Sometimes I feel like a bag lady.
Like for instance the time I was sitting outside in the rain (because I was having these spells of vertigo and had to sit down really fast or else) and two different passerbys in the span of five minutes offered me bagels.
Or my experience with food stamps. Well, more like coupons or Monopoly money. Living in California we were once again riding the lowest income bracket and subsequently eligible for free carrots (and not the organic kind) and one small bag of lentils (worth 1.27, I remember that distinctly), and one carton of milk (and no you can’t substitute soy so don’t even ask!), and one box of cheerios every month. Nice of the government sort of. Except that there is something extremely demoralizing about being told what kind of milk you can buy. I think after two trips to the grocery store, we gave our coupons away, figuring the trauma we were inflicting on our morale was not worth the twenty bucks we were saving.
And then yesterday in No Frills—because I shop there now (Do you know how expensive organic food is? My mother is losing her mind right now, weeping probably at what she has been trying to tell me for three years)—
Right, so yesterday…I go to No Frills just before closing. And let it be known I was wearing my pyjamas and one of Simon’s large sweaters, partly ’cause Simon brought it out of the closet and Elsie went “Mama’s sweater!” and I went ‘Fucking right,’ and slipped it on. (Why I was feeling triumphant about ownership, I’m not sure.) Now, one does not wear a bra with pyjamas, right? Are we in agreement? Even when you’re traveling to No Frills at 10 PM. No way.
So there I am collecting my items, my yogurt, my eggs, my organic butter (no compromising on butter, people), my can of tomatoes…in my pyjamas before rushing up to the cash. I smile at the clerk. She doesn’t smile back. In fact, she looks at me a little strange. Fine. Whatever. She’s thirteen, I say to myself. She doesn’t know cool. (‘Cause you know what, doing errands SOLO makes a parent feel cool. That’s all it takes.)
Then the bill comes out to $20.24 and I only have a twenty. And because the clerk doesn’t say, ‘No, that’s fine,’ I have to put something back. Bag Lady moment #1: I ho hum and pick the tomatoes. Why a Bag Lady moment? Because when you’re short 24 cents and nobody helps you, you feel pathetic and a little unlovable.
But then once I’ve paid, the guy in front of me who’s now packing his groceries decides he does want me to have the tomatoes. He hands me a quarter and says gently, ‘Get your tomatoes, okay.’ For some reason I feel compelled to respond effusively, ‘Really? Wow, thanks a lot!’ immediately followed by Bag Lady moment #2: when you’re short 24 cents, and somebody does help you, sometimes you feel pathetic too.
And then I realize I have no bra on, which makes me feel a little less pretty: Bag Lady moment #3. I leave with my yogurt and my butter and my tomatoes, all balancing precariously on my eggs, wondering if I should thank the .24 cents man again if I see him in the parking lot. Fortunately, he is gone and my confidence starts to return.
Next thing you know I’m back at home unpacking the groceries, humming away, and that’s when I have Bag Lady moments 4, 5 & 6: I catch my reflection in the mirror and littered throughout my teeth are chunks of kale leftover from dinner. And not the odd little speck, but large pieces of dark green matter. LARGE PIECES OF DARK GREEN MATTER.
End scene.
