Yes, we have no bananas

Sometimes I forget that boys and girls are different.  I mean, obviously, we're different, but you know...I tend to believe that we think the same.

Then I go grocery shopping and remember.

For me, the aisles of the grocery store are treasure troves.  New curry powder, cherry diet coke, almonds sold in bulk.  So many discoveries to be made, so many delicacies to be tasted.  I gleefully weave my cart through the store over the linoleum tile.  I hum along with the soft-rock playlist. My mind imagines creations to be concocted as my cart fills up with brightly colored vegetables, exotic spices, freshly baked bread,  and whatever else it may be that catches my eye during the course of my market exploration.

Last night I went grocery shopping with an individual from the other side of the species.  We spent 8 minutes in the cereal aisle, only to walk away with oatmeal (the usual).  We also bought cheese and milk.  

"I'm  glad I'm not boy."

"I'm  glad I'm  not a girl."

I am currently without country

There's a picture of me hanging on the wall.  I'm 4 years old, dressed as a baby chick, with a feathery tutu and felt beak.  The photo was shot an hour before my dance recital, in which i gave a flawless performance, or so I was told by grandparents, repeatedly.  To celebrate such an astounding display of grace and artistic interpretation, we bought root-beer floats.  Mid float, something went wrong.  Without warning, I leaned over and vomited half the float and dinner all over Mom's lap.  Dad laughed. 

I wonder if sometimes my mom looks at me and thinks "girl who puked on me."  But then there are so many other applicable titles; "offspring which broke the kitchen sink," "the one that hit two parked cars," "daughter that dropped a computer,", etc.  

Thinking about children makes me want to take a preemptive nap.  And ibuprofen.

In other news, today Katie was asked out at the library.  She's going to a math convention with a boy who saved her number in his graphing calculator.