What's Up in Aisle 12?

Oreo Cakester? If I'm looking for a subtle chocolate flavor flanked by wonderfully fluffy cream, I'm going to buy an Oreo. Perhaps I should be more specific: I'm going to buy a REAL Oreo.

Listen here. I'm from the street, and I eat my Oreos the right way, with milk and NOT in cake form. I might dig on some Oreo ice cream or maybe even an Oreo mini, but why would I bastardize my sweet, sweet sandwich cookie perfection by turning it into a charlatan "cakester."

Dear Nabisco: stick to the cookie. If I wanted shitty chocolate sponginess, I'd just buy some Pillsbury cake mix. OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH! I just said that!


















Buy 8 or more and get a $0.50 discount on ice cream? Seriously? Safeway is basically telling us: you can save $2 if you stuff your fat asses with 15,000 heart-stopping calories of Neopolitan. I have news for you Safeway, I can't be a member the Safeway Club if I'm dead.


















It felt like a peach and smelled like a peach, so why the hell did it look like Saturn? And this wasn't some strange retarded peach; the whole basket looked squatty and deformed.

And oh my goodness, what are these Fruitty-Pebble sized oranges in my supermarket? I asked the grocer "What's this?" and held up the perplexing miniature. "Hmmm. I forget what it's called. It's like, a small orange."

So helpful.

Tyrannosaurus Cookie

At first, I just assumed the outline on the display was misprinted. But then I found tyranno after tyranno with the weird proportions and confusing appendages.

Is that his jaw? His arm? And what about the larger protuberance near his other leg? I am so confused. And of course, the Sur La Table sales person thought I was being a jerk when I asked, "Can you describe this cookie cutter to me?"

Maybe a baker with frosting and imagination could salvage the basic shape into something recognizable. But for me, laymen baker, this tyrannosaurus cookie is simply strange.

What a shame. The king of the dinosaurs deserves much better cookie representation.

Spring Break!

I really enjoy being a teacher: I get to tell little kids what to do and what to think. And best of all, I get paid for it.

But even with teaching catering to my wonderfully bloated sense of superciliousness, Spring Break is a fabulous perk. What other job gets a scheduled week off right when the flowers are waking from their hibernation? when the sunshine and the air smell crisp? when Persephone herself walks the surface world again and kisses us on our winter-cracked cheeks?

Sixth period was the school-wide Spring Party. My students and I sat in my classroom licking Safeway frosting off Safeway cupcakes. Chip Ahoy cookies crumbled to the floor. And we laughed together like a middle-school clique.

My students assaulted me with "What are your Spring Break plans?" today. Amid the Tahoe, Disneyland, and Vegas anticipation, none of my eager students could believe that I was going to sit at home and relax.















It's going to be a good week. Me so happy.

Made in the Shade

I saw this kid riding a flatbed shopping cart, and I actually felt jealous. Gone are the days where someone would push the cart with me riding along. Sure, I can coerce my brother to push me for a little while, but self-consciousness rears its head after a minute or so. And if I'm lucky enough for a push, the weight of my adult body causes the cart to fishtail inelegantly out of control.

Going solo, like I'm sure many of you secretly do, I push-start myself down the lanes of the parking lot, and when I have enough speed, I jump on the back of my wheeled bobsled and glide. Though just for a few seconds, the ride is perfection.

Like always though, the momentum decreases, and the cart starts drifting towards the bumpers of the parked cars. We are forced to put our feet down and step back into reality.

Simple things like that are hard to come by: fun with no strings attached. Like going into Toys 'R Us and not worrying about paying the rent. Like buying ice cream and not worrying about getting fat. Like playing a video game until 5 am and not worrying about work the next day.

Glad to Be a Low-Key Dude

I'm glad I'm a low-key dude, so I can buy my 6 for $6 Fruit of the Looms that come in sealed packages.

Sexy underwear is nice but not when it could have the disclaimer, "Other people may have had their junk all up in the fabric of this fine undergarment; buy with caution."

Maybe if I were high-class I could afford special sanitizers to get rid of strangers' skid marks and underwear glue.

Women's Buttons on the Left?

I was in the Women's department at Nordstrom's the other day, shopping with an old friend from college.  I decided to accompany her largely because she is pretty, and being around a pretty girl, even if she is just a friend, is still better than sitting at home watching rerun Olympic Curling.  Plus I had a coupon for a free Auntie Anne's Pretzel. 

While I was licking buttery cinnamon sugar from my lips, she rifled through the racks with deep focus.  Her mouth was slightly agape as if she was hypnotized, and her eyes darted back and forth along the metal rods of hanging clothing as if performing long division in her head.  All the while, she was whispering things to herself; I'd catch bits like "I have something like that already," or "That's the worst thing I've ever seen," or "Where the crap are the twos?" 

Having finished my pretzel, and wanting to kill some time, I decided to try on a stylish overcoat.  The orange lining caught my eye.  It looked like it might fit me, and I checked the tag in the collar: GIRLS XL.  

It actually fit pretty well.  The seams fell in all the right places, and I filled out the bust very nicely.  But when I tried to button the coat, I was confused.  The buttons were reversed!  Looking down at the open front, the buttons were on the left side, not the right.  My mannish fingers struggled with the oversized buttons.  I fumbled as I tried to invert my right left coordination.  It was a surreal yet familiar feeling...like brushing your teeth with your left hand. 

"Why are the buttons on the wrong side of this coat?"
"All woman's clothes have the buttons on that side."
"Why?"
"So when we're face to face, and you're taking me out of my top, you won't have any trouble since the buttons will be on the correct side for your mannish tendencies."

I knew she was joking, but it was one of the sexiest moments of my life. 

Confusing or Ingenious?

How Do You Know?


Baby, I gotta go watch Lebron do a triple double.

Boy, I don't even know what you just said.

Dial Down Your Drama
www.bom411.com









This advertisement in the mall is just weird.

Take a good look at it before proceeding, reader. It's such a strange and hilarious ad.

Such a nonsensical billboard must have had a higher purpose. So I visited www.bom411.com. It's actually a pretty ambitious site to help youth couples through their troubles (or "drama") by offering advice from specialists and other teens. The site is geared towards preventing emotional and physical abuse and promoting strong relationships.

"BOM" is an acronym for "Boss of Me," implying a sense of self-confidence and choice while still maintaining that youthful rhetorical edge.

I felt kinda bad for laughing at an ad for a worthy cause.

And that got me thinking. Maybe the ad was designed to be crazy. Though it was confusing, perhaps it was ingenious in its insanity as it would attract people, like me, to visit their website.

Hmm.

I'm too tired to think about this now. I'm going to go watch Lebron do a triple double.

Pancake Day

Apparently it is customary to eat pancakes today as part of Fat Tuesday. This Pancake Tuesday is the last day for butter, eggs, and sugar usually restricted during Lent, which starts tomorrow.

For me though, today made me think of my dog, Pancake. He was pretty confused when an evening news report on Fat Tuesday prompted me to start screaming, "It's Pancake Day!" and giving him crushing hugs and smothering kisses.

Silly dog got a feast of a dinner. How often is there a day named for your dog?






My Chihuahua/Pug "Pancake"

The Andre-the-Giant Apple

I don't think this has ever happened to me. Usually, I forget to buy apples, and then when I run out, I spend a few apple-less days regretting my forgetfulness. Thus, having two generations of apples overlap is very rare for me; I guess I had above average foresight this weekend.

But with two apples, one old and one new, I realize they are very different. Look how much bigger the right one is! When I buy fruit at the store, I buy uniformly, but with these apples from different shopping trips...whoa! Softball to baseball. Mastiff to chihuahua. Andre the Giant to Asian woman.

Some of you might poo poo on my awe. They are different breeds of apples, so there are bound to be different sizes. You've never seen differently sized fruits before?

But you know what, naysayers? I don't care. I was so jazzed-up about my discovery that I ate both apples in one sitting! They were so different, and yet, so the same.

I'm so happy.

Mwa Ha Ha Ha Ha!

What's up with these Halloween things in February? I'm not sure why, but I was both spookily afraid and pleasantly surprised today.

It must be a sign that the Halloween gods are pissed that October is so far away. I'll give them a big "mwa ha ha ha ha" to appease them.

MWA HA HA HA HA!
(yeah, it's a real thing)

Used Underwear

I saw this in the store, and I was confused. Who would buy underwear that had an opened package? This wasn't even the last box of that particular item or color. At least 10 identical, non-opened boxes surrounded this.

If I worked at the Returns Counter for the store, I would have just given the customer their money back and told them to keep the undies. My store looks cheap and dirty having products like this out.

Maybe the customer just opened the box in the store to look at the underwear patterns, but still, those aren't good odds.

When girls try on their swimsuits with that hygienic barrier, I still cringe. There's something off-putting about tight, binding clothing being near sensitive zones. I can imagine the germs literally jumping the skin-tight gap. Even if my own brother wore a pair of my silk underwear on accident...garbage. "Used underwear" is not a term in my lexicon.

And the scariest part: I was at the store the next day, and they were gone.

Tasting the Rainbow

I've never seen a green parking cone. What a sight. And suddenly I feel like eating some Skittles.

What a great start to the weekend. I'm so happy.

Fruit Cocktail

It's too late. The expiration date on the bottom is 2/2009. Canned fruits have expiration dates years in advance. Like batteries. Or condoms.

I've stored this 6-pound can for three years, never piercing the lid with the circular edge of a can opener simply because the idea of a fruit parade, waiting just for me, in a light syrup is too appetizing.

The grapes are my least favorite; they are too squishy and wrinkly like I imagine the eyeballs of a corpse would burst in my mouth. I eat them first, just to make room for the divine pear chunks. Ah, the pears. So crisp and sweet. Fillet minion textured with nectar-sweet juices. Even though the grapes are nasty, they are necessary. In the wake of their consumption, rises, like the penitent phoenix, the glorious pear.

I'm so sad. I had to throw away my big can.

Holiday Peeps

It's been several years since I've conceded that Peeps just don't taste that good. Don't get me wrong: I love Peeps. Their crystalline sugar coating, their spongy innards, their whipped white stickiness. I'm one of those fellows that buys three packs of Peeps at Easter time because they're cute and eats only about four chicks or bunnies before the teeth and stomach groan from the sugar load.

But I'm no Peep expert. I think today's trip to the market proved that point.

In the candy aisle, I came across Holiday Peeps in the shapes of Christmas Trees and Snowmen. Several ladies gawked at the supposedly grown man, who was too lazy to get a cart, drop his gallon of milk and three jumbo Mr. Goodbars with a squeal of delight. I was excited...to say the least.

I quickly bought four trays, two of each species, and scampered home, ready to consume my bounty with holiday cheer and milk. After an entire life of eating Peeps, the company had gotten it right: another holiday to share in the charmingly adorable treats. I was Indiana Jones; I had unearthed the Holy Grail of Peeps, and I was secluded away in my apartment ready to explore this undiscovered bounty.

Little did I know that seasonal Peeps beyond Easter are an old occurrence. There are Halloween Peeps, and 4th of July Peeps, and even Valentine's Day Peeps.

I am out of the Peep loop. I'm ignorant. And worst of all: I'm sad. All these holidays that I've been alone, celebrating in solitude without the comfort-companion Peep. Today's shopping trip showed me that I need to know more about Peeps. I thought I was in. Actually, I'm out.

Gingerbread Quandary

The holiday season is trimmed with indecision. Sale prices, store inventory, and frantic mobs paralyze me into procrastinated holiday shopping. Happiness only narrowly outweighs the holiday debacle that is shopping.

These sentiments were epitomized by my recent grocery shopping trip where I was frozen by two Pepperidge Farm cookie options: one, the year-round Ginger Man or two, the seasonal Ginger Family.

On one hand, the Ginger Man is year-round and, thus, consistently delicious. But to that end, he is familiarly predictable. He is crispy with a powerful bite of snapping ginger, and his face shines with crystallized sugar. Though he is slightly amorphous, his shape is undeniably recognizable as cookie decadence. He is an old, trusted companion, but I was tempted by another.

The Ginger Family is seasonal and, thus, annually exotic. But were they too chewy? Were they too thick? Like all new things, the Family was loaded with both potential flavor and potential disappointment. The distinguishable characters were lovable and sweet. The father's combed hair showed he was well-respected in their gingerbread community. The mother's humble apron showed home cooking was waiting just inside her edible house. And of course, the two children played, hands baked together in solidarity and love.

Both offered something magical and comforting. This wasn't a simple gingerbread quandary; this was an option that would stick with me, shaping the taste of my dessert for days to come.

But in rebellion to the overbearing indecision and consumerism of the season, I did what every overweight, cookie lover would do: I bought both.

Awe

I had a craving for some salad and a steak sandwich, so I went to Pluto's. I owe a debt of gratitude to the Wednesday-night lull as the typically hectic and haphazard ordering line at Pluto's was replaced with a wonderfully empty ordering counter. In fact, I only saw three other people: two boys and their mother.

"You want to watch?" She coaxed the two boys over to the glass window overlooking the 20+ toppings at the salad station. The two boys toddled over to her, and the mother quickly grabbed a chair from the seating area for her two young princes on which they could view the salad tossing spectacle.

I have to credit the staff at Pluto's tonight: the salad technician channeled his inner Benihana showmanship. He added each item with flair and gusto. He banged his salad tongs on the metal bowl as if beating an ancient war drum. He tossed the salad high into the air; the boys had to tilt their heads back, mouths open, to watch the medley rise and fall.

And the boys loved it. The older one left excited fogs of breath on the glass, and the younger one clapped his hands together, the imbalance almost causing him to fall off the chair.

Afterward, the three of them sat down to eat. Mother with her salad, and boys with their sandwich halves. They were still there when I left. I tried to catch the eye of the younger one, just to say hello, but he was too busy smiling.

Two Orange Starbursts

I knew it was going to be a great day; I ate candy for breakfast. Halloween candy in November is fabulous when you're a child: the lingering elation of the holiday sustaining you just long enough to reach Thanksgiving. But when you're an adult, Halloween candy is dangerous. Those small, "Fun Size" portions call to you like a seductive whisper on a cold night.

Hey. Come eat me. I won't make you fat. Your teeth can survive a tiny coating of corn syrup. What's one tiny bag of Skittles? or an inch of Twix?

Even in the face of that danger, though, I tore into this Halloween left-over Starburst pea-pod, and, even with the permutation odds against me, I found two orange squares coquettishly staring back at me. Orange is the best flavor of candy, isn't it? The exoticism of citrus, and the stimulation of its vibrant hue. Ah, yes. Orange really is a treat for the senses.

I knew it was going to be a great day. Both fate and deliciousness were on my side.

It's October!

I don't go Trick-or-Treating anymore, so the shiny plastics and sequin cloths of the costume aisles don't interest me in the same way. I walked the lanes of Target gently perusing the costumes sealed airtight in thick plastic bags. I try to imagine myself looking spooky or festive in the costumes, but all I can see is frivolity and expense.

I know some people really devote themselves to this holiday. They plan their costume on paper, driving store to store unifying disparate pieces into one magnificently wicked disguise. I just don't have that kind of patience.

No. For me, my October pleasure is much more simple. In mid-to-late October, stores like Target realize Halloween is less than two weeks away, and they panic at the Sisyphean mound of Franken Berry, Boo Berry, and Count Chocula. As a result, the prices drop from the $3 range into the $2 range.

When the sales begin: That is when October festivities really begin. I spent $30 buying more cereal than I could carry. The 31st is for the boors. The cheap, spooky cereal...that's the holiday.

The Odd Couple: Toilets and Mirrors

In a public restroom over the weekend, I noticed this toilet-level mirror reflecting back my full-body profile of me urinating.

Why have this four-foot mirror in the restroom? The typical vanity mirror was intact, so for what was this extra mirror?

Finishing up my "business," I started feeling like one of those criminals in the interrogation rooms at police stations. I felt like a gruff David Caruso was watching me through a one-way mirror. I felt like there was an extra person in the room watching me, scrutinizing my every action.

I'll admit that I was more concerned about my posture while using the toilet than my actual aim. Maybe that is why the bathroom floor was so yellowishly disgusting. Again, I'll admit I did nothing to help the situation.

It's like when you go to your friend's house, and the entire wall behind the toilet is one giant mirror. If you're a guy, it's hard to know where to look while you use the bathroom. You feel weird watching your genital area from a third-person perspective, but it's also weird to stare into your own eyes while you're peeing.

It seems obvious that mirrors in bathrooms need to be eye-level and not reflect anything below the bellybutton. Too much is at stake to place reflective surfaces haphazardly in such a sensitive location.

A Real Life Peep

I was out shopping today, and I spotted this tiny bird sitting on the edge of a parking-lot median. It's hard to tell from the picture, but half its body was hanging off the ledge naturally condensing the chest feathers into its pectoral region. Because of this unusual posture, this bird looked just like a Peep.

It's strange, almost meta, that the abstract design of the marshmallow Peep was actually emulated by a real life bird. Maybe this isn't a big deal to someone who spends more time with birds and their reclining postures. But for me, a city boy, I can easily say this was the highlight of my weekend...and it's not even Labor Day yet.