Americans at Loblaws

So I’m in the packaged meat section shopping for bacon. I push my cart off to the side and step closer to scan the selections. Bacon’s bacon as far as I’m concerned. Some has less salt, some is just non-accessorized bacon. So it really just comes down to price point for me. A good lean cut at a good price.

I start to move toward what looks like a promising pile of packages and hear in a mid-west bark, “Over there, dear.” I look over and there’s a casually dressed 60s-ish couple. The shorts-wearing James Cromwell guy is leaning on the cart with one arm and pointing to the bacon with the other. Mrs. Cromwell, lets call her Trixie, is quite something in her yellow top, pink capri pants, and rhinestone thongs. Her blonde hair is sprayed and poofed in a Beach Blanket Bingo 'do and the bangs are separated from the bulk by a black hairband. She must have been a real looker before 8-tracks. I swear I saw her in commercial during a first run episode of Bewitched hawking harvest gold appliances.

Trixie draws a bead on the bacon and barges in front of me. “’Scuse me, hon.,” she says as she bends in and starts rifling through the packages.

“No problem,” I say as she gives me a view of what I’m sure she thinks is her best side. I’m not up on the barging etiquette of suburban Indiana, so I wait it out.

Trixie says to the bacon, “I like the one with less salt,” as she pokes through the reduced salt packages.

James says, “Maybe the Canadians don’t measure that.”

I wait it out.

He speaks up and says, “I guess the Canadians don’t measure that.”

I’m not sure if that’s aimed at me or Trixie, but Trixie is distracted enough to look up at him and move out of the way. She’s dislodged a good looking package from the pile and I grab it while I have the opportunity and make a hasty retreat.

There’s a cart jam in isle 6. A guy is overwhelmed by the selection of salsa while a woman is waiting to get some and everyone else is reduced to one lane to squeeze by.

As I approach, the guy says, “I moved to Toronto from Phoenix, Arizona, (he actually says the city and state) and I gotta tell ya, you got better salsa here.”

The waiting woman starts to respond but the guy speaks up to talk over her, “The Mexicans make it in Arizona, but what ya got here is better.”

I take my turn to squeeze by and see that he’s choosing between Old El Paso and the store brand. The woman realizes it’s not a two way conversation, so she stops trying and leans on her cart until she can get to the shelf. The guy’s face turns sour and he says, “Guess they don’t have the hot,” while he continues to ponder his options.

What’s the deal with American visitors? I was on vacation in Michigan for a week last month and people were polite and friendly. I had a great time. Some of my best friends are American. But the one’s who come here (at least the ones who make themselves known) seem to think that they’re the show and we’re the audience. And I thought it was just their president.

A Stroll Through Oak Park, Illinois

My Albatross (Part 1)

I have social anxiety disorder. It’s not who I am or what I think, but it drastically limits how I’m able to function with people. It’s sometimes called social phobia. Like all phobias, it’s an irrational fear of something harmless.

Do you know anyone who has extreme anxiety or panic attacks over things like heights, flying, spiders, snakes, enclosed spaces? It happens to me in crowded places, when strangers approach, dealing with authority figures, job interviews, or having to speak at a function or meeting. The thought of going to a party sends my anxiety soaring.

When I tell people about this, they usually respond, “What? You? No way!” I've gotten pretty good at hiding it most of the time. Outside, I’m calm and have a quiet, strong demeanor. Inside, I’m wound tight and am consciously controlling my breathing and relaxing my muscles. It’s incredibly distracting. It makes it hard to concentrate on what’s going on around me and what people are saying. And if I miss what’s going on, I can’t participate effectively, then my anxiety rises and I have to consciously control … you get the picture.

What’s the long term solution? Well, my fight-or-flight response somehow became associated with harmless social interactions. It doesn't matter how at this point, though it’s probably largely hereditary. The solution is to change the association. I have to learn to associate social activity with pleasure instead of fear. I want to enjoy being social.

The short term solution is medication. I take Paxil and lorazepam every day. I take additional lorazepam if I know I’m going to need help dealing with a situation. They have helped, but not without cost. They have raised the bar so that I’m reasonably functional in public. But lorazepam is a tranquilizer. And though it’s a godsend to have some relief from anxiety and to ward off a flat out panic attack, being tranquil takes the edge off things like ambition, motivation, mental acuity, and joy. For the most part it’s a good trade off. The trouble is, the short term has lasted ten years so far. It turns out that changing psychological associations is extremely difficult.

Best Fishes

A high school classmate contacted me on Facebook this week and asked, "Remember me?" She's married, so she gave me her maiden name which sounded familiar, but I wasn't sure.

I found my memorabilia box with yearbooks in it and flipped open 1979. A large photo dropped from inside the front cover. I picked it up and Steve Martin smiled in a white suit with a fish sticking out of his jacket just above the top button. The autograph reads, "Best Fishes, Steve Martin." It was an insert from one of his albums. Remember that? That was awesome!

I saw Steve Martin once playing poker in the Mirage poker room in Las Vegas. He was on a break during the filming of Sgt. Bilko. He was in a seven card stud game. There was a list a mile long to join Steve's game. He wore a red baseball cap with his head tilted forward so the brim gave him privacy. No one was bothering him.

When I finished playing, I racked my chips and headed to the poker room cashier. As I walked by his table, his head tilted and the brim of his cap rose to reveal his face. He looked straight at my eyes. His face was deadpan. He showed no emotion. Maybe it was his poker face. I knew of him as a comedian, so his blank faced stare was extra creepy. I felt like he was daring me to annoy him. I left him alone and continued on to the cashier.

In one of those wish-I'd-thought-of-it-at-the-time moments, I wish I'd smiled and said, "Cheer up. It's a game!" and continued walking without intruding.

Best Fishes Steve.

I found my classmate's picture. I remember her being in some of my classes, but we weren't in the same social groups. It makes me wonder what I did to be memorable to her.