Acclimation Emancipation

I may finally be making the transition from New Yorker to San Franciscan. Among the many differences between metropolitan coastal juggernauts NY and SF (which, if you listen closely, you'll hear me mention no less than three times per minute), a few really seem to stick out. First of all, I seem to live with 7 people here instead of the more customary 10 in New York. Second, my room has a "window." I've read several articles about things like "sunlight," and "UV rays," and "windows," and the relationship therein, and have recently invested in sunscreen (also see "trees," "birds," "nature"). Third, and most striking, is the most phenomenally fantastic supermarket phenomenon extravaganza. Such establishments provide consumers with low, low cut-rate prices on more grocery products than a bodega-bred Brooklynite could shake a stick (or skinny-legged hipster jean) at. Why, just today I found myself caught in the thralls of Safeway's bank-busting club-card prices. Wow. Obviously overwhelmed, I stumbled through the aisles in a haze, barely comprehending what was passing before my eyes. Originally intending to purchase one small jar of pickles, I found myself unloading no less than !9! items onto the little conveyor belt thingy, pickles no where to be found. As I reached for the last item in my basket, I felt my fingers grasp the handle of a cool, plastic bottle filled with a rich, brown liquid. Whiskey!?!? Panic. Where? How? Why? It came rushing back in a flash. The stand had been tucked into a back corner near the cold cuts, and the sign had included the words "only," and "50%," and "Friday." I'd grabbed 1.5 liters of Tennessee's finest for a mere $14, and now found myself facing the cold, hard reality of my selection. Someone would have to consume the spirit, and I had a feeling that someone would, in large part, be someone similar to, if not in fact actually, me. A quick review of the ingredients confirmed it: 28% whiskey, 72% miscellaneous grain alcohol. The horror. I surreptitiously slid the bottle in between the Snickers and the Dentyne Ice, right at the eye level of an unsuspecting 8-year old. I paid and left, avoiding eye contact with the overly-friendly security guard. As I embarked on the return journey, my mind raced. Had I made the right decision with the whiskey? Didn't I need to go back and get some of those Cliff Bars for $1 each (now through July 31st)? Do I even eat cliff bars? Did I remember the pickles?!?!? As I consoled myself with a big-ass bag of Salsa Verde Doritos chips, a voice cut through the din in my head. "Hi!" it said. Again. And again. It sounded friendly. Why? Couldn't they see I was distraught? Couldn't they mind their own fucking business and let me go on my way unmolested, left to ponder fare wages, cheap produce, the cost/benefit of buying local, community supported agricultural products and the implications for Safeway's club card promotions? I gave a cursory glance. Jess. Pam. Safety. Freedom. Giggles. Wrapping myself in the warm blanket of the (seemingly) unprovoked onslaught of laugher, my head cleared. Thinking straight for the first time since I'd entered the store 8 minutes earlier, I remembered my original purpose: pickles. I passed off the bag to Pamica, put my game face on, and headed back. Minutes later, I reemerged with one (1) jar of Clausen's Pickles, and zero (0) of everything else. Acclimation complete.

Suck that, west coast supermarket.