Mmmmm, Goat Cheese

It's funny how you can tell a lot about a neighborhood just by going to the local supermarket. For instance, the Publix Market at Coral Ridge Mall. That store is in a area dominated by a lot of older Jewish people, and old French Canadians. I really don't like to go to that store very often because I spend most of my time reaching for things off the high shelves for the old ladies who think I work there. Meanwhile, while I am getting bran flakes off the top shelf for the old ladies, their husbands, who can barely see over the top of the shopping cart, are banging into my ankles because they can't see me.

Here in our neighborhood, Wilton Manors, we have a little Publix that is more like a gay club with snacks. It's just weird to be shopping for groceries while guys are parading up and down the aisles in muscle shirts and short, shorts. Besides, it tends to distract me from my reason for going there. More than once I have forgot the very thing I went to the store for, because I was stalking some guy in the dairy aisle.

Friday, Mark abducted me after a haircut to go grocery shopping at Albertsons, which is in a heavily mixed area. By mixed I mean, old, young, gay, straight, black, white, brown, but by no means wealthy. It is an absolute freak show, and though I don't like shopping, at least it is entertaining. In the course of a half hour of shopping, I saw a middle aged man wearing a long page boy haircut with sideburns taped to his face, a tall fat man with a tiny backpack talking to himself, and a fat woman verbally bitch slapping her husband in the meat department. I felt like I fit right in. The only bad part about shopping that day was the old man who smelled like a goat. He seemed to cross my path at every turn. The only time I didn't see him was when I was in the soap aisle. I'm sure he's missed that aisle many a time.