Surreal Shopping Adventures
I was standing in the card aisle at Albertson's a few days ago, my brain slowly turning to mush, paralyzed by the sheer number of choices in front of me. I'd made the mistake of stopping by the card section in the first place, looking for a tasteful, preferably blank card for Mother's Day. Needless to say, that was not forthcoming at Albertson's. Apparently they don't trust people to think of things to say to their loved ones for themselves. But as I was there, I thought, "Maybe I should get a card for my mom from my sisters and me. . . that would be good. . . I doubt they would have thought of it. . . this one will do. . but what if they have thought of it. . . what if one of them has already gotten something?. . .Oh, look, cards for an aunt, maybe I should get a card for my aunt (I'm actually going to be seeing these people, otherwise I wouldn't bother). . . oh, but it's her birthday on Mother's Day, should I get a birthday card instead/too? . . . and here's cards for grandmothers. . . maybe I should get one of those. . . " Those card companies are evil, I tell you. But the point of the story is that as I was looking at all these cards in a growing stupor, my eyes fell on somethig quite extraordinary. It was a card in Spanish, rather large, with a beatific, gold-trimmed picture of the Virgin on the front. The gilt Spanish letters read something to the effect of, "At this time of the year, we appreciate all the things you do, blah, blah." I idly picked up the card and opened it. Inside was a the characteristically Catholic depiction of the Sacred Heart of Mary -- you know, the picture where you see her heart exposed, surrounded by thorns and on fire. It's a bit odd to begin with, but this one went above and beyond. In the exposed heart was a small, red light that, as I opened the card, started blinking in time to "Für Elise," which promptly started playing in that high-pitched, distorted card-playing way. Living in Santa Fe, one gets accustomed to Catholic oddities (both earnest and malicious), but even so, this one made my jaw drop. I was standing in the card aisle, laughing out loud in disbelief. I really wanted to get it, to give to someone who would appreciate it, but it was rather on the expensive side, so I passed. I might have to go back though. . .
Then, if that wasn't odd enough, I finally made it to the obnoxious self-checkout that's usually more strouble than it's worth. Behind me I hear a voice say, quite clearly, "Habeas corpus." I hear a very young sounding child dutifully repeat, "Habeath corputh." I turn around to see a rather large hispanic gentleman with a small girl sitting in the grocery cart.
"Habeas corpus."
"Habeath corputh."
I'm not sure what this little exercise in juriprudence, or maybe simply Latin, was supposed to accomplish. Looking in the cart doesn't give any meaningful clues -- several cases of pop and a family sized package of cheap chicken. As I eavesdrop on their talk I gather that this man has temporary charge of the girl and it seems her mother is sick. Maybe he's trying to explain why she has to stay in the grocery cart: "I've suspended Habeas corpus," or perhaps he means it literally in Latin: the great advantage of adults over children.
When I get to my car, I find I do, in fact, have the items I believed I purchased, assuring me that this strange episode was not a dream after all. I'm not sure if that's comforting. . .
I was standing in the card aisle at Albertson's a few days ago, my brain slowly turning to mush, paralyzed by the sheer number of choices in front of me. I'd made the mistake of stopping by the card section in the first place, looking for a tasteful, preferably blank card for Mother's Day. Needless to say, that was not forthcoming at Albertson's. Apparently they don't trust people to think of things to say to their loved ones for themselves. But as I was there, I thought, "Maybe I should get a card for my mom from my sisters and me. . . that would be good. . . I doubt they would have thought of it. . . this one will do. . but what if they have thought of it. . . what if one of them has already gotten something?. . .Oh, look, cards for an aunt, maybe I should get a card for my aunt (I'm actually going to be seeing these people, otherwise I wouldn't bother). . . oh, but it's her birthday on Mother's Day, should I get a birthday card instead/too? . . . and here's cards for grandmothers. . . maybe I should get one of those. . . " Those card companies are evil, I tell you. But the point of the story is that as I was looking at all these cards in a growing stupor, my eyes fell on somethig quite extraordinary. It was a card in Spanish, rather large, with a beatific, gold-trimmed picture of the Virgin on the front. The gilt Spanish letters read something to the effect of, "At this time of the year, we appreciate all the things you do, blah, blah." I idly picked up the card and opened it. Inside was a the characteristically Catholic depiction of the Sacred Heart of Mary -- you know, the picture where you see her heart exposed, surrounded by thorns and on fire. It's a bit odd to begin with, but this one went above and beyond. In the exposed heart was a small, red light that, as I opened the card, started blinking in time to "Für Elise," which promptly started playing in that high-pitched, distorted card-playing way. Living in Santa Fe, one gets accustomed to Catholic oddities (both earnest and malicious), but even so, this one made my jaw drop. I was standing in the card aisle, laughing out loud in disbelief. I really wanted to get it, to give to someone who would appreciate it, but it was rather on the expensive side, so I passed. I might have to go back though. . .
Then, if that wasn't odd enough, I finally made it to the obnoxious self-checkout that's usually more strouble than it's worth. Behind me I hear a voice say, quite clearly, "Habeas corpus." I hear a very young sounding child dutifully repeat, "Habeath corputh." I turn around to see a rather large hispanic gentleman with a small girl sitting in the grocery cart.
"Habeas corpus."
"Habeath corputh."
I'm not sure what this little exercise in juriprudence, or maybe simply Latin, was supposed to accomplish. Looking in the cart doesn't give any meaningful clues -- several cases of pop and a family sized package of cheap chicken. As I eavesdrop on their talk I gather that this man has temporary charge of the girl and it seems her mother is sick. Maybe he's trying to explain why she has to stay in the grocery cart: "I've suspended Habeas corpus," or perhaps he means it literally in Latin: the great advantage of adults over children.
When I get to my car, I find I do, in fact, have the items I believed I purchased, assuring me that this strange episode was not a dream after all. I'm not sure if that's comforting. . .
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