This little light of mine

I read a question recently I found quite compelling:

If you woke up tomorrow with only what you were thankful for today, what would your life look like? 

As we wrap up the year, I am thankful for many things. Perhaps one of the greatest aspects of this year happened during this month of December with our son. He is lucky. He is surrounded by love, opportunity, options. We also strive to surround him with leadership, discipline, choices, creativity and the ability to use his voice and weigh in on some decisions. 

Every year since he was two, we do some kind of service project. They grow every year and because he is 6 now, this year could introduce a broader level of interactive service projects. We want him to understand how fortunate he is and the importance of giving back, doing something, having empathy and being involved. He embraced it quite well this year. Believe me, at age 2 it was a little more of a struggle. 

Me: Hey, lets buy a bunch of toys and give them away to kids in need.

Him: Lets buy toys and keep them. 

As he has gotten older, I have added one or two additional projects. This year he helped me make the list and we are two away from full completion (which we will do today.) In all of the activities, he took a big role in communicating the message of sharing with others. My absolute favorite part is the day he took his acoustic guitar in to a Senior Center/ Assisted Living Facility. He played rock and roll acoustic versions of Christmas songs to a crowd of seniors. He was happy, they were happy and we were tremendously happy.

Who can predict what our son will remember from his childhood when he is an adult. Maybe it will be his teams, his trips or birthday parties with friends. I do hope it will include my awesome ability to make pancakes into numerous different shapes and faces. More importantly, hopefully he remembers all of these actions and activities he did every year to reiterate the importance of giving. We look forward to a new list next year and hopefully it becomes instilled in his own pace and plan on how to build his life. For that, I will be truly thankful too. 

Happiest of New Years to you all. 

JennyMac

A few pics from our Kindness Projects:

 

Time to cry....

My favorite dog, Nixon, got a bee stung once. After the bee stung her, it continued to zoom around her poor ever-increasing in size face as I pulled out my kung fu moves and yelled at that SOB like I was a prison guard. Nixon's face was so distorted, she looked like a float in the Macy's parade. The road to recovery was well paved with baby benadryl for her and a long sip of Cabernet for me. This slight injury had me sick to the gills because my job was to keep her out of harms way. (The time she ate her own ____, well, that's all on her and another story for another day.) I loved her beyond what I ever thought capable for a human to love something covered in fur.

Dog-stories of all kinds impact me but this perhaps holds the gold star. A few minutes that will make you laugh and cry. Well, mostly cry but crying releases toxins so don't be afraid.


Why does it matter? Annually, over 100,000 animals in the US are abused. Approximately every 11 seconds, an animal is put down in a US Animal Shelter. A puppy is not a Christmas present to be loved in December and ignored in July. It takes a special kind of person to advocate for the furry population and it takes a heart of gold AND steel to participate in animal rescue. Could anyone? Yes but I would cry so much and so often, my actual 'help' would be watered down and fall onto the shoulders of others. This holiday season if you are looking for ways to help, you can donate to Hope for Paws, the group behind this rescue and rehab. If you want an additional location to donate, a friend from college works with this organization in Wisconsin: Northstar WI Dog Rescue and Advocacy. 

You can also save a dog from a puppy mill at Milldog Rescue.

MiniMac and I are going tomorrow night to take dog toys to a local shelter in Atlanta. You can call a shelter nearby and ask for specifics and if you can also donate food, treats, etc.

Santa's sleigh might be pulled by eight reindeer but Nixon looked like a deer, had the energy of eight toddlers and could pull that sleigh alone. On behalf of my favorite dog in the world (and I had other boxers but yes, she was my favorite) do something to help another dog in the world. Santa will like you more. Here is a photo from when she was a puppy. If you Dr. Doolittle, The Dog Whisperer or otherwise versed in 'what is that dog trying to tell me', let me help. See this picture? Her expression isn't really saying "How much longer 'til Santa?" it is actually asking, "What in the F---- is the matter with you, Mom? Seriously. Fake pose picture? Deer toy with bells on it I am scolded for trying to eat? REALLY? Someone, help me."

The Price of Doing Goodness

Last year, we spent one full day in December with MiniMac doing acts of service and kindness. We filled the backseat of my car with toys for a shelter (all of which were toys he picked out.) We bought gift cards at Starbucks and passed them out to people in line. We took dozens of cookies to fire stations, banks, and a Christmas tree farm. We even stopped by to visit some workers at a hand carwash to have one of them talk to my son about crunk. (We might skip that stop this year.) I have a long list of wishes for our son. One of them is that when he is an adult he will remember the constant iteration that being philanthropic and charitable is not only easy, it is a necessity.

We started December 1 with a reminder  that acts of service and kindness are easy. My Mom is in town for the Thanksgiving holiday and we went to Starbucks on Saturday. After our purchase, I give my credit card to MiniMac and tell him to pay for the beverage of the person at the front of the order line as a way of saying Happy Holidays. He went to her, told her he would like to pay for her coffee and she gave him the biggest smile. He then handed her my credit card and turned and walked back to me and Grammy. Whoops. We need to clarify the logistics but the positive take away was: him smiling, her smiling and the guy behind the counter smiling. The price of doing goodness? $3.19.

When we exited, I asked Mini if he remembered why we do nice things for strangers. Answer I was hoping for: So they in turn will do something nice for someone else. His answer: So they will do something nice right back to me. Well, good option but we can expand on that a bit.  We are currently working on our list for acts of service for the remainder of the month.

For the past several years, I have posted a blog at the beginning of every December called 31 Days of Goodness which are compilations of opportunities to give time, money or heart to worthwhile organizations. For a great overview you can find each list:

31 Days of Goodness December 2009
31 Days of Goodness December 2010
31 Days of Goodness December 2011
31 Days of Goodness December 2012

This year, I am going to highlight a few at a time.

For my Mom and all others that love horses: Save a Forgotten Equine (SAFE). This group vows to make a difference in the lives of at-risk equines. I didn't realize the number of equines at risk until the blizzard in South Dakota earlier this year. As a horse owner, this is a critical issue to my Mom and I am happy to pass it along.

As I have shared on Memorial Day and Veteran's Day, there are many willing to go and do what I am not willing to go and do to protect our country and all of our freedoms. For those who come home altered and broken, there is an organization called Wounded Warrior whose vision is to foster the most successful, well-adjusted generation of wounded service members in our nation's history.

In Disney a few weeks ago, Mini and I briefly spoke to a Make-A-Wish child. Nothing will snap your perspective back in to shape more quickly than seeing a family, filled with true wonder and amazement as their terminally ill child embraces all of the magical aspects of Disney. What I did not realize is there is an adult version of this program granting wishes to terminally ill adults called The Dream Foundation. 

One of the teachers at Sandy Hook Elementary, Kaitlin Roig-DeBellis, who saved her class from the tragic events last December started an organization teaching children compassion through the classroom. Classes4Classes engages teachers and students to pay it forward by supporting classes in need. When a class receives a gift, they find a classroom to donate to going forward.

December is only made better by sharing it with a 6 year old. It is a wonderful time of year to see things differently but also realize that with every impression we make on our son about charity, empathy, service and honor, we are shaping his life and his potential as a future leader. It is hard work but so incredibly worth it. 

Lessons from high school: Please wash your hands immediately after

I came across the name of one of my high school teachers last week. Although my parents are still in Seattle, I have resided elsewhere since I moved away to college. I thought of this teacher years ago while writing a blog post about an incident I appreciated more in the retelling vs. actually living through at the time. Recently, I kept seeing his name popping up on FB and curiosity led to the discovery he has been diagnosed with cancer. My first thought was, Cancer? Really? Isn't he only 30 years old? Not that cancer checks ID or cares about age. Well, this is an example of practicing what I call 'Hometown Math'. Hometown Math is when you remember a person at the last age you saw them or when they were most prominent in your mind and you simply don't add any additional years to their life. So in the same way I was surprised when I saw an old friend this summer and her daughter was leaving for college, I thought, isn't your daughter only ten? I remember this teacher as he was back in the day: strong, larger than life and 30.

It also made me realize as children we give our teachers very limited dimension. Who is Mrs. Chambers? She is the reading teacher. Who is Mr. Black? He is the math teacher. Who is Mr. G? He likes US Government. We don't think Mrs. Chambers, Mr. Black and Mr. G have entire lives outside of school.  We don't see them this way so we don't realize the layers that create them. Maybe they go boating or fishing on the weekends. Maybe they listen to Creedence Clearwater or Steve Miller and drink Manhattans or red wine. Maybe they meet their college buddies once a year for a long weekend when they reminisce about college girlfriends and the time they were front row at the Supertramp concert.

As children, we often don't realize or fully comprehend the primary reason these people became teachers was to enhance the lives of kids. Their entire career choice was one of impact and dedication. Teachers were graded on our own internal scale of 'easy' to 'hard' to 'impossible mountains of homework.' They were narrowed down to a tiny scope of either "Cool" or "Sucks" and believe me, we, with our abilities to recite facts about WWII, spelling skills and a firm handhold on how to solve algebra problems with grouping symbols felt totally capable of deciding what qualified whether a teacher made it into the "Cool" or "Sucks" categories. With our limited views of the world, we weren't really capable of fairly making these distinctions but it didn't stop us.

We also fail to realize these teachers might also discuss us and as a result, hold strong opinions of who we are as people. Maybe those conversations sound like this: This one? Smart as a whip. This one? Gifted but lazy. This one? Misguided but responsive to leadership. This one? Punk. I think these teachers dedicated themselves to making a connection with every type of student from superstar to punk because if they could find that thread, the way to sync, they could reach inside a child's mind and influence it to greater heights. There is a post on his get well page from a former student: Mr. G, After college I joined Teach for America. I became a teacher because of you. WOW.

Mr. G was tough in school. He had high expectations and a forceful demeanor. He was a competitive athlete (hence the story to come) but those high expectations and that fundamental tenacity is what he demonstrated to his students. Those that paid attention benefited greatly. As an adult now 20 years out of high school, I don't know anything about him present day. He was honored earlier this year for his leadership and civic focus but that I gleaned from an alumni article. Maybe he likes lacrosse. Or listens to Steve Miller. Maybe he has a spouse or kids taking the news quite heavily.

I do know there are many, many other people from our hometown who when given the occasion to think of him would recall He was a great teacher and then realize it is a sentiment we have never shared. It is an appreciation holding even deeper meaning to me now that I have a tiny child in school and what constitutes a good teacher has more relevance and complexity than ever.   Mr. G., I am sending heartfelt sentiment and prayers to you for fast healing and a healthy road ahead. And I should have told you long ago you were a really great teacher.

PS: This story is likely one you don't remember but trust me, I will never forget it.

__________

Back in the day, one of my junior high classes was tasked with the well known “informative speech.”  I wanted to do something more interesting than How to grow a Chia Pet or How to do the moonwalk.  I loved athletics  so I looked to that genre. Casting aside our daily sports of tennis, football, volleyball I opted for something more exotic: lacrosse. Lacrosse was not as common in the PNW (Pacific Northwest) so I set out to learn as much as I could. Do you know Lacrosse? I think the Iroquois (from which the sport derived) translation means: have fun getting your ass kicked. Between lacrosse, hockey, and rugby, I am not certain  which crew is tougher. Or crazier.

One of our teachers at school, Mr. G,  played in a league. It occurs to me now that after a day with hundreds of  8^th graders, many an adult might need to run with a stick and smash people but I digress.

Mr. G was happy a student had an interest in the sport and offered to loan me all of his equipment for my speech.

I was first to present so after fetching the equipment from Mr. G’s car, I displayed it on a table next to the podium. I proceeded to deliver in a humorous fashion all the little lacrosse tidbits I had prepared. The history, the field, the players, the lingo. Then I proceeded to show the helmet, the stick , the gloves and pads. Inside the helmet, Mr. G had stored the lacrosse ball in its container. This was placed on the table as well so I lifted it up and showed the ball (or cookie as it is called) in its triangular case and explained this was the ball, and the ball holder.

The girls in the glass have no reaction. They don’t know lacrosse well either, and because they, like me, are innocent doves. Most of the boys in the class giggled quietly because I merely said the words “ball holder.” A few boys in the class, laughed out loud but I had no idea why. Later, two of my male friends in class came to give me the business.

Smirky McJerky: That was a riot about the ball holder. AND you held it up.

Me: I was showing the equipment.

 Smirky McJerky: You showed the BALL HOLDER.

Me: Juveniles ( or more likely: I am SO sure. SHUT UP.)

Smirky McJerky: Wait, you really don’t know what that was?

Me: The plastic ball holder? DUH!

Smirkey McJerky: HHHHHAAAAAAAA. Falls down laughing with our other friend. It is for balls all right. But not the lacrosse ball.

Me: Blank stare and fuming face about to go full tilt. I sense something very embarrassing to me is about to occur. 

Smirky McJerky: HHAHAHAHAHAHA. It’s Mr.G’s CUP. For his balls.

Me: I hate you.  And whaaaaaaaaaaaat? 

So he explains to me what a "cup" is and how it is used. 

I followed this with some OHMYG___ and yikes!!! and SICK!!!!! ! and OHMYG___.

 

Did I really just stand in front of my entire class and our male teacher and show the plastic protective device Mr. G placed on his manly bits? Did I really just display it so proudly and with more flourish than Vanna White? Did I touch it with my bare hands? Was I one degree of separation from Mr. G’s nether region?  

My older brother played sports but I had never seen such a device. I saw a jockstrap once prior to this moment and thought it was an old school sling shot.

I attempted to avoid hyperventilating as I scurred away to wash my hands a dozens times and scrub them with steel wool. And a warning to anyone else interested in giving informative speeches on lacrosse: If you are handling the sweaty equipment worn the night before by a male you are not married to or raising, the triangular plastic device is NOT what you think it is.  You probably don't want to touch it let alone snuggle up to it like the Hope Diamond. And if you DO hold it a little too closely, please wash your hands immediately after.

Why dogs are the superior animals

A cold morning here in Atlanta, tucked in the house reading the news online when I came across this and loved every word of it. This is why dogs are the superior animals. No, not because I believe they can actually text. But if they DID, this is what they would say. Our boxer, Nixon, was a sassy spitfire of a dog so I found these a much better read this morning than how Joe Biden screwed up traffic in Atlanta last night for hours.  If you are a dog lover AND you love to laugh, enjoy this as you kick off your Friday. From Sad and Useless.

Reading about war and sacrifice is not the same as living it...

In honor of this day and the individuals impacted globally, I am sharing a poignant memory of meeting a soldier. Again, there are thousands of people willing to go and do what I am not willing to go and do. Reading about war and sacrifice is not the same as living it. For those that stand up, suit up, show up and brave up, I am thankful. I am not brave enough to do what you do. Happy Veteran's Day.

 ________


Excuse me, ma'am," he offered as he nodded toward the window. I didn't notice until I stood to let him pass and he tucked into the seat next to me. The lower half of his leg built by cosmesis rather than what he was given at birth. He wore his standard issue fatigues but the pant leg on one side revealed an artificial limb. His persona seemed old soul. And the fatigues and limb would lend an older, more seasoned appearance than his face ever could.

He didn't look old enough to buy cigarettes. We were flying to Seattle from Atlanta. He had recently returned to the US from a third consecutive tour in Iraq. This time, with a permanent injury coupled with an honorable discharge. As we shared a conversation, I was astounded at the level of calm and ease he used to talk about the real-life scenarios that seemed brutal and surreal to me. When he revealed he had just turned 22, I sensed the formidable sadness in his voice that his "career" as he hoped it would develop, was terminated. It wasn't the loss of part of his body that disenchanted him, but that commitment to the Armed Forces had been prematurely disrupted. His willingness to serve, to stand, to sacrifice could no longer be engaged by the United States Military.

 I asked him how he maintained not only the enthusiasm to rise to be assiduous every day in such an extreme environment, but also the belief that the war was the right action in the grim and very real face of death. He said everyone doesn't. War and the caustic realizations of what it truly means is not the same as reading about it in the news. But he felt he had no alternative.

Once you enlist, you are committed for life. He followed with, "Or until you have no choice," indicating his leg. I certainly could not compare notes or offer anecdotes about "I know how you feel." My greatest imagination could not conjure up what a single and real day in that environment would be like. "How do you feel about returning home?" I asked. He was contemplative before answering, "A little lost." Death could have taken him. Another name on a long roster that goes beyond this war into every corner of every country. While he did sacrifice a limb, he certainly never forfeited his valor, or his ambition. And hopefully that ambition would become bigger, and broader to help him navigate his way. A way beyond feeling irrevocably displaced.

 In baggage claim at SeaTac, I saw her before she saw him. The face washed with what only comes from holding your breath for three tours of duty. The look of impatience and searching superimposed over a very real foundation of frantic. She could only be at peace perhaps when she could see him, and hug him with her own arms. When she saw him, she pulled on the arm of the man with her. He couldn't get to the boy fast enough. His son.

When he introduced me, I saw in his parents the awe of having their child back. They were proud. And they were relieved. And the force of it made me relieved for them. A force I would not even begin to appreciate in some microcosmic way until I had a child of my own.

Yesterday was Veteran's Day in the US. Originally called Armistice Day in 1919, the day intended to recognize WWI vets. The holiday changed to "All Veterans" in 1945. And this holiday is pertinent to almost 30 million veterans in the United States. I have my own opinions about war, and its cost. But the freedom that affords me to have and vocalize such opinions was freedom paid for by people willing to go to war. And I have gratitude for that gift.

At 22, Corporal Foster was the youngest veteran I had ever met. Wherever you are, I hope you are finding your way.

Why Halloween is like a child's version of a wedding.....

First, WOW, its been 4 weeks since I posted which is the longest in-between on record since I started this blog. I took a great new job within my corporation on October 1 so there is the reason. But, what better day to post than Halloween because I like treats and a few tricks here and there. I am working from home today because 1. I can and 2. its the worst traffic day of the year in Atlanta. Why? Because if you have little kids, you have been celebrating some aspect of Halloween for the entire month. Halloween is basically like a child's version of a wedding. There is planning, decorating, orchestrating, parties, invites, wardrobe check, many costume changes, scrutiny over who looks the best, always, always someone in inappropriate attire (grown man in diaper carrying a pacifier for example), so much food, so many sweets, and photos galore. Can we talk about the photos for a moment. I am as guilty of over-photo'ing just like a wedding photog. Seriously, last year we had 100+ photos for 30 minutes of trick-or-treating. Oh, look, there is MiniMac walking to the door. Now there he is climbing the steps. Oh, yeah, there he is ringing the bell! Look, he is smiling at the stranger inside the door! SUPER. I know these times have a limited span but maybe I will trim it down to 75 photos this year.

The only component missing from Halloween is alcohol. Correction, we all know the coffee cups the parents are carrying are filled to the brim w/ grown up elixirs. MiniMac is pretty thrilled to be dressing as Wolverine. Which will be more joyful to look at then the 1000 girls who will dress like Miley Virus this year. I did see that even Paris Hilton dressed up to mock Miley's VMA performance. Guess what? If Paris Hilton is mocking you, your stock has fallen to the curb or what I like to think of as 'your sh*t could not go any further south'.It makes me wish we could bring back Bieber Fever and well, that is a sad, sad statement.

So, we embark on Halloween frenzy and because MiniMac does not by nature consume a lot of candy, he thinks it is a BIG DEAL if he gets two pieces in the same night. HOORAY. He did recently inform me that he 'does not care for' whole wheat pasta so it is not all wins around here.

I am the room parent for his classroom and we are decorating cookies with his entire class today. Do you know how 6 year-olds handle sprinkles? They empty half the container in their hands, pour 1/100th of them on their cookie and the rest end up on 1. their laps 2. the floor. But my word, you show kids an array of containers with sprinkles? Stand back for the cheering. Seriously. It's like grown women and wine. I did clear the cookie bonanza project with the teacher. However, she is a sub while his teacher is on maternity leave, rather elderly and quite stern. This means she has likely never allowed a sprinkle bedecked cookie to be made in her house so she will be quite displeased when she is finding sprinkles in that classroom for the next six weeks. No, no amount of sweeping retrieves them all easily. 

For those celebrating, hope your ghosts and pumpkins have a great time. Last year, one house had a giant bowl of candy for the littles AND a galvanized tub full of beer for the bigs. Genius. I love parents who have a sense of verve. And speaking of verve, I saw this earlier today. Must share:

Give a damn

I just read a snippet in the news that made my morning. A 82-year-old retired man named Anthony Cymerys keeps his skills, wits and love for people intact on the daily by offering haircuts to the homeless people or others who might be in a slump in Hartford, CT. He pops a lawn chair up at Bushnell Park and 'customers' fill park benches waiting for their turn. Price? A hug.

Why was this compelling to me? Because I love stories with good endings. I envision this man as one who holds the door open for others, says hello to strangers, gives a hurried person his place in line. I also like that his courtesy and generosity extend to a population of people that might not be recipients of courtesy and generosity as frequently as other people OR as often as they need it. This story is very simple and it reminded me how easy it is to embrace and execute on the simple concept of giving a damn about others.

I read numerous other tidbits of goodness like 1. a rookie Wildlife officer saves a baby fawn from a river or how a 10-year-old girl opted for donations in lieu of birthday gifts to buy a police dog a bulletproof vest.

And how a dying soldier in NC was surprised by over 40 individuals who showed up to help his family move.

And how Allyson Ahlstrom started Threads for Teens as a 14-year-old and now, at age 18, took her boutique on the road via a giant moving truck. What is the purpose? To give free head-to-toe outfits to teenage girls in need. Awesome. 

So many people are inherently good and one of the components that connects all of these individuals together is that simple concept of giving a damn about others. Every holiday season, we compile a list and then take MiniMac to do acts of service for others. These posts have motivated me to kick that into October this year so we will plan some activities for the week to come. The truth is, we can do kind things everyday.

Go give a damn. Shine your light. I know you will do something great.

Because you have already started your weekend...

I read this yesterday in a car to the airport and laughed so much and so loud, the driver thought I was 1. spirited or 2. drunk. For those of you of have not seen Kelly McLean's article on HuffPost called Surviving Whole Foods, prepare to laugh your arse off and hope you meet this girl one day.... In its entirety:

_________________

Whole Foods is like Vegas. You go there to feel good but you leave broke, disoriented, and with the newfound knowledge that you have a vaginal disease.

Unlike Vegas, Whole Foods' clientele are all about mindfulness and compassion... until they get to the parking lot. Then it's war. As I pull up this morning, I see a pregnant lady on the crosswalk holding a baby and groceries. This driver swerves around her and honks. As he speeds off I catch his bumper sticker, which says 'NAMASTE'. Poor lady didn't even hear him approaching because he was driving a Prius. He crept up on her like a panther.

As the great, sliding glass doors part I am immediately smacked in the face by a wall of cool, moist air that smells of strawberries and orchids. I leave behind the concrete jungle and enter a cornucopia of organic bliss; the land of hemp milk and honey. Seriously, think about Heaven and then think about Whole Foods; they're basically the same.

The first thing I see is the great wall of kombucha -- 42 different kinds of rotten tea. Fun fact: the word kombucha is Japanese for 'I gizzed in your tea.' Anyone who's ever swallowed the glob of mucus at the end of the bottle knows exactly what I'm talking about. I believe this thing is called "The Mother," which makes it that much creepier.

Next I see the gluten-free section filled with crackers and bread made from various wheat-substitutes such as cardboard and sawdust. I skip this aisle because I'm not rich enough to have dietary restrictions. Ever notice that you don't meet poor people with special diet needs? A gluten intolerant house cleaner? A cab driver with Candida? Candida is what I call a rich, white person problem. You know you've really made it in this world when you get Candida. My personal theory is that Candida is something you get from too much hot yoga. All I'm saying is if I were a yeast, I would want to live in your yoga pants.

Next I approach the beauty aisle. There is a scary looking machine there that you put your face inside of and it tells you exactly how ugly you are. They calculate your wrinkles, sun spots, the size of your pores, etc. and compare it to other women your age. I think of myself attractive but as it turns out, I am 78 percent ugly, meaning less pretty than 78 percent of women in the world. On the popular 1-10 hotness scale used by males the world over, that makes me a 3 (if you round up, which I hope you will.) A glance at the extremely close-up picture they took of my face, in which I somehow have a glorious, blond porn mustache, tells me that 3 is about right. Especially because the left side of my face is apparently 20 percent more aged than the right. Fantastic. After contemplating ending it all here and now, I decide instead to buy their product. One bottle of delicious smelling, silky feeling creme that is maybe going to raise me from a 3 to a 4 for only $108 which is a pretty good deal when you think about it.

I grab a handful of peanut butter pretzels on my way out of this stupid aisle. I don't feel bad about pilfering these bites because of the umpteen times that I've overpaid at the salad bar and been tricked into buying $108 beauty creams. The pretzels are very fattening but I'm already in the seventieth percentile of ugly so who cares.

Next I come to the vitamin aisle which is a danger zone for any broke hypochondriac. Warning: Whole Foods keeps their best people in this section. Although you think she's a homeless person at first, that vitamin clerk is an ex-pharmaceuticals sales rep. Today she talks me into buying estrogen for my mystery mustache and Women's Acidophilus because apparently I DO have Candida after all.
I move on to the next aisle and ask the nearest Whole Foods clerk for help. He's wearing a visor inside and as if that weren't douchey enough, it has one word on it in all caps. Yup, NAMASTE. I ask him where I can find whole wheat bread. He chuckles at me "Oh, we keep the poison in aisle 7." Based solely on the attitudes of people sporting namaste paraphernalia today, I'd think it was Sanskrit for "go fuck yourself."

I pass the table where the guy invites me to join a group cleanse he's leading. For $179.99 I can not-eat not-alone... not-gonna-happen. They're doing the cleanse where you consume nothing but lemon juice, cayenne pepper and fiber pills for 10 days, what's that one called again? Oh, yeah...anorexia. I went on a cleanse once; it was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, I detoxified, I purified, I lost weight. On the other hand, I fell asleep on the highway, fantasized about eating a pigeon, and crapped my pants. I think I'll stick with the whole eating thing.

I grab a couple of loaves of poison, and head to checkout. The fact that I'm at Whole Foods on a Sunday finally sinks in when I join the end of the line...halfway down the dog food aisle. I suddenly realize that I'm dying to get out of this store. Maybe it's the lonely feeling of being a carnivore in a sea of vegans, or the newfound knowledge that some people's dogs eat better than I do, but mostly I think it's the fact that Yanni has been playing literally this entire time. Like sensory deprivation, listening to Yanni seems harmless at first, enjoyable even. But two hours in, you'll chew your own ear off to make it stop.

A thousand minutes later, I get to the cashier. She is 95 percent beautiful. "Have you brought your reusable bags?" Fuck. No, they are at home with their 2 dozen once-used friends. She rings up my meat, alcohol, gluten and a wrapper from the chocolate bar I ate in line, with thinly veiled alarm. She scans my ladies acidophilus, gives me a pitying frown and whispers, "Ya know, if you wanna get rid of your Candida, you should stop feeding it." She rings me up for $313. I resist the urge to unwrap and swallow whole another $6 truffle in protest. Barely. Instead, I reach for my wallet, flash her a quiet smile and say, "Namaste."