cilantro pizza, organic lox

Today’s tidbit is this pitch-perfect and totally unauthorized commercial for the store where I spend an embarrassing percentage of my weekly income.

If you live in a city where there is no Trader Joe’s — I am given to understand that these exist, though I cannot fathom how the twentysomethings in such cities manage to feed themselves  — well, all I can say is come to LA.  I will show you a treasure trove of reasonably-priced consumables, full of things like sea-salt brownies and pluots and walnut-studded gouda and sparkling gewurtztraminer.  And then I have a futon where you can sleep off the food coma.

The bit about the soy milk makes me laugh, in particular, because it reminds of the time I was hit on in a Trader Joe’s by a scrofulous hippie type who was old enough to be my dad.  He kept insisting that he had seen me before at someplace called Yoga World.  I told him flatly, “Yoga bores the shit out of me,” in hopes this would get him to go away.  It didn’t.  When I reluctantly abandoned my perusal of the dried noodles to begin the necessary escape, he skipped after me to suggest that we “get together for a soy milk sometime.”  Soy milk? If I look like the kind of girl with whom you would get a soy milk, then it’s possible I have been shopping at Trader Joe’s for too long.  But for the time being I’m chalking it up to Hippie Man’s own proclivities, not mine, because the TJ’s chocolate-orange sticks are really not something I can give up just yet.