POTATO CHIPS 2
I put down the pimento-cheese container. Self-consciously, I wipe my face. I feel clumps of cheesy spread dripping down my chin.
“Officer, I’m so glad you’re here! I want to make a citizen’s arrest. This store tried to poison me. I think their crummy potato chip gave me mad-cow disease.”
I shove my half-eaten chip at the security guard and the stock boy. The latter steps back like I threatened him with a knife. The stock “boy” is actually an older gentleman, balding and stooped. It’s nice to see they’re employing the elderly at something useful like stacking cans.
“I have to get my manager. Minimum wage ain’t enough to deal with this.” Mr. Stock-boy shuffles off, mumbling.
I turn my attention to the security guard. At first I thought she was a Girl Scout, but the blue uniform gave it away. She’s young and scrawny – maybe 90 pounds soaking wet.
She hooks her thumbs in her belt, trying to look tough. I bet she’s a rent-a-cop with an itchy trigger-finger and an attitude to match. She’s just waiting for me to make a wrong move so she can swat me with her night-stick.
I look at her name tag; it says “Sharon.” If I were a security guard I’d pick a meaner name; something that would strike fear in the hearts of hooligans everywhere.
How about “Layla”, as in the Wrestle-mania babe? Of course, Miss Sharon has a ways to go before even looking remotely like Layla. But it’s nothing that a personal trainer and plastic surgery couldn’t fix.
Sharon scowls as if sensing my internal dialog. Her security guard hat is too big for her. It slips down over her eyes. She fixes it hastily. I suddenly notice she has a pair of hand-cuffs on her. I wonder if I’ll be arrested. Can security guards do that?
“Officer, this isn’t what it seems. I’m not trying to cause a domestic disturbance.” I shake my head sadly, flinging leftover pimento cheese like a wet dog.
“I didn’t open this bag of potato chips. It was already open. Lying on the floor. I merely took advantage of the opportunity to conduct a taste test. I observed the 5-second rule before eating one of the chips. But I didn’t finish it. You can have the rest.”
I offer the chip once again. But Sharon’s expression doesn’t change. She makes no attempt to take the chip, merely folding her arms. I’m a woman myself, so I know that means “no thanks” — in her case, “no thanks, a-hole.”
“So where was I? Oh, yeah. In the course of consuming the aforementioned chip, I found it unfit for consumption. I suspect its potato genes have been tampered with. The taste says it all.
“Lacking the ability to properly dispose of this mutant potato chip, I was forced to resort to cheese spread. I figured it was better I eat pimento cheese to cover the chip’s taste rather than spit it out.
“And by the way, I plan to purchase the bag of chips and the pimento-cheese spread.”
Just then a large man, whom I presume is the store manager, hustles up. I see the stock boy running behind him, wheezing.
“What’s going on here?” His piggy little eyes bulge as he takes in the scene. “Give me that pimento cheese!”
He lunges for my spread. But I’m too fast for him. I feint to the right, neatly tossing the container into my shopping cart. Unfortunately, the top is still open. Pimento cheese splatters on me, the manager and security guard.
I hold out my hands, waiting for the cuffs.
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The grocery store was really crazy this past weekend. I suppose it was because of the Super Bowl game.
I hardly notice events like this. I’m not a big sports fan. I don’t understand the game of football and don’t care. However, I do like the way the men look in their tight uniforms. I especially like when they bend over in a huddle, with a white flag waving off their butts. Oh, baby.
After the game, the grocery stores run specials on the popular items. You can pick up snack food, like pickled pig’s feet, real cheap.
It’s a good time to stock up on staples. For me, that’s potato chips. I already have enough chicken broth to see me through the coming year.
I see there’s a special on the store-brand chips — a “buy two, get one free” deal. But apparently, that’s not sufficient enticement. The store shelves are packed solid with the “special” chips. The shelves on either side are completely empty.
I almost step on a bag of store-brand chips. The bag is partially open, disgorging a few stray chips. There are some ants crawling around. I can’t help noticing they completely ignore the spilled chips. In fact, they go out of their way to avoid them.
I retrieve a chip from the bag and examine it. It looks like a regular potato chip to me. It’s yellowish in color, darkening around the edges. A few salt crystals sparkle on its rough, wavy surface.
It looks manufactured, industrial. Certainly, this chip has never seen a rustic cooper-kettle on Cape Cod. The bag says the chips were cooked in Canola oil, which isn’t too bad.
But that doesn’t make the chip low-fat or good for you. There are chips made out of other vegetables with more fiber and vitamins. However, I’d still rather eat a fattening potato chip than munch on a healthy asparagus one.
I lift the potato chip to my lips. I extend my tongue gingerly like I’m afraid it might bite me. But I can’t get much of a taste. So I nibble on it. Then I take an actual bite. I’m startled by the loud crackling sound.
There’s a stock boy working on my aisle. He pauses and looks up. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me because of the glare from his glasses. He’s at a distance though. I doubt he can see the individual chip at my lips. So I just smile and wave.
He waves back half-heartedly and resumes his work.
I chew the potato-chip morsel. And boy, is it nasty. The taste is somewhere between stale crackers and salted cardboard.
I want to spit the chip out, but can’t. The paste forming in my mouth is as thick as wall spackle.
Frantically, I rummage through my shopping cart for tissue or paper toweling, anything to spit the chip into. I have nothing. I contemplate a mad dash down the paper-goods aisle. That’s when I see salvation — pimento-cheese spread. It’s at the bottom of my cart.
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t dream of marrying a potato chip with anything other than French-onion dip. But, I’m desperate.
I rip the top off the container and tear free the plastic seal. Gratefully, I bury my tongue in cheesy goodness. I think I’m making yummy noises, but I can’t be sure.
I don’t know how much time goes by with my face stuck in the cheese. But when I next look up, the stock boy is standing in front of me. And a store security guard. Neither look amused.
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Why do we suppress our grief? What is it about grief that we fear so much? It may go back all the way to some of our earliest family interactions.
As children, we laugh and have a good time with our parents. Perhaps we do something silly and they laugh. We continue doing this until everyone just roars. But then there are other times when we cry. A few childhood tears don’t usually cause much of an issue. However, if we carry on about something our parent’s have no patience for, like crying because we can’t watch some show or play with a toy that our brother has, then their response might be quite different. They may scold us and command, “If you want to cry, then go to your room and do it there.” So, we run to our rooms, bury our face in a pillow, and cry alone.
We condition ourselves into believing that if we feel bad, no one wants to be around us. We associate expressing our sorrow with “being bad.” So, we suppress it. We learn this lesson early in life. At that age we rely on our parents as our barometer on what behavior is acceptable and what behavior is not. Of course, we do this because at that age we haven’t yet developed enough maturity to think critically.
It doesn’t stop there. It becomes part of our early programming. We hardwire it into our behavior as we live through more and more experiences. We extend that feeling of “being bad” to every event that even slightly relates to sorrow. Being creatures of habit, we ingrain it as a pattern. So, we continue doing this our whole lives until we become neurotic and fearful to express our sorrow.
Then when a grief situation comes up, without even thinking, we hide away our grief as if it were something shameful. We bottle it away and the overwhelming pain shakes the bottle. Like a shaken bottle of soda pop that’s ready to erupt, our suppressed grief makes us want to explode. And each new grief event shakes the bottle even more.
If instead, we leave the bottle open, it dissipates, like an open bottle of soda that goes flat. Once all the gas releases, it no longer will erupt. Once all our grief is let out, we’re no longer bound up in pain by trying to keep it corked. We still miss our loved ones, but we’re not debilitated by the torture of unresolved grief.
All this springs from something as simple as cowering to our parent’s intolerance over the emotional outbursts of a child who’s becoming acquainted with emotions. Don’t blame your parents, they just did the best they could with what they had to work with. Most likely they learned that intolerance from their parents, too. As the saying goes, “History repeats itself.” No sense lamenting about our humanness.
Instead, recognize the irrationality of keeping our emotions pent up. When we’re happy, we don’t make any bones about sharing the power of our happiness with the world. The so-called negative emotions are just as powerful as the positive ones. They need release, too.
So, when you recognize sorrow creeping in, don’t run to your room and bury your face in the pillow. Confront your sorrow. Accept it has just as much right to express itself as does joy. Seek out the comfort of someone who you trust and who cares enough about you to be tolerant. Share your feelings. Watch the sorrow dissipate as you release the bottled up tension. Feel better. Then return this favor to others who experience sorrow.
And forgive your parents for their humanity. Being parents doesn’t automatically make them immune to fear.
NOTE: An excellent book worth reading on grief is “The Grief Recovery Handbook – The Action Program for Moving Beyond Death, Divorce and Other Losses,” ISBN-10: 0060952733, written by John W. James & Russell Friedman, respectively the Founder and Executive Director of the Grief Recovery Institute. It’s not a theoretical book explaining grief in psychological terms. It’s filled with practical advice and meaningful exercises that successfully moves the reader through the grieving process.
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