This always catches people by surprise because I do it mostly when no one is looking. Just like my self-help books, they are not to be seen by others. For guests eyes, I will usually leave out on the coffee table a Hermann Hesse classic or something about astronomy and they will be listening to Led Zeppelin (which is also a classic, mind you).
The soundtrack that goes on in my Pandora and my car, however, is lately something boring you would hear in a coffee shop. My mother said from behind me, a week ago, "That's something my father would listen to," catching me by surprise in my room while I jammed to Louis Armstrong. "Please don't tell anyone," I joked.
With that in mind, I want you to make a mental picture of a small pregnant person driving a Jeep, where her belly is almost touching the wheel (no, I haven't traded cars with my husband yet), and the song playing is "Salt & the Sea" by Gregory Alan Isakov: (open this song on a separate window and come back here - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oIIryGosfZk).
Now picture tall, overachiever palm trees along the road and the ocean in a distance. It's sunny and uncharacteristically warm for a fall day.
Suddenly, the small pregnant person realizes that there is an over sized and camouflaged war truck tailgating her (now larger) behind uncomfortably close. Said truck finally passes small woman, speeding angrily, as if she is occupying space by driving on the speed limit.
About five tan helicopters, those with two helices and mean looking people inside, pass by also too close for comfort to the top of the Jeep on their way to land, interrupting Gregory Alan Isakov from singing about the salt and the sea.
Bombs explode in a distance, sounding like thunderstorms, shaking the windows of the car momentarily.
Men in uniform stop to salute the Jeep while parked in a red light because it has a sticker on it that announces who is driving it. I'd hate to break it to them, but this small pregnant person with a pink tank top is no officer. I wave, a little embarrassed, but secretly enjoying the salutation.
Other trucks, tall trucks, show up out of nowhere, angry music playing in their speakers, and pass the Jeep that plays the mellow song. The young looking drivers with their heads shaved give the pregnant lady a stink eye, until they notice surprised that the driver is a short civilian girl and that there is a blue sticker on the car, and they slow down.
You see, my music and I don't belong in a military base. We are too calm and too pregnant.
I wondered with my buttons, "Why is everyone so pissed off here? Is it a prerequisite to go to war?"
I arrive at the commissary pre-thanksgiving and realize why that is; the overall bad mood, that is.
All kinds of elderly people and pregnant women have decided to buy turkey today as well. So this is where we round shaped and jazz listening people gather in a military base. Also, this is where we stand in the way, taking up space and just acting dumb.
Bottom line, the commissary is an infuriating place to be during the holidays (or any weekend, for that matter). For those who have never been to the commissary, it is a cheap grocery store on steroids, for military personnel only.
Because it is cheaper, you have to be armed with blunt rudeness and prepared to get frustrated. If you try to get cranberry sauce in a jar, for instance, you will be pushed and shoved so many times in your attempt to get it, that you may just give up and decide it is easier to make it from scratch, just because there is no one in the aisle of things that are made from scratch.
An advice to anyone that hasn't been to a commissary yet: don't go pregnant. You will need to pee fifteen times and when you get back from the bathroom, your shopping cart may not be there anymore. Heck, your cart may not be there when you leave it unobtrusively in a corner to go fight for the cranberry jar.
I leave the commissary so angry that now my Pandora plays Metallica and I am tailgating the person in front of me uncomfortably close, because I need to get out of this godforsaken place.
Now I understand why Marines are so pissed off all the time. It's not their training. It's the commissary.
The soundtrack that goes on in my Pandora and my car, however, is lately something boring you would hear in a coffee shop. My mother said from behind me, a week ago, "That's something my father would listen to," catching me by surprise in my room while I jammed to Louis Armstrong. "Please don't tell anyone," I joked.
With that in mind, I want you to make a mental picture of a small pregnant person driving a Jeep, where her belly is almost touching the wheel (no, I haven't traded cars with my husband yet), and the song playing is "Salt & the Sea" by Gregory Alan Isakov: (open this song on a separate window and come back here - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oIIryGosfZk).
Now picture tall, overachiever palm trees along the road and the ocean in a distance. It's sunny and uncharacteristically warm for a fall day.
Suddenly, the small pregnant person realizes that there is an over sized and camouflaged war truck tailgating her (now larger) behind uncomfortably close. Said truck finally passes small woman, speeding angrily, as if she is occupying space by driving on the speed limit.
About five tan helicopters, those with two helices and mean looking people inside, pass by also too close for comfort to the top of the Jeep on their way to land, interrupting Gregory Alan Isakov from singing about the salt and the sea.
Bombs explode in a distance, sounding like thunderstorms, shaking the windows of the car momentarily.
Men in uniform stop to salute the Jeep while parked in a red light because it has a sticker on it that announces who is driving it. I'd hate to break it to them, but this small pregnant person with a pink tank top is no officer. I wave, a little embarrassed, but secretly enjoying the salutation.
Other trucks, tall trucks, show up out of nowhere, angry music playing in their speakers, and pass the Jeep that plays the mellow song. The young looking drivers with their heads shaved give the pregnant lady a stink eye, until they notice surprised that the driver is a short civilian girl and that there is a blue sticker on the car, and they slow down.
You see, my music and I don't belong in a military base. We are too calm and too pregnant.
I wondered with my buttons, "Why is everyone so pissed off here? Is it a prerequisite to go to war?"
I arrive at the commissary pre-thanksgiving and realize why that is; the overall bad mood, that is.
All kinds of elderly people and pregnant women have decided to buy turkey today as well. So this is where we round shaped and jazz listening people gather in a military base. Also, this is where we stand in the way, taking up space and just acting dumb.
Bottom line, the commissary is an infuriating place to be during the holidays (or any weekend, for that matter). For those who have never been to the commissary, it is a cheap grocery store on steroids, for military personnel only.
Because it is cheaper, you have to be armed with blunt rudeness and prepared to get frustrated. If you try to get cranberry sauce in a jar, for instance, you will be pushed and shoved so many times in your attempt to get it, that you may just give up and decide it is easier to make it from scratch, just because there is no one in the aisle of things that are made from scratch.
An advice to anyone that hasn't been to a commissary yet: don't go pregnant. You will need to pee fifteen times and when you get back from the bathroom, your shopping cart may not be there anymore. Heck, your cart may not be there when you leave it unobtrusively in a corner to go fight for the cranberry jar.
I leave the commissary so angry that now my Pandora plays Metallica and I am tailgating the person in front of me uncomfortably close, because I need to get out of this godforsaken place.
Now I understand why Marines are so pissed off all the time. It's not their training. It's the commissary.
