Within the parish that I abide, in Venice the Whole Foods finally opened at Rose and Lincoln and there has been an alarming amount of rejoicing.
At last. A food temple, within walking distance, where I can buy a yoga mat, apricot beer, soy candles, organic paper towels infused with lavender, anything "stone ground", $47.00 whole wheat pasta and really powerful tampons. I cannot think of anything else anyone would ever want. Ever.
Last night my husband and I walked from our house to The Temple and picked up some broccoli and tomatoes. I need to tell you that the tomatoes were not heirloom. Heirloom tomatoes are Very Venice. Not heirloom is Very Un-Venice.
"These aren't heirloom." I said to my husband.
He looked at me like when he looks at me when I try to explain how to use the Turbo toilet cleaner. Can't we...just...be...I picturing him thinking. No! We can't just be! We must buy heirloom. Tomatoes. With antique gold chains.
We opted for the normal toms and brought them proudly to check-out. I think they let us buy the regular, sub-par tomatoes because my husband surfs and surfing is Ultimate Venice, therefore cancelling out anything remotely resembling Un-Veniceness-ous-nesh-ocity.
On the way out, we pranced past the throngs of happy people eating cous-cous (apparently happy for having scored a FREAKING PARKING SPOT) and noticed a big pile of crap on the sidewalk (the kind of crap that looked like it was dropped, SUDDENLY by a small family that had been attacked by a murderous tribe of Pawnee Indians) ---dirty plastic bags, a book with shredded pages, a shampoo bottle that looked like it'd been run over by a Prius and, of course, the usual crumpled, poopy underwear.
In the split second I strolled past, I flashed on who might be missing their undies and felt a moment of horror. What the hell is going on with someone that their soiled underwear ends up 20 feet from gleeful screenwriters overpaying for unsalted butter?
Mrs. Mildy Organic