Spaghetti

Today I spent about five hours over at my parents' house, hanging with my mom, dad and sister, and making them dinner.

I'm not a cook by any means (though somehow I can make a killer Thanksgiving dinner; luckily that's only once a year), and spaghetti must be the simplest meal in the world, but there you go: I made it exactly the way my mom makes it, which is no gourmet recipe (brown the meat, add the spaghetti sauce, add to the noodles); it was a hit. I also made a (dead simple) salad and bought those yummy round French rolls that are always so perfect for tuna sandwiches.

I was in a bit of a crabby mood on the way up to Culver City today. For one thing, traffic sucked. I hate weekend traffic because it never makes any sense. Then, when I got over there, my mother was asking complicated questions about her living trust that I am unable to answer. I wish I knew more about that stuff but on the other hand: I don't want to know! I don't want to know!

This head in the sand attitude is not very productive, I know, I know. And someone needs to understand that stuff. But why me? I'll get over this bad attitude, I know. I will be more helpful. This is my job. Today, however, I just didn't feel like it.

And, I just realized that I was headed north on the 405 freeway on a Saturday without any show in Santa Monica to work, and I think that might've had something to do with my bad mood. Doing a show every single weekend is sometimes (quietly now) a bit of a pain in the ass, but when it's gone, I totally miss it. Cast of "The Chairs"? I miss you. Okay. So I get it now.

Anyway, after awhile her friend Margie came over, and I went to the store to buy supplies for spaghetti making. I went to the local Pavilions, the same Pavilions I played at for the opening with the marching band a hundred years ago. The same Pavilions in which Drew and I did a few photography assignments using fluorescent lighting (which would be impossible today, because they've totally re-done the market with more natural-esque lighting). The same Pavilions where Drew swore that the mostly silent but very cute, much older (then) blond checkout guy was flirting with me. The same Pavilions where we used to buy our grab bag six-packs of exotic beers, which we drank on the beach, on his balcony, in Mark's backyard.

But this post isn't about the old days.

This post is about how irritated I was while shopping at Pavilions.

For one thing, the store was overrun with people. I am totally spoiled by the wide open aisle of the stores near my house, where I am free to push my little cart (I love those little mini carts!) right down any aisle my heart desires. In Culver City, right from the start, when I hit the spaghetti sauce aisle, I was thwarted by an Englishwoman wearing ridiculous high boots (lady: it's 98 degrees outside. Get real) and her American male friend, who were discussing the sodium content of every jar of sauce in sight.

Hey, it's an important discussion, I get it. But mom had sent me with a vague description of a "new" sauce she'd tried last time (not the usual brand) and she couldn't remember the name of it, except that it maybe started with an "R," and it wasn't Ragu. I squeezed in between Boot Lady and her pal, and tried to figure out what mom could've been talking about, but besides Ragu, there was not one brand that started with an R. I settled for Bertolli's Tomato and Basil because... it looked prettiest in the jar.

I only had a few things to buy (spaghetti, sauce, bread, a cucumber, salad bag stuff, ground turkey) but because the damn store was so packed with people (seriously. Is there nothing to do in Culver City but go to the grocery store?) navigating my way (especially in the produce area) was treacherous.

And I'm just going to go out on a limb here and say that those shopping carts for kids, the ones with the little red car attached to the front? Those things are fucking stupid. They're a hazard. Why so huge, man? When I was little, I was happy to ride in the (unpadded!) kid seat, or even in the basket of the cart itself, where I risked losing a finger every time I poked my hand out.

Anyway.

Finally I got in the express lane, and I'm standing there, waiting my turn in my crappy mood. The whole time I was waiting, this woman was standing to my left, practically in my lap (had I been seated). She was an older lady, with her daughter who was my age or older, and I guess I could've politely excused myself (pretended to be in her space) but I just couldn't work up any kind of energy for being polite: so I ignored her. When it came time to communicate with the checkout lady, I felt like explaining to the lady behind me, too. "Oh, my club card doesn't swipe anymore, you'll have to punch it in. Yes, can you see, lady? The card's been de-magnetized or something, so she has to punch in the number now. Can you see what's going on here, or am I in the way?" And my PIN number for my debit card - I felt like I was being watched. It's possible she was somehow touching me. She totally gave me the creeps.

When I got home, though, and heard what fun mom and Margie were having in the living room, I stopped thinking about me and whatever my deal was, and set to the task of making a good (or good-ish) meal for my family, something I never do. I put on my mom's old lady apron (it's like a little overshirt, with a loud floral pattern, about 10 sizes too big, with a pocket for my... tissues? iPhone?), started boiling the pasta water, and got to work.