Bree's Blog

Stop, Shop, Surrender

Getting your faith restored at the grocery store

We live in an age of crumbling faiths. Everywhere I look, beliefs are battered and belittled - belief in God, belief in human goodness, belief in public transportation. Even faith in our presidential candidates is wavering - just today I received an email informing me that my beloved Barack Obama (and I quote), "IS a muslim and IS a racist and this is a fulfillment of the 911 threat that was just the beginning." My God, why hast thou forsaken me (and my preferred political candidate)?

Amidst these trying times, I am happy to say that this evening, I experienced a restoration of faith in the one of the most fundamental institutions of modern society: the grocery store.

First of all, in an era when the echoes of far-off bombs and gunfire resonate through my withered conscience, I long for the sweet, serene sounds of simpler times. Tonight, while shopping for shallots, I find myself inexplicably drawn to the vegetable and fruit section. There, enraptured in an alternate universe, I nuzzle the organic carrots as a mechanized Mother Nature sprays a soft mist of hygienic H20 and serenades her vegetative wards with midi thunder sounds. That's right - in today's supermarkets, tumultuous audio storms are invoked for the benefit of the zucchini and beets. Oh ye, bard of broccoli, let thine sweet symphony seduce my singed senses!

After I satiate my tastes in fresh produce, I move on to the rest of my grocery list. Alas, there is no crème fraîche. But I eschew bitterness in lieu of tolerant understanding. Let the plebeians devour their Half and Half; I will not lose heart! (There is no lemon thyme, either, and no halibut. Even the "Ethnic Foods" aisle is a bust. Grocerial segregation? Nay - not at Stop & Shop, surely. But I digress.)
I only catch the words "nicest," "sex," and "construction." God only knows what that means.

At long last, I clothe myself in pretenses of economic security and prepare to pay for my indulgences. Because of my deep-seated inability to relinquish control, I select the self check-out line. As it turns out, my choice is richly rewarded.

There is a brilliant feature on the "do it yourself" checkout lines involving an automated voice. If you have, say, neglected to weigh and catalog your fruits in the produce section, you are given a second chance at checkout. The automated voice extends an olive branch of mercy and understanding. First you must enter the product number, and then, as if by magic, the oracle speaks. Ever the stereotypical woman, she wants to communicate with you.

"Please place your muffins on the belt," the voice chides in monotone, like a knowing lover. "Place your muffins on the belt."

So I place my muffins on the belt. Then the mysterious voice gets even more familiar.

"How many bananas do you have?" Um, one. One banana. "Please place your banana on the belt."

Okay. As I nervously place my banana on the belt, I can't help but eavesdrop on the chorus of neighboring commands.

"Please place your avocado on the belt."

"Please place your melons on the belt."

"How many kiwis do you have? Please place your kiwis on the belt."

Suddenly, I am seized by an uncontrollable fit of laughter. I cannot contain myself - I am possessed by the thought of countless adjacent customers placing their bananas, muffins,  melons, and god knows what else on the belt. It's ridiculous. This virtual woman has no shame.

As I roll my cart out into the parking lot, I am still chuckling. I hardly notice the kiwi man's truck as it pulls up beside me.

"Hey, muffin girl," he calls. I look up mid-chortle. "Can I have your number?" he drawls out his window.

I think he's drunk, but I'm in too good a mood to care. I cheerily explain that I don't do dates, but thanks anyway.

He responds in a tangled mass of supplication, but I only catch the words "nicest," "sex," and "construction." God only knows what that means.

I wave, and he drives away. I unload my groceries - now broadcast to the world - and keep giggling as I shift into first gear.

Thank you, Stop & Shop, for renewing my faith in humanity. And if the offer still stands...my muffins are yours for the taking.

8 comments »

Zeus Strikes the Penurious

Birds sing for everyone else
Me they s*** on

Sometimes in this languid life, the gods speak to me. It's usually in the little things: the crisp brush of wind against my cheek, a glorious storm, the gentle braying of a sheep. Often the messages are so small, so minute, that I hardly recognize them as they shimmer by, little wisps of ephemeral missives that vanish like bubbles when poked. But on beauteous and rare occasions, the voice is so vividly clear that I cannot help but be still, and listen, and know.

A bird had just s*** on my face. The couple had seen the bird s*** on my face. They knew before I knew that a bird had s*** on my face. Most of the s*** was still sitting on my face, resting contentedly on my upper lip. I had no napkin. How mortifying.Like when a bird sh** on my face.

When I say a bird shat on my face, I am not lisping in hypertext. A bird did not sit on my face. A bird s*** on my face. To clear up any lingering uncertainty, let me be blunt: from the rectum of a small and impertinent bird came excrement onto my upturned, unsuspecting upper lip.

If it weren't for the particular course of events leading up to the incident, I wouldn't attribute this to divine intervention. After all, millions of people get s*** on every day, literally and figuratively. In all likelihood, the gods or God or "the higher power" (if you're in AA) have very little to do with it. But my bird-s***-on-face experience came with a particularly poignant moral lesson attached. It was no coincidence, no arbitrary cosmic occurrence, and certainly no gentle nudging from the big guy above. There was nothing subtle about it; the whole method was very (pardon the pun) in-your-face. It was a blatant wake-up call, a more environmentally conscious and cost-effective alternative to a burning bush.

We've all heard that God will "smite the faithless" and "burn the wicked" and so on. There's a whole assortment of action-packed mandates for all those poor, unfortunately-adjectived souls. Well here's one you may not have heard: God will birds*** the penurious.

I was walking out of the Boston bus station with a slice of sizzling pizza in hand, suitcase trailing behind me. What a lovely day, I thought, enjoying the warm sea breeze on my skin. Sauntering into a seductive sliver of sunshine, I nestled myself on a park bench to munch my vegetarian delight in pleasant solitude.

No sooner had I sat down than a couple approached me. They were young-not much older than I-and the man was semi-supporting the woman's weight. She looked unwell and distracted, her disheveled hair pulled back into an oily ponytail. They were both dressed in ill-fitting flannel shirts. He held her hand tightly, and she gripped his to the bone.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he said, stopping in front of me. "I'm trying to get my girlfriend home to Springfield on a bus. Do you have $4.80 you could spare us?"

For a moment I experienced a dichotomous tug in my chest. $4.80 wasn't that much-I had a few bucks, right? She really did look sick, and he seemed so earnest...

But then I remembered the last time I'd given money to someone who asked for it. A woman had begged me for a few dollars to buy food, and after I'd emptied my pockets, I continued across the street for a bowl of soup. From the restaurant's window I watched as the woman walked directly into a liquor store and emerged with a brown paper bag in hand. I nearly choked on my clam chowder. At that moment, I swore I would never give money to a beggar again.

That was it: I was going to stick to my guns. I would say no. I swallowed my heart and looked the man straight in the eye.

"I'm sorry," I said, trying to master a chilly nonchalance in my voice. "I'd like to help you, but a woman cheated me a few years ago and I promised myself I wouldn't give money to anyone again."

As I was pronouncing my edict, I had the most curious sensation. It wasn't that I felt free, or even that I was consumed by guilt. Rather, the sensation was physical: it was warm and wet.

The expression on the man's face was undergoing a strange transformation, too. Before he had looked beseeching; now he looked mildly horrified. I felt a pang of regret. I must have truly offended him. So much so that he and his girlfriend were slowly backing away, continuing to gape at me as if I were some kind of cruel and merciless Medusa.

Strange, I thought to myself. I feel like part of my pizza is on my face.

I reached up to try and wipe away what I thought was a wayward piece of cheese or tomato on my upper lip. But upon examining my fingers, they came back covered in sabulous green gloop. What's green on my pizza? I mused. I didn't order pesto.

And then I knew.

A bird had just s*** on my face. The couple had seen the bird s*** on my face. They knew before I knew that a bird had s*** on my face. Most of the s*** was still sitting on my face, resting contentedly on my upper lip. I had no napkin. How mortifying.

My appetite vanished quite suddenly. I smeared the rest of the mess from my face onto the top of the pizza box and chucked the whole ensemble into the nearest trashcan. I tried to think about not throwing up.

I am a stingy and parsimonious bitch, I realized with sudden immediacy. And I am being punished for it.

Next time someone asks for money, I think I'll give it. Nothing like a little birds*** to bring generosity back with a splat.

13 comments »

Wellfleet's beached schooner a hoax

Eastham tree fort used for January prank
Bobby Roberts admits role in ruse

To the utter amazement of residents Cape-wide, an Eastham man has come forward to confess his part in a hoax perpetrated in late January. The alleged 19-century schooner that washed ashore Newcomb Hollow Beach in Wellfleet was actually nothing more than old scraps of wood from a backyard tree fort.

Bobby Robert's Eastham Tree Fort was disassembled to resemble a wrecked, 18th-century schooner fetched up on that Wellfleet Beach in January. cc2day photoBobby Roberts, 26, released a statement to authorities yesterday afternoon. "I was starting to feel really guilty," Roberts said. "And besides, I missed my fort."

As a child, Roberts played on an elaborate tree fort constructed by his great-grandfather Rob Roberts more than seventy years ago. But one night last October, as Bobby sat with childhood friend Josh Bugiardo staring at the latticework of oak planks and timbers, they decided to take the wood in a different direction.

Four months preparation

In his formal statement, Roberts describes the night the hoax was conceived. "We were hangin' out in the fort, smokin' a little [censored], and my buddy was like, 'Dude, let's make a boat.' And I was like, 'To sail in?' And he's all, 'No, man. For the lies to sail in.' And I was like, "Wicked, bro." That's when the whole thing got started."

What followed were four grueling months of preparation. Both men enrolled in basic carpentry classes, bought a handsaw and other tools, and made frequent trips to the library. The Eastham Library records show that Roberts checked out two books: How to Hoax like a Hotshot and 19th Century Shipbuilding for Dummies.

"I should have known they were up to something," said Berta, Roberts's mother. When asked if she meant because her son was constructing a fifty-foot schooner skeleton in her backyard, she shook her head. "It wasn't that. It's when he asked to borrow my library card. Bobby's never been much of a reader."

The Eastham Library records show that Roberts checked out two books: How to Hoax like a Hotshot and 19th Century Shipbuilding for Dummies.Local historians are dumbfounded at how a 26-year-old bartender who works days at Willy's Gym could build an incredibly convincing replica of a wrecked schooner and ultimately pull off a hoax of this magnitude. Roberts himself was quick to acknowledge the challenges he faced.

"It wasn't all easy. Some things were really hard – like finding the wood pegs to hold it all together. They just don't make those things anymore!" Roberts paused for a moment. "Getting it down to the beach was kind of hard, too."

The Cape Cod National Seashore and other interested organizations have not yet pressed charges, but a long and arduous legal battle is expected to ensue. Yet for Cape residents, the tragedy runs deeper than merely bureaucratic.  Something historically rich and mysterious has been reduced to the banal, and people feel cheated. This revelation also calls into question previous discoveries of wreckage that were thought to be significant. Will these prove to be nothing more than hoaxes as well?

When asked if he felt his actions have undermined the rich maritime history of Cape Cod, Roberts vehemently disagreed.

"I'm recreating a legend. I'm making history ..."
    - Bobby Roberts[Expletive] no!" he said heatedly. "I'm recreating a legend. I'm making history, dammit." After a brief moment of reflection, he added, "And it's so boring in the winter. There was nothing else to do."

4C's professor Yadloof inspired Roberts

Five years ago Roberts was enrolled for a semester at Cape Cod Community College, and he credits his initial interest in old ships to his former professor, Russian art historian L. Yadsloof. "Yaddy – that's what we used to call him – always encouraged us to make history, and to make art," Roberts said with a wistful smile. "I don't care what happens to me now: I think I did both."

Professor Lirpa Yadsloof could not be reached for comment. His assistant was quick to apologize, explaining "Today's his busiest day."

11 comments »

Dental Degradation

Need a humility check? A trip to the dentist ought to do the trick.

This week at the dentist's office, I had one cavity filled. I also had my self-confidence gutted. And my insurance paid for both!

As if it isn't embarrassing enough just sitting in a chair with your mouth pried open, staring up at painfully bright fluorescent lighting with a bib over your chest, they actually try to talk to you, as if they care about your emotional comfort level in addition to your tooth decay. Naturally, when the friendly dental hygienist attempts to make small talk, you're left with very limited response options. As a result, the conversation goes something like this:

"Kind of warm out today, huh?"

"AAAAAAAH."

"With the sun coming in through those windows, it's actually hot in here!"

"AAAA-AAHHHH."

"Can't believe I'm wearing a sweater."

"AAAAA AAAAA-AAHHHH."

"What do you think of the war?"

"AAAAAAAAH-AAAAAAAAH AAAAAH AH AH AAAAAH!"

"I'm gay."

"AAAAAHHH?"

"Mind if I fondle your canines?"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH."

It doesn't really matter what she says -- you'd still be left with one vowel sound to cover a necessarily wide range of emotion.

The Secret Language of Dentists

There's also a coded system of language, created by dentists and dental hygienists as a way of communicating with one another while their patients remain prostrate and mystified. This time, I listened extra carefully, trying to decode it. At a few points, I succeeded, and I can now offer these insights into the highly technical language of the elite dentistati clan.

When the dentist says, "I don't want to argue with you, but we normally do amalgam metal and typically advise against resin fillings," what he is trying to say is, "You shallow, frivolous idiot. Buck up, and get some friggin' silver in your mouth."

When the dentist says "Need a little more retraction" to the hygienist, what he is really saying is, "The patient is tonguing my hand again. It's disgusting. Please intervene."

When the dentist says, "Your cheek and tongue should feel very numb. Do you feel like you have a fat lip?" your answer should be, "Yeth." If you answer with a prim and proper "Yes, sir," congratulations: you can still pronounce your S's! This is going to hurt like hell.

"Thankth tho muth..."

And when the dentist begins to drill into your tooth but stops when you arch your back and dig your nails into the plastic seat covering, at which point he says, "Let's numb you up a little more," what he means is, "I understand you just experienced a sensation something like hot lava beset with prickly pears being poured into your gums. Please don't sue me. Why don't we pump some more Novocain into your face?"

Eventually they'd injected so much Novocain into my general facial region that my right eye was drooping. I came into that office a proud, sentient member of society. I left a semi-Quasimodo with one lazy eye, trying not to drool on myself as I sputtered out travesties of language like "Thankth tho muth. I really apprethiate it. Thee you thith Thurthday?"

A wintry discovery in Wellfleet 

On the way out, I noticed a fairly good-looking boy (in my general age range! in Wellfleet! in WINTER!) in the waiting room. Hoping that some semblance of inner beauty would shine through the completely numb right half of my face, I attempted a flirtatious (albeit cockeyed) grin. Then, as I left, I proceeded to close the office door with my bootlace still inside it, pulling me back with a jolt before catapulting my body off the front steps.

And... there went the remaining sliver of my pride.

Never mind that I have eight more cavities in my mouth. I don't think I can suffer another dentist appointment -- mind, body, or soul -- for a long time.

3 comments »

When Language Gets Loose

Fans of the TV show LOST who lingered after the season premiere for the eleven o'clock news probably wish they hadn't. WCVB, ABC's affiliate in Boston, featured a story about a convicted child rapist who was released from prison over a year ago. Though he had recently registered in New Bedford as a Level 3 sex offender — the most dangerous designation in the state of Massachusetts — Corey Saunders managed to walk into a public library and rape a 6-year-old boy in the stacks.
 

For the lead-in to this traumatic story, the reporter obviously intended to comment on the judicial oversight in letting Corey Saunders (above) roam the streets, but what the reporter actually said was that this was the disturbing story of a child rapist who "slipped through the cracks…in more ways than one."For the lead-in to this traumatic story, the reporter obviously intended to comment on the judicial oversight in letting Saunders, whom prosecutors deemed highly likely to strike again, roam the streets. But what the reporter actually said was that this was the disturbing story of a child rapist who "slipped through the cracks…in more ways than one."
 
I'm not normally a nightly news watcher. Now I remember why.
 
What a colossal mistake. I sat watching the story with equal parts incredulity and horror, unable to tear myself away from the TV. Such a cringe-worthy choice of words must have been accidental. Yet this unfortunate turn of phrase was more than merely distasteful: it was thoughtless. It was a careless and irresponsible use of language. And it's not an isolated incident.

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