Monday, September 26, 2005
Pulled Nick early from the game to go to karate back in our own proletariat ‘burb. Dropped him off and took the bambini to downtown Prole Burb for the farmer’s market. It was lovely. We stopped at the bank first and so I had ample cash to just buy what I wanted—fresh green beans, tomatoes, a big fat crusty loaf of bread and an $8 bouquet of zinnias and sunflowers.
Nothing like a farmer’s market to get your liberal jive going—it makes me feel like I am simultaneously protesting the war AND preventing cancer from ever invading my body.
I was SUPPOSED to go to the anti war protest, however I got roped into Snack Shack duty. You laugh. I manned the booth—overcoming MASSIVE mathematics fear, doing calculations in my head--$20 minus $4.50, etcetera, without showing my absolutely craven and absurd inability with numbers. It’s almost like a form of dyslexia, exacerbated by a near-panic fear of being exposed as an idiot. Ah, most people just saunter through life, while I sweat each seemingly routine moment. Snack Shack: an exercise in how many phobias? We’ve lost count. But it was fun!
At one point I was ALONE in the shack—handing out foil wrapped buns and whizzing through figures like a 1950’s soda jerk (heh, good word). I felt like I had just wandered onto the set of “Happy Days.” The suburban communal swell of it all! And I could be counted on. I am a good mommy! I can wrap buns and organize items and DELIVER! I am a community mom!
Cynicism is another word for reality