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Wild Oats

No matter how sophisticated my actions are or how corporate my dress, I’m still a lil black girl from the hood. My usual grocery store hide outs are places like Aldis, Price Chopper, Kroger, Plubix…regular spots. Upon today, I decided to venture into a tiny little organic market called, Wild Oats. At this point you may be asking yourself what the hell I was doing there. I have a very good answer. I was shopping for Wheat Berries.

That answer is about as clear as mud. HaHa!

I was recently diagnosed with fibromyalgia. The doctor who finaly solved the mystery, which is my health, is a real knowledgeable black woman. Graduate of an HBCU (kudos!), and believes in the incorporation of more hollistic treatments. She recommended I try eating a bowl of Wheat Berries. At this point, I’ll try almost anything so I went to Wild Oats. During my visit, I apparantly broke about 100 rules of organic market etiquite.

Picture this (true story): I went to the oats/grains section and filled my little baggy with a pound of delicious and fibrous wheat berries. At the end of the row of grain dispensing machines was what seemed to be a soft serve ice cream maker. A man held a little cup under the spout and a brown (possibly chocolate flavored) swirled its way into his container. I was amazed. Were my eyes decieving me? Was this a soy bean ice cream machine? Hell no. The conversation went a bit like this…

ME: “Excuse me sir, what type of ice cream is that?”

SIR (rudely snapping back): “It’s not ice cream, it’s peanut butter!”

ME (trying to disguise my ignorance): “Well, you can’t get it any fresher than that! (smile)”

SIR: “Hmph.”

I walked away feeling sadly discouraged. This was not like my usual grocery store encounters. Most people are willing to socialize over the most simplistic of human needs….food. This guy was clearly not in the mood for my grocery store jabber so I moved on. I finished bagging up and taging my Wheat Berries then proceeded to browse the market. As I was investigating a box of organic tampons, I noticed a woman with beautiful dreadlocks. As always, I asked her where she gets her hair done. It turns out she’s African and does them herself. I went on to ask her the price she charges for dreadlock maintenance. Uh oh….I broke another rule.

Note to Self: Business matters are not to be discussed in the isles of organic markets.

There was a clear language barrier accompyied with a huge blinking sign on her forehead telling me she was highly annoyed. I asked her how much….she says $150.00. Realizing the language barrier, I tried communicating with her what exactly I meant I needed done. There’s no way I was paying this lady $150.00 to retwist my new growth….I only pay $40.00 now (including the updo!). I would explain and her friend would then further try to explain what I wanted done. That woman was not having it. Just like the man at the peanut butter machine, all I got was an ice cold glare as she continued to say, “Busy.”

I was dismayed. I paid for my little baggie of Wheat Berries and left.

The lesson of the day is:

Little Black girls from the ghetto need to stay the hell away from organic food markets…..or shop online.

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