cue my face falling--only to end with, “... that you have food in your hair,” which, though embarrassing, needn’t strike fear into my heart.

Potty Talk

Having recently started a new job, I’m deep in the throes of navigating a new work environment and asking myself all the questions any new employee asks herself: Will I be successful? How can I impress my boss? Will people like me? How much can I be on gchat while still appearing to be a good worker?

Another curious, yet oddly frequent work-related question reared its head recently, one I’ve been wondering about for a while now, long before I started this new job:

When/how is it appropriate to talk to co-workers in the bathroom?

Some of you might be thinking, “Ah ha! Trick question. It is never appropriate to talk to a co-worker while using the bathroom,” and I tend to agree with you.

I generally take the approach that bathroom exchanges should include mild pleasantries only, either in passing or at the sinks. If you are a good friend, I might talk to you while peeing. However, if there is a third party in the bathroom, I will suspend conversation. If you are my superior, I will not speak unless spoken to, and even then, I will try to cut the conversation short. It is very uncomfortable to talk about project deadlines while someone is staccato peeing next to you.

On my first day at my new job, someone mistook me for a friend and started asking me real work questions while we were side-by-side in the stalls. From the toilet, I had to say, “I think you’ve mistaken me for a different set of feet; I’m new, I just started working here today,” while I tried to refrain from doing something completely appropriate yet horribly mortifying while using the bathroom, like fart.

As if I needed more stress on my first day at a new job.

We got snacks now!

I love a road trip. I don’t drive very often so a nice long ride is a treat. I’m content to look out the window, sing along to mixed CDs, and observe other people in their cars for hours straight. But above all, my favorite part of a road trip is consuming road trip food.

What constitutes road trip food? For me, classic road trip food has a couple essential ingredients. (It goes without saying that trans-fats, partially hydrogenated oils, and salt are absolute musts, but here I’m using ingredients metaphorically)

1. Clever packaging.
When you’re spending two or more straight hours in a car (the minimum for a drive to be considered for a road trip), space is precious. You want to conserve space for maneuvering when singing, car dancing, or mooning other travelers. Thus, the ideal snack is smartly packaged to accommodate the appropriate quantity (King Size at least), while remaining easy to seal and stash. A box is too bulky; you want something in a bag. Or better yet, a sleeve, so you can eat a portion and then roll that sleeve closed and stash it in the car door or in the armrest until you get hungry for the remaining mini-Cinnabons or Hostess donuts in five minutes.

2. Many flavors in one.
Again, it is essential to avoid cramming too much unnecessary stuff into what is likely already a cramped space. A snack product that combines several flavors, or better yet, several foodstuffs within one package is a find. Skittles (six fruits in one package!) or loaded pizza Combos are stellar choices because they offer such bang for the bag.

3. Otherwise shame inducing.
By far, the most important quality of a good road trip snack is it must be an item that would make you feel ashamed and terrible to eat in any other situation. The beauty of road trip food is that generally all the food options are terrible. In my experience, “Abandon all hope ye who enter here” could easily hang above the entrance any rest stop food court, at least from the perspective of my bowel and my cholesterol. Whole Foods doesn’t operate in Ohio rest stations, and often the only truly healthy option is a bottle of water, which is probably leaching chemicals from the plastic anyway. There are no good choices, so there’s no need to feign interest in healthy living. A road trip is the time to unapologetically indulge your love of Cheetos or S’Barros pizza. There’s no need to apologize for wanting to crumble potato chips into a bag of chocolate lover’s trail mix and wash it all down with an Orange Crush. You’re on a road trip!

And when you feel crappy, gassy, and bloated in fifteen minutes, no need to apologize for that either. No one expects to feel good while in a car all day; as a favorite mentor of mine always says, “Too much sittin’.”

You've got me feeling emotion

Most adults have experienced a hangover or two in their day. Headache, stomache, general malaise, maybe some time logged over the porcelain throne, retching. But most drinkers are prepared for this. With your head over the toilet, you think to yourself:

“Liquor before beer, you’re in the clear. Beer before liquor, never been sicker. -- Why didn’t I heed those wise words?! Why didn’t I drink my ten gin and tonics before I drank those fifteen beers!?! Then I certainly wouldn’t be feeling this terrible!”

There are as many ‘cures’ for hangovers as there are hangover sufferers. As in Sex Ed, only abstinence works a 100% of the time, but in situations where abstinence isn’t possible, my personal recommendation is some late night Vitamin G -- that’s grease, of course; pizza works best, but anything fried will do -- plenty of water, some serious sleep, and a backlog of DVR’d reality TV to see you through the following afternoon.

However, my cure, like so many others, has a major shortcoming. It only addresses the physical hangover. Sure, a few slices of pizza and a gallon of water might keep a raging headache at bay, but they’ll do nothing to address the feelings of shame and regret that assault your psyche the morning after a bender. What most people consider hangover cures only address a physical hangover, while grossly overlooking the far more insidious emotional hangover.

What’s an emotional hangover? Definition time:

E·mo·tion·al hang·o·ver / ih-moh-shuh-nl hang-oh-ver / n. the disagreeable emotional effects following heavy consumption of alcohol; characterized by intense feelings of shame and embarrassment over behaviors both remembered and blacked out; emotional responses are often disproportionate to the behavior that incited them, but the sufferer is unable to think rationally while in the hangover’s throes

Basically, during an emotional hangover my subconscious plays the role of that scary hag the Ancient Booer from Princess Bride, pointing at me and shouting: 

“And that's what she is, the Queen of Refuse. So bow down to her if you want, bow to her. Bow to the Queen of Slime, the Queen of Filth, the Queen of Putrescence. Boo. Boo. Rubbish. Filth. Slime. Muck. Boo. Boo. Boo.”

It’s scary how fittingly this dialogue describes me in the depths of an emotional hangover, when a stray -ito product bag (Fritos, Doritos, Tostitos, even Cheetos) might adhere itself to my downtrodden, be-sweatpanted person after an afternoon of watching old school Laguna Beach reruns.

Emotional hangovers are devastating. They’re the emotional equivalent of showing up to a friend’s party in a Canadian Tuxedo, only to realize that her Black Tie invitation wasn’t ironic. And also, that no one else at the party is fifteen drinks deep and acting like a monster.

The important thing to remember when confronted with an emotional hangover is that most other people at whatever function you attended were probably a little bit drunk too. So maybe you made a few foolish decisions, it happens to everyone. It’s likely that no one was paying you much attention anyway. The sad truth is there is no cure for an emotional hangover. However, you can assuage it if you remind yourself to relax and get out of your own head.

Some people are impervious to emotional hangovers. My friend Liz claims never to have had one, and I don’t doubt it. She’s not wracked with crippling self-doubt, with a ridiculous, creeping sense of doom that every other person at whatever boozy shindig she attended spent their entire evening watching her and judging her, thinking to themselves: Drunkest girl at the party!

For those of us that do suffer emotional hangovers, I’ve attempted to come up with my own little rhyming couplets warning. Here’s what I have so far:

Recall your drinks more or less? No need to stress. Can’t remember night’s end? FIND ALL NEW FRIENDS!

It’s about as useful as the ditty I mentioned at the start.