……it remains true that those things which make us human are, curiously enough, always close at hand. Resolve then, that on this very ground, with small flags waving and tinny blast on tiny trumpets, we shall meet the enemy, and not only may he be ours, he may be us.- Walt Kelly, June 1953

 My wife and I went to BJ’s on Saturday to pick up a few things we needed – bottled water, baby wipes for my daughter; well not really for my daughter, she’s thirty-one, but for her two-month-old baby, Nathan.

 No, Bob! Not, Nathan. Ethan! His name is Ethan! The poor little guy; I’ve called him everything but his given name since the day he was born. Nathan is so much easier to say, don’t you think? It kind of rolls off the tongue.

 I make it a point to call Ethan by every name but his own when his older brother, Logan, is around. It drives Logan crazy and, after all, isn’t that my job – to annoy my grandchildren?

My favorite faux-name for Ethan is, Edgar. When my daughter comes to visit and brings the kids, I say, “Hi Logan. Hi Edgar,” and Logan says, “No, Gampy. His name is Ethan!”

“Oh, I forgot,” I reply. “Hi, Nathan,” and of course Logan says, “He’s Ethan, Gampy,”  and this goes on over and over again, ad nauseam, until Logan gets so frustrated he starts crying and runs to his mother. Yes, I like to harass three-year-olds. Isn’t that what they’re for? God I love having grandchildren!

So, anyway, we entered the store; the store being, BJ’s. Remember, about four paragraphs ago I started to tell you about my wife and I going to BJ’s? You know, if you’re not going to pay attention I can always go and pester Logan. He and his little brother, Edgar, or Nathan, or Ethan, or whatever the heck his name is, are out in the living room right next door to my office. Don’t make me go out there, because I will you know! I’ve just about had it with you people!

Let’s try this again. We went to BJ’s and my wife spotted a pallet with four, fifty-pound containers of Calcium Chloride, aka ice melt, sitting in the middle of the floor. Have you tried to find ice melt at any of the area stores over the last few days? You’d have a better chance of seeing Tom Brady throw an interception in a playoff game. Oh, Whoops!

So, having been to Hannaford, Target and Fernandes Lumber in my quest for all things exothermic and having found nothing; I quickly snatched up one of the large, white containers and hoisted it into our shopping cart. After realigning my spine, I headed toward the rear of the store to grab a few cases of bottled water and was accosted by an overenthusiastic young BJ’s employee who, apparently mistaking me for the company purchasing agent, asked if I knew how much ice melt was left.

“There were four when I came in,” I volunteered begrudgingly, “but after I grabbed this one another guy took one, so I’m guessing there are probably two.” The kid was noticeably impressed with my math skills.

“I put it out this morning and I told them it would be gone by eleven,” he boasted, obviously mistaking me for someone who gave a rat’s behind; not to mention his ambiguous pronoun reference (who does them refer to?) was exceedingly annoying!

I loaded two cases of water in to my cart and took off down the aisle before the little pest could ask me another stimulating question about ice melt, or even worse, dangle a participle or end a sentence with a preposition. The next thing you know he might even use the phrase, I could care less, which would really burn my beans!

For those who have absolutely no clue as to what I’m referring, or for those of you who believe that, I could care less is the proper terminology,; let me straighten this out for you. Listen up! I’m only doing this once.

If you say, I could care less, you are indicating that there’s still some room there for you to care less than you already care. You’re not bottomed out on the caring scale.

The phrase, I couldn’t care less, means that you have absolutely no room left at the bottom of your caring scale. There’s no more not caring available to you. You’ve bottomed out on caring. In essence you’re saying, I could not possibly care less than I already care. Now wasn’t that enlightening?

Having escaped the gravitational pull of Planet Pain in the Butt, I made my way to the meat department, stopping briefly at the bakery to procure a dozen assorted bagels. My wife, who had taken her customary side trip through the kids clothing department, met up with me in the meat section shortly after I had loaded three racks of baby back ribs, a package of thirty chicken wings, a family-size package of chicken tenders, a five pound package of hamburger and three pounds of ground pork in to my shopping cart. “What’s all that for? She asked, throwing a package of kid’s socks on top on the ribs.

“You ended your sentence with a preposition,” I said, correcting her heinous grammatical error.

“Oh, sorry professor,” she quipped. “I’ll try again - What’s all that for, jerk!”

My wife thinks she’s clever.

“This is for the Super Bowl,” I explained, grabbing a couple packages of assorted sliced cheese. Then of course there were the potato chips, tortilla chips, several kinds of dip, avocados, a large French Baguette and a few other gastronomic goodies.

“Why do we need that French bread?” my wife asked.

“That’s for the meatballs,” I replied. “That’s why I got the hamburger and the pork. I’m making meatballs.”

We headed for the checkout, grabbing things here and there, things I’m sure we didn’t really need, loading our basket to overflowing. As I was unloading the cart, an older gentleman came over to me and asked where I had found the ice melt. I explained that there were only two left when we had picked it up and that over an hour had passed since then, so chances were there was none left.

He mumbled something to his wife and they had barely walked away when another guy approached me, also inquiring as to whether or not there was any ice melt left. “I think it’s gone,” I grumbled. 

“Hey, maybe you should get a job here,” my wife smirked. “You’d look cute in one of those little red jackets.

I ignored her and unloaded the cart onto the conveyor belt. By the time we got out of the store, our little jaunt to BJ’s for ‘a couple of things’ had cost us over three-hundred dollars. Oh, and we had to stop at Shaw’s for ‘a few more things’ that totaled forty-seven dollars and sixty-three cents.

Good grief! Why do we do this to ourselves?

We have met the enemy and he is us!

Make it a great week!