And by gloves I mean slacks. And by slacks I mean pants, because who uses the word "slacks" these days?^* My point is, it's now official: the pants came off today at work. I used to be so proud of myself, too. On the upside, there's a distinct possibility that today marks my 1 year anniversary at this job (how the hell did that happen, anyway?), and I can think of no better way to celebrate than get fired for sexual harrassment.

I had some trouble getting off the subway today, specifically trouble getting off my seat. But I figured it wasn't the first time I had trouble with motor control on the subway; I just assumed I had been hitting the bars. On reflection I should have realized that maybe it was a little early for that assumption. Turns out that the reason I had trouble getting off my seat was that I was stuck to it by a couple of gummi bears, which now have to be painstakingly chipped / pulled / iced off my very nice pants. The pants which, as I mentioned above, are decidedly not on. Such a pain. I can only hope that the gummi bears ended up on that subway seat as an accident, and not as some malicious act by a candy prankster. More for his sake than for my own (the damage to me being done already) because in this current political climate someone going around setting licorice rope traps and gummi snares might be prosecuted as a terrorist.

Last night I made a frozen pizza in the new place. It was awesome. Unfortunately, our stove has electric pilots and is nowhere near an outlet, so there's an extension cord which goes from the wall by the refrigerator to the stove. It's currently running across the floor, which is really ghetto. I hope to have the landlord come in and do something about it soon (he's been really good about things like this: putting a closet in my room tommorrow, a new front door this week, etc etc). I bring this all up because getting the pizza was the best experience I've had in a long while.

I'm used to living in Bushwick, Brooklyn (aka Crooklyn, the proud home of the quality of life crime). Among other experiences I had in that district I used to call home were my twice-weekly trips to the ghetto grocery. And ghetto it was, from the produce resting directly on pallets on the floor to the great wall of goya products. I have incredibly low expectations for supermarkets near places I live. I expect to have to check my bag at the front desk, and be presented with a poster of polaroid photos of people caught shop-lifting (along with the dollar value of what they didn't get away with. Did I ever mention that before? It's really funny). And so it was with this level of expectation that I did a little food shopping yesterday, after another trip to Home Depot (which is going to be my second home for the next few weeks. Mostly to buy the same set of shades for the same two windows over and over. Which I'm not going to get into, but is an incredibly frustrating thing in my life right now).

The front of the Super Stop and Shop was relatively innocuous. Most supermarkets have a front wall that is entirely made of window, so you can see what's going on inside. The SSS had a brick wall instead, which did not bode well. It was a large part of a great edifice, which also holds a Guitar Center, a Chuck-E-Cheese, and an Old Navy; but the Stop and Shop stands far away, connected and yet coldly distant from the inviting glow of video games and inexpensive fleece jackets. I have to admit, I was deeply concerned.

I walked in to the sliding glass doors, and had to walk around a corner before I could see into the market. When the second set of doors opened in front of me, they did so with a rushing sigh, and I crossed the threshold into the brightly lit store.

I heard a loud hosanna.

I saw the market, and I saw that it was good.

It was better than good. It was wonderful. There was fresh produce, none of which was closer than 3 feet to the ground. Multiple kinds of bags of salads (american, italian, with raddichio, without carrots), three colors of peppers, and an array of dressings that would take the most salad-eatingist person months to sample. At least 3 different types of lettuce (not including the iceberg, which some don't really consider a lettuce at all). There was a deli. A DELI FOR GODSAKES! I'll no longer have to outsource my turkey purchasing to parts east! A little fish stand (although I'm way more likely to purchase fish from the market a few blocks away - if I have to walk past the stinky thing, I'll be damned if I'm not going to indulge in the good aspects as well). Aisles that had everything I needed, as well as everything I didn't! And it was well kept, with nothing on the floor, no screaming children in diapers, no wall of goya (although it did have a nice selection). More loaves of bread (aisle 1) than you can shake a broom handle (aisle 7) at. And a frozen foods section that could make a cardinal take the lords name in vain. Its name is Super Stop and Shop, but I call it heaven.

I'm not saying that there aren't problems. Wait, yes I am saying that there aren't problems. It's three blocks away, clean, well-stocked, run by a polite staff, and just plain amazing. So huge. Any problems I had last night were really my fault. Like not having any utensils (which was the real reason I went for frozen pizza last night. I have a nice set of knives, but no forks).

I had other things to talk about today, but I really wanted to talk about the supermarket. I love Astoria so much


^*Answer: Janeane Garofalo in Wet Hot American Summer. But she does it ironically.