alas, poor pomegranate!

A few years ago, while I was home for Christmas break, I stopped at Hannaford to pick up groceries for one of our Christmas parties.

A mother and son entered the store in front of me. She was a Power Mother – a woman with a purpose, smartly dressed, well groomed – in short, she stood out of the Utica sweatshirt crowd. He was a young teenager, probably 12 or 13. He was just growing into being embarrassed by Mom, but hadn’t grown into doing anything about it yet. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to stay by her side or try to sidle away.

I followed them into the produce department at a few paces. It seemed a slow day. They stopped at one of the first displays. As I skirted it to the right, in their sight-line, the mother picked up a pomegranate from the display, and proclaimed to her son as only a true orator can, “Now remember, we can’t celebrate the solstice without a good pomegranate!”

He was mortified. He wished a hole would open up and swallow him. His shoulders collapsed into his body. She could not have been more pleased with herself, so cleverly proclaiming her enlightened beliefs to the entire produce section without having to preach.

I glared at her with a look that can only be translated to “Bitch, please.” She saw me. She deflated a little. Lady, nobody cares. Nor does the rest of the produce section. I can’t celebrate the birth of Christ without a kielbasa and some pierogi, but you don’t see me proclaiming it to the bananas, do you? You’re ridiculous, and I’m going to go laugh at you. Get over yourself.

And Merry Christmas.


Leave a comment

Filed under story time, this actually happened

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s