“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.