You know the deal with those tiny little carts they got
--It costs me sixty American dollars to get out of that store, every fucking time, and I am not even kidding. It's like this weird wormhole in space where the tab always magically adds up to within a couple bucks of the number 60. Doesn't matter what I'm buying -- fruit and some pizza dough plus a bottle of wine? $58. 67. Milk, some breaded chicken breasts,* little cloth baggie of bulk pine nuts, couple of tiny pastries? $61.30. Shitload of Annie's pasta, some odds and ends from the cheese case, ciabatta, more fucking fruit? $60.09. And btw, fuck you, nine cents, for standing between me and perfect harmony with the universe.
--If you want to know where all the body-positive, gender-fluid vegan hipsters of the ass-end of the Silicon Valley earn their legitimate bucks for spending on tattoos, ear stretchers and art supplies, I can tell you: It is at the Whole Foods Market. And incidentally, though one may have been conditioned to expect Attitude directed your suburban SAHM way from such hip, artsy-seeming folks, these gentlepersons are really nice and extremely professional in the performance of their jobs. It's a pleasure to interact with them, honestly.
--Just saying something is a bagel does not make it a bagel. This is not only a Whole Foods problem -- some of these are national brands of breadlike round food product -- but I notice it there because I spend a stupid amount of time in their bread section trying to find something edible for less than eight dollars, and goddamn it, those fucking things are not bagels. They're just not.
--The local ordinance banning single-use plastic bags seems to have effected a revival of the lost art of grocery bagging. You BYO reusables (at all stores, not just WFM), and since you get a 10-cent discount per bag for the BYO (instead of buying paper bags on the spot), the checkers are encouraged to use the fewest possible bags -- it's actually really neat, how efficiently, quickly and thoughtfully the bags get packed, instead of everything just getting tossed randomly into fifty flimsy crappy bird-killing plastic trash bags.
--Oh, the sad/hilarious '70s "health foods!" The whole store (and indeed, half of your local Safeway, these days) is full of amazing, appetizing locally-sourced/sustainable/minimally-processed yada yada yada, which is the way we understand healthy eating these days, but every once in awhile you come upon a product which has not had a graphics redesign since its 1974 launch from Jim & Helen's yurt on the commune, some terrible bricklike cake of grain/vegetable/carob pressings from which you can actually feel the waves of good-for-you obligation emanating out of its game little hippie label (featuring sunbursts, way too many words always including "nature" and "earth," and/or the resigned mug of some poor kid whose parents are determined shall never ever taste the vile poison of Wonder Bread). You mock it in your head, then you are shamed, thinking of how it's Jim & Helen et. al. who started us all on the path to this point in space and time while everyone played a couple decades' worth of "Let's Laugh at the Hippie!" ... but still you're not buying it. Because yucko blucko, man.
*Because I have done cut up my last chicken, y'all. I mean it. HOWLING FANTODS.