My Grandpa Works at Kroger

Rob and I went to Kroger, our local grocery store, by ourselves. That hardly ever happens, but my Dad was at home guarding the kids, so we went on a short "date."

We bought peppers and lettuce and dinner rolls and other various things, and headed for the check out. The line was short and soon we were standing in front of the cashier.

Normally when I'm at the store, I've taken in my surroundings in the check out line. For a few reasons:
1 - I'm trying to ignore my children and keep my sanity amidst their shouts for candy.
2 - I'm checking out the magazine racks. You have to keep your eyes moving quick if you want to see the latest headlines about Jon Bonet's killer and Jen's baby news and Brad and Angelina's relationship woes. It's my 3 minutes of celebrity gossip--about all I can stand.
3 - I'm trying to assess how quickly the bagger is going, so I know how quick I'll be out of the store. I'm not picky about the baggers being fast, I just want to know so that I know how long I have to keep my children at bay.
4 - I'm looking for objects that would be easy to shove into pockets, and I'm watching my children's hands in relation to those objects and their pockets.

But my children weren't with me. And my husband was. So I was chatting with Rob and being friendly with the cashier. Watching the items I'd purchased to make sure the right prices rang up (do I normally care? No. Just get me out of the store!). And then I turned and saw the bagger.

And I froze.

There was my grandpa, more than 10 years passed, bagging my groceries.

I just stared at him. He was probably in his late 70's, had thin white hair, his nametag said Richard, and in general he had nothing in common with my grandpa. Except for his hands. His hands shook.

It's hard to describe that shaking. But I know it from my childhood. By the time I came along, my grandpa was an old man. As long as I'd existed, his hands shook. And I hated it. I held those hands SO TIGHT, trying to make them stop shaking. It never worked. And I would wake up some mornings and my hands would be shaky and I would be so afraid, thinking my hands would now always shake. Just like Grandpa's.

And suddenly, in the middle of Kroger, I was that 9-year-old little girl, trying to stop the shaking. I looked at Richard, and my heart ached. It ached because I couldn't stop my grandpa from dying, and because I still miss him. It ached because, for a moment, Richard WAS my grandpa. And, damn it, my grandpa should NOT be working as a bagger at Kroger.

I wanted to grab Richard and say, "Don't you have a son you can live with? Can no one take care of you? Does no one love you?" I wanted to offer to love him. I wanted to take him home right then and give him a place to stay. To offer him my home, my food, and my care.

It took Richard a while to bag everything, and we had to wait an extra few seconds. He finished and then looked up into my eyes to say, "Thank you. Have a good day." Richard's eyes were old, but they weren't tired.

We walked out to the car and I bawled like a baby. Rob asked what was wrong. I explained, and then admist angry tears I shouted, "My grandpa SHOULDN'T be working at KROGER!" I cried some more. "But that's crazy," I said. "I don't even know the man."

When I got home I talked with my Dad about the old man I'd seen, how he'd reminded me of Grandpa (my Dad's Dad), and how I'd cried. My Dad went into politics, the changes in the economy, and the disappearing retirement packages. No encouraging words about how maybe Richard wanted to be working, out of boredom. Let's be honest: he probably was there because he had to be.

And in that moment I firmly decided: Too few of our elderly are taken care of.

My grandpa should NOT be working at Kroger.

I'm Manic Depressive

I don't know what's wrong with me.

You can hear me say that for 3 days out of the month. Over and over and over, for those 3 days. It's awful and I try to laugh about it, but really I want to rip someone to shreds and/or laugh and/or cry and/or go to sleep for days. I can feel violent and vulnerable at the same time. I wish I were dead. I can feel bitterness and anger towards people that never deserved a piece of it--towards ANYONE, really.

That's the Depression part.

And for 3 days of the month I have more energy than I know what to do with. Passion, spontaneity, life, love. I could accomplish anything. I talk non-stop. I dream like a high schooler. I clean the whole house in about 2 hours. I am patient and ridiculously easygoing with my children. I jump around boxing the air and leap into Rob's arms, laughing. Nothing can faze me. I'm on top of the world.

That's the Manic part.

But for the other 22 days in a 28 day cycle I'm just normal Tamra. Not manic. Not depressive. Just normal.

I despise the depressive stage. I adore the manic stage. But I like normal Tamra the best.


Being a woman sucks. I have been wondering if, when I die, I can face God (or the Devil, whichever I end up meeting) and say, "So, WHY AGAIN did I have to go through all this woman stuff? Couldn't you have designed women better?" I'll say that right before I grovel at His feet and say that I know all things were for my good.

Ronald Reagan

I have been thinking lately about Ronald Reagan. Because conservatives talk about him like he was a political deity, and liberals think he was a putz. I'm not sure which one is right (quite possibly neither--most people are somewhere in between a deity and a putz), but I know that when I hear conservatives talk about Reagan, I wanna puke. He couldn't have been ALL THAT, right? I mean, the man was cute. But was he a good president? Was he a good man? I don't know.

As if in response to my pondering, Reagan was a pal and showed up in my dream last night. And there he was, cute as ever. All smiles. And he was getting ready to give a speech about the accomplishments of his presidency. Roomful of giggling women who weren't really listening to anything he was saying. And he was working the room with his charm. I was on the edge of my seat, waiting for him to answer my questions in his meaningful speech.

But he never got to his speech. He oozed charm and wooed the women, but he never answered my questions.

I wasn't angry (can you be angry with an apparition of a man who has passed away?), but I did sigh in disappointment when I woke up. What better chance will I get than a personal dream visitation?

Oh well. I guess I'll just have to wikipedia him.

All That Potential. Overrated. (and now gone)

Every now and then I think about how grateful I am to be "past my prime": If I was going to do anything genius and wonderful and amazing, I would have already done it. (Not that I can't do anything good after age 30, but academically and athletically, it's over. Brilliant people show their colors by the age of 25.)

I feel like a tremendous weight has been lifted from my shoulders. No longer do I have to wonder if I'm going to do something Great; I know I won't. And that's a great relief, let me tell you.

I'm not even bitter and trying not to be. I'm serious. I've been striving my whole life to be mediocre and normal. But I've been too "talented" to pull of mediocre. Now, however, I'm the typical suburban stay-at-home soccer mom writing about my mediocrity in a blog that only 5 people in the world read, which means I've finally found my averageness!

... For so long I felt like I was waiting around for this genius to surface. Like people were waiting for me to "make something of myself." I was supposed to cure cancer or feed the world's poor or become a professional or something like that. Do something Important, you know? It's nice to have that period of my life behind me. Makes me feel like I can breathe a little.

Incidentally, I do feel like I'm doing something important (so I don't need a pep talk). I chose something fulfilling and wonderful and even note-worthy. It's just mediocre. And I like that.

Conscience of a Non-Commital Slightly-Left-of-Middle Liberal

I'm reading a book called The Conscience of a Liberal. I didn't find it on my own, it was suggested to me by my True Liberal friend, whom I love and adore, and with whom I have many great, non-stressful political discussions.

I thought, from the title, that I'd learn all about my conscience. Sort of a self-discovery process. But, no. It's not that I haven't learned anything about history or politics. In fact, I've learned a ton about FDR and his New Deal. But I've learned nothing helpful about myself.

Hold up, not true again. This is what I've learned about myself: I'm not a True Liberal. I'm not even very liberal at all. I'm sort of a slightly-left-of-middle liberal. The book touts the ideas of liberals, like every True Liberal should whole-heartedly agree with them. And maybe they do. Hence, maybe I'm not one.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for equality. But the question is what KIND of equality? Racial equality? Then whole-heartedly I'm liberal. Economic equality, meaning the equal distribution of income? Umm, I can't commit to that one. It's very Robin Hood-ish, and that's romantic. But I'm not sure I'm down with it.

Here's my entire problem with politics. I'm going to quickly lay it out, even though I'm pretty sure it makes me un-American (previously I've been calling myself socialist, since that pretty well equates with un-American, in most people's view, but I'll have to give that up. Socialist is DETERMINEDLY liberal). So at the risk of losing all my true blue American friends, here it goes.

I can't decide who's right. And I can't decide what I'm fighting for. Both parties call for us to hold true to the values that this nation was founded upon, and it's pretty un-American to admit that I'm not all for that. I mean, sure, this nation had some good ideas at the start, and has had some good ideas since. But it seems to me that we have forgotten ALL of the values that our country was founded upon. Seems to me that we founded this country upon the values of, among other things: mass murder, intolerance, and slavery. I'm proud to say that I'm not fighting for a return to those values.

Okay, so you say I should forget about those values. Only remember the GOOD ones. Except, isn't that missing the point?

And there's my main problem with politics. I think, most of the time, we're missing the point by a long mile. We're always taking politics out of context in a way that makes it nearly useless to discuss politics at all. Furthermore, we talk about politics like it's a cure-all, and we expect it to fix all problems. Even those fighting for less goverment expect the government to fix things. Which means, to me, politics often feels fake, forced, and ferocious: not my thing.

So I guess I shall remain a Non-Commital Slightly-Left-of-Middle Liberal. I'll take politics one issue at a time, thank you.