Dear Cruel World,

Today I learned that the beautiful man who works at Trader Joe's and also jump-ropes in the parking lot has been forbidden to do so. Not not work, but no jump-roping in the parking lot. I learned this when I pushed my cart to his register, as he scanned my items. I struck up a conversation. A melon, a bottle of wine, a spiral-sliced ham, a smile. How's the jump-roping? I asked. He looked up and smiled. Not allowed to do it anymore, he said. What? I restrained myself from shouting. Why? I know there are many of you Angelenos out there who know what I'm talking about, and if you're not an Angeleno, read between the lines.

Evidently customers had complained, so management told him that he couldn't jump-rope anymore.

Reader, I am crushed. I have been watching this guy jump-rope for the eighteen years that I've lived in Los Angeles and shopped at this particular Trader Joe's. I don't want to sound all creepy and middle-agey pathetic womany, but that beautiful man jumping rope in hot weather and cold was like a mirage in the desert of -- well -- everything. He was thrilling. Sexy. Water. An inspiration. A fantasy.

I can't imagine who would complain about him or why. I took it upon myself to tell him so and then -- thank God my boys were not with me because they might have died right there on the spot -- I told him how much I'd loved watching him jump-rope  and how disappointed I can imagine many, many women were going to be to learn that he wouldn't be there anymore. Hell, I imagine there are many men who are going to be bummed, too. The Jump-Roper lifted my heavy bags into my cart and smiled and thanked me. I didn't tell him how much I'd looked forward to seeing him jump and how I was sustained by the pondering of what else he could do even as I hauled my bags out of  my Sexy White Mazda and unbuckled my toddlers from their car-seats, glared at the SUVs in the compact spaces with their "W" stickers back in the day.

Cruel World, why?

Sigh.

Respectfully,
Elizabeth

The Post-Trader Joe's Life

This happened:

That's what happened while I innocently meandered the aisles of the store, planning on the shrimp and vegetable stir-fry I was going to make, and texting a friend about how I was ready to drive off the rails. While I purchased a bag of cinnamon and apple "fries," I was also wondering if the reason why my derailment seems imminent is because I haven't visited Dr. Jin in more than six months. Maybe it's just a matter of balance and some herbs, I thought, heroically. Yes, heroically.

Back to the window.

Henry was doing his usual lacrosse practice of throwing the lacrosse ball against the side of the house (above the window) over and over and catching it. Except for this time when the ball crashed through the window and shattered glass flew everywhere in the dining/homeschool/cluttered room, including all over Oliver who was preparing his lemonade stand:

He evidently cried for a moment in shock and fear (which was, I'm certain, resoundingly mocked by his older brother), but he's laughing in that photo because the first photo was snapped with Valentine in the background, peeing, and as I'm slightly frazzled and mad (in the unbalanced sense of the word, not angry) from walking in on the shattered glass scene, a very grumpy chef, an ineffectual Teenager trying to clean up the larger glass, and a seizing daughter who appears to be acting much as she always does right after I declare that she's doing just fine weaning from her benzo,  I began to chant:

Milk, milk, 
Lemonade,
Round the corner,
...

Perhaps that's inappropriate and not the best way to market The Entrepreneur's wares.

Especially given this a few yards away from his stand:

Yesterday, we had to have a new one installed and where else does one put the old one? I am wondering whether it could be a planter or even one of those charming little libraries that dot the suburbs -- I've been dying to make one.

I have thus cleaned up glass, vigorously vacuumed all the rooms of the house (because why not while I'm at it?), bathed my seizing daughter while musing about the cost of redoing the bathroom so that it'd be safer to give her a bath (which moved into how am I going to do this? how am I going to do this?), put Sophie's seizing self safely in her chair post-bath, put the groceries away and trimmed the peonies that I bought in a reckless moment at the store, thinking that peonies might keep the train on the rails, peeked in on The Teenager to make sure that he's studying for finals and not playing games.

 My thoughts have progressed from how I'm ready to drive off the rails to a bemused wondering about the extraordinary life I'm living as a quite ordinary person.  And it's just too much, sometimes. Too, too much.

Drinking and Anna Karenina

Tolstoy

I've been drinking more lately. I'm one of those people who has never been a drinker, despite the pleadings of some of my friends who insist that drinking a glass of wine a night would be good for me. When I took them up on the recommendation, I wanted to go to sleep at around 9:00 and therefore discovered the secret to why I am able to write and read into the wee hours of the morning, as opposed to my more "exhausted" friends. The other day, I bought a bottle of Kahlua at Trader Joe's because I remembered how good it tastes, but I haven't opened it up yet. Two nights ago, I had a pomegranate mojito before dinner, a glass of sauvignon blanc with my moules frites and a shot of vodka at my friend's house after dinner. Last night, I had a glass of wine with my dinner and contemplated a Blue Moon when I got home. I saw a movie, too, last night -- Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. I remember reading the book in my late teens when I was totally into Robert Ludlum and John Le Carre spy novels. I don't remember being confused when I read the novels, but last night I was completely befuddled by the movie and so was my really smart friend Shannon. We laughed about it over our wine and dinner, and I even looked up a plot summary online afterward.

Oh! Now I understand!

I'm reading Jeffrey Eugenides' book The Marriage Plot, and while I was so excited to open and read it, I'm now in that exasperated slog phase when I should just give up and put it down, bored to tears, but I feel obligated to finish it. This seems to be happening more and more lately -- I feel like I haven't read a novel in years that I connect to with joy and wonder. The last really great book I read was the memoir The Boy in the Moon. A fellow bookworm told me that I should re-read Anna Karenina, so that's what I'm going to do.

Remember the famous opening lines?

Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

Who is writing like this anymore?

Would it be too much to add a shot of Kahlua to my morning coffee? Or should I start reading Tolstoy with a shot of frozen vodka?

When your Trader Joe's merchandise speaks to you,

you know you are either going completely insane, or the Universe is abundant. After a harrowing morning of seizures and absent aides, a drop-off at school and a relieved ride home, a call from The Teacher that I'd forgotten to include Sophie's sippee-cup in her lunchbox which would mean no drink all day so I'd have to drive BACK to school, my eyes nearly spilled over (I've felt on the verge of at least a whimper for a week), until I looked down and saw my message on the back of a bag of diced onions (that I'd bought guiltily because, really, how hard is it to buy a whole onion and dice it oneself?).

DON'T CRY.

So I didn't.

The Universe is Abundant.

What makes me happy Friday

how about the packaging on this chocolate bar?

Sad Stuff on the Street website

Thinking about a late August trip to Yosemite with my friend Cara