So I’m actually a big fan of grocery stores. Now before you call me a 50’s housewife, let me clarify what I mean by “grocery store”. I’m not talking about the Stop & Shop’s and A&P’s of the world, or the buy-your-furniture-and-get-your-prescription-filled-while-you-buy-groceries mega marts, but the patchouli-smelling-“we-have-a-yoga-section” natural foods stores. I can literally spend hours perusing their essential oils section or filling up on bulk items while listening to Fleet Foxes or something featuring a sitar player.
Whole Foods, though enormously large, is also a haven for me. Most of them still have the warm colors and dreadlocked workers that make me feel right at home. The problem is that I live in Greenwich. And the Greenwich Whole Foods isn’t full of hemp sandal earth mamas or yogi men in capris. Nope, the Greenwich Whole Foods is full of caffeine-crazed blonde mothers of three who are perpetually late for something (translation: mani-pedis with the girls, lunch date with gay friend, zumba class, picking up the kid’s ADD prescriptions, bringing the Range Rover in for a service, etc…) They need their organic food and they need it now. I nearly get run over by an Escalade or Mercedes every time I walk through the parking lot towards the entrance. I try to ignore their stressed-out-I-miss-carbs vibe, but then my toe gets stepped on by a child who’s rushing past me with a cart. After an ear splitting shriek from her mother, I hear the chastising I’m-dissappointed-with-you-so-I’m-going-to-say-your-full-name tone (translation: “Madison something something, I’m going to count to three…”).
This shopping experience, however unpleasant, still pales in comparison to your average supermarket. In fact, the only reason I ever go into these blinding neon light establishments is to purchase something odd or impossible to buy organic (translation: ice and razor blades). I try to make the visit as short as possible, mainly because it’s unbearably freezing and smells of dead fish and Febreze. Everything looks hideously yellow from the overhead lighting and most of the packaged foods are fluorescent and could survive a nuclear explosion. I feel as though I’ve entered a time capsule when I walk past the deli section and see a line of people holding little paper tickets with numbers on them, waiting for the black screen to light up with their number in glowing red. I decide to make a beeline to the check-out line via aisle 3, the detergent / cleaning section (translation: Clorox-laden-chemical-shit-storm). I hold my breath until I reach the cat food section, then join a queue.
So now that you’re never going to go back to a conventional grocery store again, you can easily make the I Want to Live Forever juice. Juicing is incredibly good for your health and should be a part of your daily regimen if possible. When vegetables and fruits are put through a juicer, the liquid is extracted from the fiber or pulp, leaving you with a delicious beverage chock full of live enzymes, amino acids, vitamins and minerals! Popping synthetic vitamins cannot replace what living foods deliver to your body. Juicing is widely known as an important way to decrease your risk of certain cancers and other illnesses both for its nutritional punch and its oxygenating and alkalinizing effect on the body. Remember that diseases thrive in an acidic environment! There are many good juicers on the market, but the juicers most people recommend are the Omega juicers. I have a Breville juicer that works great. Important note: buy your vegetables and fruits organic, especially for juicing! The last thing you want to add to your juiced awesomeness is a bunch of pesticides.
I Want To Live Forever Juice
1 granny smith apple, cut in half
1 inch knob of peeled ginger root
1 small lemon, cut in half
1/2 of a medium sized beet, washed (optional)
Turn on your juicer and press all of your ingredients through, except for the lemon. Simply squeeze the lemon juice into your juice after its finished and stir with a spoon. Makes enough for one immortality-seeking unicorn (actually, they’re already immortal…they just have a thing for fresh juice).
So I have this cat named Dragon…
Her brother is Frodo Baggins. Frodo (ring-bearer and savior of Middle Earth) is very busy from sunrise onwards, protecting the ring (hair elastic) from Sauron (our dog Toast), and trying to find his way to Mordor (dark closet under stairs) with his sweet, but slightly dumb companion Samwise Gamgee (Dragon). Dragon does her very best, but she has long hair. You have no idea how difficult it is to poop in a litter box, and neither do I, but after much observation I have come to learn that you cannot poop in a litter box with long hair. Frodo? No problem: short hair (plus, he’s the ring-bearer). But despite her best efforts (which is essentially no effort), Dragon cannot poop in the litter box. There are only two possible outcomes for Dragon: 1) Poops in litter box, exits box, and runs around the apartment as though possessed by demons of the underworld upon realizing that poop is still attached to her butt. This is followed by the infamous butt drag, because what is the best solution when a turd is attached to your butt? Run around the apartment and drag your butt across the floor, which not only leaves brown skid marks but will successfully flatten the poop onto your butt so that the only method of removal is a very unpleasant twenty minutes in the bathroom with scissors. Frodo (ring-bearer) will then scratch the outside of the bathroom door and mew for Dragon while she is tortured (shaved) by Orcs (me or my husband). 2) Dragon gets in litter box, turns around several times, and poops just outside of box. This is followed by an intense “sweeping” session, which is when Dragon uses one of her front paws to sweep litter in several directions while the poop lay undisturbed and uncovered. Frodo (ring-bearer), as you might have guessed, poops in litter box, covers entire turd with litter, and leaves box, ring in paw and ready to roll.
But back to Dragon…
Sometimes, when you leave the litter box, the world looks different. For Dragon, this is nearly always the case. Upon these occasions of confusion, she reverts to her alter-ego: “Mrs. Crab Legs”. Mrs. Crab Legs is a flighty woman who spooks at the slightest rustle of wind, the tiniest creak of the floor, and the most ordinary movements of the Orcs and ring-bearer. She might look at you with an expression of terror, as if she’s never seen you before this very moment, as if her time in the litter box erased her memory entirely. She begins to scuttle her way across the room, but as she’s never seen you before, she must remain focused, and can’t risk taking her eyes off of you (you’re an Orc after all). Her eyes bore into your soul, but her legs continue across the floor, crossing in front of each other like a ghost crab upon the sand. This is about the time when I like to have an unannounced foot spasm. Mrs. Crab Legs, flighty as she is, leaps into the air with a supernatural movement that seems to begin from her tail and end at her head, as though being pulled up by an invisible string (the Orcs always have a good laugh when this phenomenon occurs).