Grr's About Kid Glove Grocery Shopping

I sat in the car driving five miles under the speed limit and my mom sat reluctantly in the passenger taking one long drag, after another, on her cigarette as if it were her last lifeline possible. Her foot pressed into the floor board, looking and pleading for a break pedal that wasn’t there; undoubtedly regretting her choice to let me drive which apparently turned the car into an automatic death trap with misaligned tires and a broken rearview mirror. Her every audible gasp, that came at each well executed turn and lane change, made me cringe. Each time with a deep breath I blew it off, much like last years taxes.  As a few more breaths of this nature passed, I realized the shift that happens between my own entity of a life and that with my mother. I wore kid gloves.  Of course there are kid gloves where you avoid harsh topics and scrub out any profanity; however those are not the kid gloves that present themselves here. Here every corner is sanded off of a rough word and your voice as you carefully select each word is placid and smooth--well thought out. Your mouth, plastered with a plasticine smile, slowly and rhythmically delivers directives on evenly punctuated breaths for a meticulously planed trip… for groceries. And no, not “groceries,” some sketchy underground pseudonym for a detailed drug heist in the thick of the FBI, but the things you randomly buy to feed individuals in a household. Normal. Freaking. Groceries.  As we trekked through Meijers I had to not only keep her on track, for fear of getting lost in the difference in one off-brand of bread and another, or the time honored debate of original or whipped yogurt, but also manage the impulse to go on a high alert of terror level red as we approach an aisle with more than a soul or two scraping around it’s metal shelving’s and edges. This impulse automatically had my eyes craning for any sign of sharp objects or cleaning products that could be craftily juggled into a low to mild grade explosive, of course this may have may have been my indulgence in overkill, but it is greatly preferred over the alternative similar to a particular General that may have come running out of a soon to combust tent…  Before I ramble further, I will get to the point. Wearing these gloves is exhausting. With every extra stressor you blow off, like the reminder of your late taxes, the tension will build—just a little, but oh, my friends, it builds. And eventually the stress, the IRS, or what ever you call it, comes knocking at your door—and it wants your attention, your faculties, all right now.

            This moment came with the semi. On our journey home mom had resumed her silent begging for our Lumina to turn into an English modeled car with all controls in front of her. The big red semi was approaching from the opposite side of the intersection, veering slightly into the wrong lane. Watching this and rapidly debating sacrificing my right of way to avoid becoming pavement art, I began to slow and move towards the shoulder. Seeing this snail speed drift, my mother finds the open, golden opportunity to question my capabilities.  Mind you, to her my certified evasive and tactical drivers training means about as much as the cigarette butt she just stuffed into the trash.  True I can effectively identify and evade ensuing bodies in a rather tactical manner, however, my basic driving and decision making skills are “clearly” lacking.  To deter ranting on about topics that move to fast for my mind to put into words, we’ll make it short. My mother starts screaming “turn, turn” like the loon that just found its voice. And I do, like the idiot that paid attention—accelerating, cutting off the semi, and eliminating what ever patience I had left, time to do the taxes I suppose.  I fire off all the reasons sudden screaming in a confined space is less than a great idea and short reminders of my driving capabilities as though I was jamming the paper work of the procrastinated taxes into the mail box and then I shut the hell up. I barely uttered three words during the remaining twenty seven minutes of our trip home and my mother continued to pray for a pedal, however, much like my taxes, I am now done with this, only I’m pist-off and not getting any money back.

….damn you exhausting kid gloves.

Almost Daily's... tehehehe

What right minded college student decides to start a blog right before the insane rush of exams? Apparently this one.  Even though a few small people would dispute the right minded part, I'm still the idiot that did it.  So as exams devoured my life, they also claimed the "Almost Daily's."  But, once exams are over I pledge to get back on track... almost.... I'll try.