Chicken Fried Vogue

For 15 years and most of her adult life, Bubblez lived in the suburbs of a major metropolitan city. She enjoyed taking her children to museums, parks, and dates at Starbucks. Then Bubblez moved to the country and her En Vogue attitude got chicken fried. Her yard is a park where the neighbor's rooster won't stop crowing, Starbucks is almost an hour away, and her large collection of fancy shoes is worthless. But, living in the acres of green has presented more opportunities for living "green" as Bubblez travels the path toward self-sufficiency (and bitches ((and prays)) along the way).

Monday, September 24, 2012

Buying Bread In Country Song

One of my favorite things about living in suburbia was the local grocery delivery service. It kicked ass, yo. After a long day of heaven knows what I would have been doing, if I was tired or just didn't feel like going out (to the grocery or Target which were less than one mile away), I'd just plop my buns down in front of the computer and click, click, click: a week's worth of groceries would be on my doorstep the next afternoon.

Yeah, well, tonight, I'll be driving into town. We're completely out of bread, four of us need to pack lunches for tomorrow, and I've got no other options.

Around 9:30 at night, (it's SO late) I climb into the truck and make my way toward Country Song to the single, somewhat overpriced, grocery store where I'm one of three shoppers, and the only one with a cart, because, honestly, I never need just bread.

Grabbing some lunch foods for tomorrow and several packages of cheap hot dogs for the party next weekend, completely forgetting that we are also out of cereal and eggs, I head to the single open register where, half dead, I'm unloading my cart.

"How are you, tonight?" the fellow working the register asks.

"Exhausted," I say. "We're having a party next week, and I spent all day cleaning out the barn so there'd be a place to step in out of the weather."

"What kind of animals do you have?"

"Huh?" (Animals?) "Oh. Uh, we don't have any. We just moved there. It's more of a tractor barn. I mean, we have dogs and cats and stuff but no, uh.."

"No farm animals."

"Right. I was just moving out scraps of wood and tires.."

His eyes lit up a bit. "You can use the tires for people to sit on." He smiles.

I obviously looked confused. "Well, maybe. There's no middles in 'em." I chuckle, and cock my head. (Ugh, my grammar)

He looks at me bewildered. "I guess it depends on how big they are."

Now, I'm catching on. "Oh," I say, "they're not big tractor tires."

And this poor dude is now wondering why there would be any other kind of tire in a tractor barn. Well, because, it's not a tractor barn. I just said that because I forgot that my half pole barn is not a tractor barn. I think, around here, it's called a shed. Heck if I know. Anyway, a tractor barn is something different. And so, as not to look like an idiot, I pipe in with: "a friend of mine just cleaned out one if his.. out buildings.. and they pulled Eighteen tractor tires out of there."

"Wow. (Blah blah blah)"

And now we're done, and I can go. "Thanks for the chat," I say.

"Have a good night."

It was a nice chat. I used to have little chats with the check-out ladies who worked near my house in suburbia, too, but those were always sort of vague and rushed, even late at night, which was midnight, there. When you talk to the clerks in Country Song, it's always slow and natural, like talking to an old friend.

Having loaded my bags into the pick-up, I head toward the edge of town to drop off a couple of Redbox movies outside the CVS before making my way home.

See what I did there? THE cvs. Everything here is THE. THE Wal-Mart, THE McDonalds, THE Kroger.. if you're in THE next town over which is farther away by five or ten minutes.

CVS is the only store in Country Song with a Redbox. We just got it about a year ago.

Having returned the movies, I then drive two blocks to the covered bridge, and shoot out of town down the middle of bumpy back roads with my brights on so that, hopefully, I'll spot any deer or other critters before they jut out where I might hit them.

The roads are pitch black, as is my driveway where I dim the headlights but leave them on while finding my way to the house. The automatic shut off for the truck lights usually gives me just enough time to find the light switch inside the mudroom, after I cut the engine and climb out.

Between the open mudroom door and the open truck door, I have just enough light to get the groceries inside without running into anything or tripping over any thing that is not one of the cats which are circling my feet wanting a snack of their own.

It's such a pain in the butt, and it'll be worse when winter comes, but maybe by then we'll have bought meat to fill the freezer and stock piled canned goods from the garden enough to keep me from reaching the point of desperation, and I can spend my evenings curled up in a warm chair instead of out chatting it up with the poor lone soul who's working the register at the local market.

I doubt it.

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