Ghetto Fabulous

Lovey Loverpants does most of the grocery shopping for the household, largely because he has sonic fruit-selecting abilities that I do not possess. If I am really honest about why I do not do most of the grocery shopping for the household, though, it is because I am not a proficient ghetto shopper; I am not conditioned for shopping in the ghetto. Now, I take care in using the word ghetto. And let me explain the implications of "ghetto" when I use it.

Ghetto, originally, from what I understand, just referred to a particular neighborhood where a particular ethnic or religious group settled. Greek Orthodox ghetto over yonder, Jewish ghetto just around the bend.

So when did ghetto become a derogatory? I knoweth not, historians, but I suspect it was somewhere around the time when the middle class began to dissolve in this country, when the chasm between upper and lower class widened, and the bridge between Brand Name Orange Juices and Generic Orange-Aid stretched much further than it had before. And suddenly, the kind of juice you buy manifests just exactly on which side of the tracks you live.

So to say that I shop in the ghetto is to say that I patronize businesses in a lower-income neighborhood. Sure.

But ghetto, in my mind, also refers to an attitude. Being "ghetto" is to be gritty, is to be not-to-proud, is to be unafraid to be loud. When I go grocery shopping in the ghetto, the experience is very sensual. Children scream and bash into my cart. At 10p.m. People smell odorous. People audibly express distaste for nasty looking foods.

And I? Am a little fawn in the forest who lost her mother.

I am not a snob. I am just ill-prepared to contend with the loud, the smelly, the all-up-in-my-grille when I am just trying to get some pita and hummus and soy milk and organic bananas for the week, for the love of my blessed little rations! I am so white for saying this, I know, but I just cannot be bothered, is all, and therefore I cannot appreciate the colorful, cacophonous experience of ghetto grocery shopping because I am five months pregnant and doggy-dog tired and I just want to get outta theya.

And for thinking those thoughts, I have been punished.

Last Saturday night, I headed to ghetto plaza. And, as five months pregnant had me, I decided I would get my exercise by parking in the most remote pocket of the parking lot. It was so remote, there were aboriginal tribes living there, who had never seen themselves in a mirror before, and had never heard of Netflix. I flitted from one store to the next, reserving my grocery shopping for last since I'd be hauling two big cartons of ice cream home.

Because the ghetto plaza is smart, ghetto plaza knows that its patrons will steal shopping carts. Therefore, the infrastructure of the ghetto shopping plaza's parking lot has cart-guards. That is, if you've stupidly parked in a remote corner of the parking lot, far far far from the grocery store whose cart you are using to transport your groceries, you will encounter a problem. Your cart will stop, abruptly, just as it passes over the invisible fence barring the cart from moving any further.

I glimpse my car, still parked in the remote part of the parking lot, forlorn and far far far away. Because I am in the ghetto, I do not have the option of leaving my cart where it is and to go run and fetch my car and bring it to the cart. Someone will pilfer my ice cream. And the rest of this bounty of groceries.

So I push. And then I pull. I am dragging a cart with no mobile wheels half-way across New England. And I am five months pregnant. And it is 10 p.m. at night in the ghetto shopping plaza. And people are pulling over to get a look at this crazy cracker who thinks she can outsmart the system.

Who's ghetto now?

Hor-motional Cry for Help

Fievel Mousekewitz has returned to our home uninvited, and the sight of his spindley tail makes me want to cry.

I cried shallow wells of tears on my way to work because "The Weepies" song "Simple Life" is one of the saddest, sweetest songs ever composed. Also, it is written by a band called "The Weepies."

I cried writing a tribute on Oprah.com to my co-worker who is preggers and who just bought her first wig because, oh yeah, she has stage 2 breast cancer, as well.

I cry each time I think about how I should be celebrating the fact that twenty-seven is the twenty-sexiest age to become, but all I feel is depressed about another candle on the cake.

***

If hormones and pregnant lady emotions were an army, they'd be trouncing my brain and leaving a trail of tears in their wake.

If I could be any appliance, I would be a rotating sprinkler, flailing my arms as I irrigated the earth with my tears.

Is it possible that I've already given birth (but didn't know it, and am still fat, and can't find my baby) and am suffering from post-partum already?

Justification by Pregheadedness

Dear Baby,

Yesterday Mama meant to go to prenatal yoga, but she couldn't get out of work on time, and there are worse things than walking into an already begun yoga class (i.e. genocide, famine, curdled milk), but yesterday, it just didn't seem worth the awkward consequences. So Mama went to check out the Newest Suburban Cesspool of Consumerism, for marketplace research purposes only.

Oh, and because Mama is hoping that Pampa and Granny come through on birthday wishes, she also ended up spending what she might prospectively receive from the g-parents. Because sometimes, Baby? It's about you. A lot of times, it's alllll about you. Which is great, you're the first thought when I wake up and realize that I cannot spring straight from the bed but must rather wriggle out of the covers like a butterfly emerging from her cocoon, and my last thought in the evening when Papa comes and hums in a deep baritone about frisbee injuries and chocolate soy milk. But occasionally, Baby, it's about Mama. First there was M-A-M-A, then there was B-A-B-Y, like Fantasia sings it, Baby. So yestereve, Mama put Mama first and she contemplated going into Sephora to buy some new make-up, some new mineral make-up, in particular, but guess what, Baby? If you're not a girl, you probably won't understand the fortuitousness of this, but Baby, in that suburban cesspool, there was an actual store that exclusively marketed the mineral make-up Mama was seeking!

In Mama wandered, but there were some suburban tweens dominating the counter, so Mama took a spin up and down the staircase outside of the store, and then meandered back in and met with Ashley.

If there is one thing Mama appreciates, Baby, it's informative, attentive service. And kindness is just the icing on the cake. Ashley the sales assistant presented Mama will the proverbial birthday cake -- in the middle, informative, attentive service; thoroughly iced with kindness.

Now, Baby, Mama ain't a sucker. She knows when someone is trying to pimp out Tinkerbell brushes and Turtle Wax and call them magic! But Ashley was so attentive to Mama's uneven skin tones. She suggested products enthusiastically, but not presumptively, and all of the trade secrets to mineral make-up foundation were all right there for the taking. Also, Baby, it's kind of nice to be told that one is "gorgeous." Not just because Mama might buy some product, but because Mama feels as though she is a a swollen piece of sashimi all slumped over a big mound of rice these days and it's nice to receive superficial praise. Bottomline, Baby, Ashley did her job, and Mama walked out with a new kit o' mineral make-up.

And because something like 7% of Mama's brainpower is devoted to thoughts of whether or not I'm listening to enough Tchaikovsky for your brain building, she walked into the department store loo and proceeded to walk out without the mineral make-up.

And didn't realize her negligence until...

she got to the car cum only one satchel...

racing as fast as her stubby pregnant legs would take her, she dashed into the stall last used to find no bag in sight...

...but some manner of shopping angel must have swooped down because Mama approached the sales assistant who had just taken the forsaken bag of minerals into the staff office.

::Sighs huge pregnant belly worth of relief::

Your mama may be a spaz, Baby, but at least her skin tone will now be even.