April 5, 2008

Friday Shoppers vs Saturday Shoppers

I shop for groceries weekly, have to, that’s how the buck rolls. And with a husband and 4 young adult children (16-22) in the house, I’d face mutiny if I didn’t provide a steady supply of food. Of course, the worst they (the big kids, that is) can do is go on strike, which would look pretty much the same as it does now, or abandon ship, which I think is actually the point.

Before becoming a serious writer, I used to grocery shop on Friday mornings, my day off from the day job. But as a writer trying to put out a decent word count, I discovered Fridays offer me a priceless sanctuary: 8 hours of empty house. You can’t buy that, not even with homemade cinnamon rolls. Which I should have known would backfire. duh.

So I’ve started shopping on Saturdays. What a culture shock! I’ve repented of taking my Friday co-shoppers for granted.

On Fridays, I used to pass other single, swift shoppers with carts they’ve also made sure roll straight BEFORE they loaded up, lists in hand, good walking shoes on their feet and a goal in their eyes. These people know what they want, how much they want to spend and how many other stops they can make before the ice cream melts. They bag their groceries quickly, pay and disappear.

Saturdays, when the determined Friday shoppers are doing something productive, I am in the store with co-dependent couples and entire families who obviously don’t drink coffee or anything else that might shake them violently from their stupor and who:

1) don’t realize that the rules of the road could be of benefit in a grocery aisle,

2) don’t seem to notice that there are people waiting on either side of their ‘what do we want for dinner, everyone?’ logjam in the center of an aisle,

3) don’t move at any measurable speed,

4) just discovered there are choices of prices, sizes and brands and pull up a chair to ponder the differences,

5) move slower than a submission in a slush pile,

6) loudly discuss the drama in their lives for everyone else to hear,

7) bring tired, hungry, bored children to the store and ignore the amount of noise they make and where they crawl, stand, sit, play or poop,

8) wait until ALL their groceries have been rung up and paid for before they start bagging them,

9) stare at their cart full of bagged groceries and wonder how they’ll carry all this stuff on the bus home.

Haven’t these people heard of being proactive? Prepared?

Caffeinated?

I marvel at the couples who need to do their shopping together, as though they can’t make a decision, push a cart, or bag it up on their own. And who wait until Saturday, wasting an entire day doomp-de-doomping at a leisurely pace in a place where I want spend no more of my life than is critical to my survival.

Such a waste of time. Isn’t it? Or do some people actually enjoy being together no matter how much they block the aisles? Maybe they just know how to relax. Maybe they really LIKE spending an entire Saturday hanging out in a grocery store together. Maybe I should start bringing my husband and our gang with me to the store.

Maybe . . . then we could discuss our lives and our drama with each other instead of penciling it in on my list of things to do . . .
Posted by Camille Cannon Eide at 8:50 AM

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ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF. . . .

8 RANDOM FACTS ABOUT ME:

I wrote a NOVEL (more about it at the bottom of the page . . . keep scrolling).

I've been writing stuff - an actual literary term - all my life, but now, I'm serious about being published. Or pubbed, if you like. (It's so cute how writer people have all these enigmatic little code-names for things)

I love action movies and Jane Austen. (she’s dead, I know. I found that out when I tried to get her to endorse my novel)

They let me play Bass guitar and sing in a worship band.

I can produce 4 dozen homemade cinnamon rolls in less than 2 hours for a crowd of drooling young adults.

I have a Harley A 2002 Sportster 883. Chrome, black leather. Ram Horn handles. No sissy pink stuff.

I hate shopping (Yes, I'm aware that I'm a girl)

My ringtone is the theme from "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly"(whoo-00-oo-00-oo, waa waa waa)

I speak 3 languages:
1. Sarcasm, fluent

2. Teenage ghetto-girl slang: actually, I'm just learning. It's a difficult language to grasp as it changes without warning and involves complicated neck, hip and finger snapping motions that are often dangerous for middle-aged white people.

3. My native tongue: English with an Oregon dialect, which is much more pronounced with caffeine. Just sit in any Starbucks in Portland an listen fer a while, or head tord the mountn, you'll know whudumean.

I WAS THERE:
I was there during the brief Sonny & Cher period of Modern American history. (Anybody remember? Babe---I got you Babe---) AND the Belushi-Ackroyd years of SNL.

PROFESSIONS THAT I'VE HELD PROFESSIONALLY:
I have experience (meaning actually receiving cash) in numerous professions including a Preschool Teacher, Administrator and a Church Administrative Assistant. In these, I have conducted myself in a flawlessly professional manner. Truly.

I also have over 10 years experience in the honorary profession (meaning no cash, besides the sticky coins that turn up while cleaning the crevices between the seats in the car) of stay-at-home mom.

In addition to these, I also know how to do an unbelievably large number of random, useless things. Like greasing the hubs and changing the oil in a '56 International Harvester Scout.

MY BIGGEST PET PEEVE:
Stinkin over-achievers.

MY ROOTS:
I've lived in Oregon all my life, grew up in several towns/cities including Eugene, Springfield, Reedsport, and Smith River. Which is not really a town, but a river, about 70 miles long, a tributary of the Umpqua River in southwest Oregon.

Although it's not a town, it is a community with a strong sense of pioneer history. It's cool to say you've lived there, especially if you lived there during the days when you had to take a boat to school. No joke! The old farmhouse my grandfather and my mother grew up in still stands, nestled into a narrow, pasture carpeted valley, complete with a swimmin' hole and its own 'crick'. It's going in my next novel.

As a child, I lived for a year in Gardiner, Oregon, across the road from a Weyerhauser paper mill and spent that entire year thinking the noxious odor I smelled every day was coming from my brother's bedroom. (I'm still not entirely convinced it wasn't.)

One last root worthy of mention: there's a longstanding rumor that my ancestors had some connection with the Mafia back in Sicily. I used to fantasize during school about a big black limo with tinted windows pulling up and whisking me away.

Ahhh. THAT'S why I'm having so much trouble conjugating my dangling participles now.

Love Worth Fire - a Contemporary Women's Fiction with Romance

There was a natural, familiar bond that had developed over time. A bond that, until now, Ian had thought he shared with a wise, stout, tender-hearted little spinster nearing middle-age . . .

His his mind worked frantically to reconcile the Emily he knew from the letters with this one, and to accept the fact that this woman, this very lovely young woman, had been his pen pal for the past two years . . .

All widower Ian MacLean wants is peace. And a farm in the lowlands of Scotland should be the perfect place to find it. But he's too young for the life of a recluse, and he’s constantly plagued by an obstinate, mischievous grannie, bitter regrets, mislaid faith and worst of all—an ache for something he’ll never have.

Emily Chapman is a devoted caregiver to her frail great-aunt and lives a quiet life in a remote community in central Oregon’s high desert. Emily has also suffered loss and longs for a sense of belonging, of family.

When Ian travels to the States and meets his kind ‘old’ pen pal, he is surprised to find a lovely, tenderhearted young woman who shakes up what little peace he has and stirs up something in his heart he never thought possible.

But just when Ian and Emily’s dream of a life together is within reach, Emily discovers a devastating secret that crushes their hope for a future. Ian must relive the painful nightmare that scarred him once already. Can his heart withstand a second blow?

While Ian examines the strength of his heart and his renewed faith, Emily must decide if she has the courage to face her worst fears and truly leave those she loves in God’s hands.

****************************

CHAPTER ONE

Ian MacLean nearly escaped.

He made it to the edge of the lamp-lit street with only four hard strides bridging the gap between him and his freedom: Maggie’s farm truck. Even in the pallid streetlight, his grannie’s old rattletrap never looked so good.

“That’s far enough!”

A low growl rumbled up from his throat at the sound of Claire's voice, but instead of stopping, he sprinted across the road, digging into the pocket of his jeans for the key. He reached the truck and behind him, a car spattered up rain from the pavement, blaring the horn as it passed. At Claire, no doubt. Some things never changed. He had to be the only man in Scotland whose older sister still trailed him like a bullet if she thought he wasn’t sharing. Didn’t matter what it was.

With a sigh he turned, leaned against the fender and lowered his gaze to meet hers. Her eyes, usually dark like his, flickered with bright little sparks.

“You’re not leaving until I know what happened to my husband—that’s a dead cert!”

The top of her head didn’t even reach his chin, but that made no difference to her. Never had. He folded his arms loosely, hoping to hide his growing tension.

“What . . . you’re not happy he’s back then?”

“Are you daft? Of course I’m happy!” She frowned, but her voice softened. “This is where Davy belongs.”

“Good.” Ian shoved off and reached for the door. “That’s all that matters.”

“Nnnno . . .” She shot in before he could reach it and pressed her back against the handle. “I want to know how you got him to change his mind, Ian.” Claire gave her arms a brisk rub.

To the west, the lights of Glasgow cast a golden glow against the night sky, but the warmth of the sun had long since faded. Ian’s damp clothes took in the chill, pulling heat away from his skin.

“So what did you say to him?” Claire shivered, still rubbing her arms.

He shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

“Ah! How can you say that? Do you know how hard I’ve been trying to get him to come home?”

As she stood there with fists planted on her hips, Ian’s eyes fell to the spot in the middle of her belly, right about where the door handle would be. Her arms poked out on either side like the handles on one of Maggie’s blessed teapots, almost begging him to toss her out of his way.

“Nothing I’ve said has made a bit of difference, Ian. Whatever you did . . . you just saved my family.” Her eyes filled with tears, but her voice fell to a low tone. “And you don’t remember how you might have done that?”

His gaze snapped across the street to her second-storey flat, to the home she shared with four remarkable kids and one lucky, blasted fool. He had to fight back the ache that rose in his chest.

“We talked about . . . loads of things, Claire.”

“Aye. I’m listening.”

Ian sucked in a deep, cool breath. What he had said to his brother-in-law had not come easy. The words stung then, and they would sting now; swift and sharp, like a cold blade to an old wound. He searched her face, hoping for a weak spot. She didn’t flinch.