bulk food section

David’s full of insight lately, let me tell you.

If you haven’t been won over yet by his theories, be sure to check out his thoughts on what makes a news story go viral.

Next up: the most dangerous section of your grocery store.

First, I’d like to note that Dr. Oz has a most informative article on his site about the Supermarket Secrets that Can Make You Sick, and while he does address the bagel bin (don’t even get me started on what is often found at the bottom of the bagel bin), he did not address the bulk section. So David feels it’s incumbent upon him (meaning me) to let you in on this.

“Old people in the bulk section at Sprouts are more dangerous than unattended children,” he declared as he hoisted 4 bulging recycled grocery bags onto the kitchen counter.

I kind of tuned him out. Because I thought that was just kind of a mean thing to say. Right?

But, apparently, I misunderstood.

“You don’t understand,” he clarified. “They eat right out of the bins, and they push carts through the store simply so that they can have the handle bar to rest their teeny tiny cup of complimentary coffee on, so the carts take up the entire aisle while they test stuff and then put what they don’t like back in the bin.”

I suppose the silence had him concerned that I wasn’t listening. But I was listening. Just unable to respond. Because I was trying to process the fact that my days enjoying the bulk section were over.

“Do you realize,” he continued, clearly taking advantage of the fact that I was indeed listening, “that I had to forgo purchasing my almond clusters because I looked in that bin and thought, ‘What if that one was touched?’ or ‘What if THAT one made it to someone’s MOUTH and then they decided they didn’t like it and put it BACK?’

“And then, I thought, ‘Well, I could do what Liz does, and grab the item from the back or, in this case, the bottom. But what if the person before me did that and so now what was on the bottom is now on the top and vice versa and I’m just unknowingly contaminating myself?’”

“It matters not,” I flatly stated. “We are done with the bulk section. At least, we are done with clusters, nuts and trail mix. And if you ever see anyone eating almond flour or sea salt out of their hand, we’re done with that too.”

This whole situation has kind of ruined us. But I’ll look on the bright side: after 13 years of marriage (I think it’s been 13), it’s comforting to know that we still have that one germaphobic thing very much in common.

Brace yourself.

George (who is 7) takes tumbling. Which is the perfect extracurricular activity for him since he’s been cartwheeling his way through this house for the better part of 8 months.

He’s one of only 2 boys in a sea of girls in there, but he holds his own pretty well. I mean, as long as Ross shows up.

Tonight as they were stretching, they went into the splits. The gymnastics coach commented that the girls should all be embarrassed since George (who has rubber bands for limbs) can get all the way into a split, and most of the girls cannot.

So on the way home, David informed George that when they got here, George should tell Grace that he had mastered his splits.

(Grace shares George’s enthusiasm for all things gymnastics but she’s 5′ 3″ and counting, and having her doing cartwheels throughout this house is flat-out dangerous, so she just lives vicariously through him.)

To this suggestion, George responded, “I can’t do it again tonight. I’ll break my nuts.”

“George, you can’t say that,” informed David.

“What do you mean?” asked George.

“Well, you can’t say ‘nuts’ in that context. It’s not really appropriate. Just so you know.”

“Well, I just mean my penis!” clarified George.

“Um, okay, but…” stated David.

“And plus, this is confusing,” continued George. “I mean, if I can’t say ‘nuts,’ what if I’m at a baseball game and I want to buy some nuts because I’m hungry and I like nuts. Can I not order nuts?”

“George,” said David, feeling a bit manipulated, “Of course you can order nuts at a baseball game. Those are two different uses of the word ‘nuts.’ Like, take the word ‘dam.’ If I say, ‘I want to drive over and look at the dam,’ that’s fine, but I can’t say, ‘Damn, this traffic is terrible!”

“OH, I GET IT!” exclaimed George. “I’ll go home, show Grace how I do the splits, and then say, ‘I just broke my damn nuts!”

We have a long way to go here folks.

leather calendar agenda

On today’s agenda: Help George’s class with a paper mache project; get hair cut and colored in preparation for my trip to Las Vegas.

Not on today’s agenda: Sudden elementary/middle school closure due to electrical failure.

Seriously?

I was exiting the highway on route to drop off the 3 oldest kids when my cell phone made a strange noise. Having never heard it before, I wondered aloud, “What does that mean?”

Skipping nary a beat, Grace responded, “Text message.” She’s 11. And she doesn’t text.

I checked the text message (at a red light, everyone keep your pants on), which most matter-of-factly informed me that my day was being uprooted. In fact, in the future, I’d suggest that such texts begin: Dear Parent, We great apologize but your day is about to be suddenly uprooted.

Yes, of course I immediately said, “You cannot be serious.”

Grace, Jack and Henry began cheering uproariously while I tried to stomach the notion that I was going to have to take the 3 of them (plus a 2-year-old) with me to paper mache the solar system with George’s class, and then to attempt to erase 5-7 years from my real age via the magic of The Guru at the hair salon.

As it turned out, the paper mache project went relatively well as far as these things go. Henry put on his you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me face and guarded Nina, who tormented Snowball the Bunny for an hour. Jack manned Table 2 of Paper Mache Mania while Grace manned Table 1. They both now want to paper mache everything in site. Ain’t gonna happen.

At 10:00, we headed to the hair salon. And don’t think I missed the look of sheer terror on the faces of…well…everyone as we entered.

But get this: I got my hair cut, colored and highlighted AND Grace got hers cut–with the must-have-it-now slanted side bang–while Henry and Jack sat patiently in the waiting area. Clearly, Henry is ill.

On the way home, however, it began raining. “What’s wrong with that?” you might ask. Nothing. We live in Arizona. People totally flip and do crazy happy dances in parking lots when it rains. Young children run for cover sure that Armageddon has begun.

But my right windshield wiper is broken and “someone” was supposed to fix it last night (but did not).

The poor little wiper just haphazardly flapped in the breeze each time it attempted to work its magic. And then, to add insult to wiper injury, Grace states, “Ohmigod, this is mortifying,” as she sinks down into her seat and covers her eyes with her right hand so that none of her friends will see her riding as a passenger in a car with a broken windshield wiper.

Which, of course, none of them will. Because they are all in school.

Photo courtesy of biewoef

 

 

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