Meet Chairman Bob

This installment of Things That Keep Me Up at Night is brought to you by Copps Grocery, Roundy's Supermarkets Inc., and my fascination with minutiae.

I first noticed Chairman Bob last week while I was unloading my groceries after going shopping.  How odd, I thought as I lifted the first bag out of my car, there's a man on my grocery bag and he's ... is he? Yes, he's giving me the thumbs up.  After I got my groceries inside I examined my bags more closely and found out that the creepy man heartily endorsing my produce selection was Chairman Bob.  According to my grocery sac, "Roundy's products are approved for quality and signed by Chairman Bob himself."  After high tailing to the kitchen to ensure that my squash did not in fact bear Chairman Bob's signature, I decided to do some investigating.  Who the hell was this Chairman Bob? Why was he so chuffed with my purchases?  Who decided to run with an advertising campaign featuring a leering middle aged man displaying a forced gesture of goodwill?  I was determined to find out.

Lucky for me, Roundy's had anticipated my interest in all things Bob and printed a web address directly underneath his faux signature. meetchairmanbob.com told me all I needed to know.

Robert Mariano, a.k.a "Chairman Bob," is the CEO of Roundy's Supermarket Inc., one of the Midwest's largest and oldest grocers.  The group owns and operates grocery stores across the country under the Pick 'n Save, Copps, and Rainbow banners.  If you go to the website, Chairman Bob himself will tell you about the superior foods he personally endorses.  Nestled in a grove of orange trees, the Chairman gives it to us straight in a 5 minute interview.  He uses phrases like "taste profile" and confesses that "no less than 15 formulations" were rejected when they were developing Roundy's fresh bratwurst.  Towards the end of the interview we come to find out that Bob is nothing more than a med-school reject who clawed his way up the grocery sales ladder.  After not getting into medical school, Bob's first job out of college was as a "Food Service Salesman" at Oscar Mayer.  Sure Bob.  And my first job out of college was as a "Clothing Technician" for Steve and Barry's.  Bob ends his interview with the compelling statement "once you get food retail in your blood, you don't get it out."  WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, BOB? And can I catch this food retail from your carefully selected products? Because I'll sue.

In the end, all that I found out about Chairman Bob did nothing to alleviate how creeped out I was when I realized that he was staring staring staring at me from every one of my grocery bags.  I think a lot of it has to do with the blank expression on his face.  There's probably not a lot one can do with a plastic grocery sac as a medium, but his blank stare coupled with his upturned thumb make me uneasy.  I don't need your approval, Chairman Bob, so STOP LOOKING AT ME.

Love

M

Want Some Cheese With That Whine?

Know what’s been keeping me up at night lately?  My frickin’ cold, that’s what.  Every time I lay down I start coughing and drooling indiscriminately; it’s not conducive to sleep.  I admit that I’m a big baby when I’m sick (I can hear you all gasping with surprise).  I’m not proud of it, but I tend to be one of those people that mope around, the odd groan punctuating my quiet suffering.  I answer questions regarding my health in a voice that’s maybe a tad more hoarse than it needs to be … I’m pathetic.

Being sick always makes me wish I were a kid again.  When I was little and I got sick a whole series of wonderful things would happen.  I got to skip school and lay in my parent’s bed all day while I watched The Price is Right.  I got to spend the day with my dad; watching him draw in our dining room and bang around the kitchen making dinner.  I got to have my parents focus all of their attention on me, hopefully at the expense of my three younger siblings. 

Being sick as an adult is completely unrewarding.  It just means that I have to run errands and go to work in pissy mood.  At least I’ve got a roommate for this bout of sickness.  B is sick too, so he and I have spent the past few days feeling miserable together.  Right now we’re both wrapped up in blankets in our living room watching episodes of That '70's Show and drinking tea.  B says his favorite thing about being sick when he was little was definitely watching daytime TV: seeing Shining Time Station and Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. 

When I got strep throat in second grade I managed to dig up a silver bell from somewhere.  I spent two weeks convalescing on our living room couch, ring-a-linging whenever I needed more orange juice.  That got old pretty quickly, and I’m not sure B would respond favorably if I started summoning him with a bell.  More later kiddos. I’m headed to bed.

Things That Keep Me Up At Night: 2

This weekend's Things That Keep Me Up At Night takes us back to the summer of 1994.  I was 13, fresh out of seventh grade and deeply, wistfully in love with the idea of being in love.  My friends and I spent that summer sleeping over at each other's houses, staying up for hours pouring over our junior high yearbooks and prank calling boys.  We were young and hopeful; we believed in true love and were sure that the epitome of romance was slow dancing to the Rockin' Hollywoods at the neighborhood 4th of July picnic.  

In the midst of all those raging hormones, my best friend Jenny and I discovered the movie Dirty Dancing.  I'll skip the plot synopsis, because if you haven't seen the movie then you're not going to understand the rest of this post anyway.  It's enough to say that the movie was about forbidden love, sex, and Patrick Swayze in a tight black tank top.  Jenny and I watched Dirty Dancing three times a day for a week straight.  We memorized details ranging from the license plate number on Johhny's car (SP2201) to the title of the book Robbie offers to lend Baby (The Fountainhead).  We analyzed scenes from the movie and endlessly debated whether or not Patrick Swayze is wearing underwear when he gets out of bed after Baby asks him if he's "had many women."  The fact that I can recall all of these details off the top of my head 14 years later is a testament to our devotion.  Please stop judging me.

The question born of this obsession is simple; is the summer camp where Dirty Dancing occurs a real place, and can I go there and fall in love?

The answers I found made me feel like an lovesick pre-teen all over again.  The summer camp, called Kellerman's in the movie, is wonderfully, stupendously real.  It's actually the Mountain Lake Resort and it's located in Pembroke, Virginia.  Not only can I go there and fall in love, the fine folks at the Mountain Lake Resort are fully prepared to help me live out my fantasy.  The resort has embraced its role in motion picture history and hosts Dirty Dancing Weekends several times a year.  For $460 Jenny and I could spend a weekend taking dance lessons, touring the grounds, and trouncing people in Dirty Dancing Trivia.  I assume the activities not listed on the itinerary include private staff dance parties and sexy time with a 34-year-old Patrick Swayze.

I was thrilled to find out that Kellerman's is a real place, but I'll never set foot in Pembroke, VA.  That wouldn't be fair to 13-year-old Marie.  There's no way that spending a carefully scripted weekend in Virginia could summon up the mystery and romance that I longed for when I was a girl.  For one thing, two days isn't enough time for me to seduce someone with my naive charm and learn how to fox trot.  Also, I have yet to meet the dance instructor that could hoist my 6ft tall frame gracefully above his head.

Still, it's nice to know that Kellerman's is a real place.  If nothing else, it makes my junior high romantic aspirations a little more tangible.

~M

Things That Keep Me Up At Night: 1

I've decided to start a new tradition here on my blog.  Every weekend I'm going to try to answer one of the questions that has been floating around in my head, slowly driving me insane.  If I'm successful, my weekend posts will answer questions ranging from "Who invented sparkle jelly shoes and how did they become so popular? " to "Why was Miranda Harris such a bitch to me in kindergarten, and has karma kicked her ass yet?"  The excitement, I'm sure you'll agree, is palpable.

This weekend's installment of "Things That Keep Me Up At Night" set out to answer the question  Who the heck is Max's mom?  Max, you'll recall, was Goofy's son on "Goof Troop," a staple of The Disney Afternoon from September of 1992 - December of 1993.  I was 11 when the show aired; torn between being too cool for cartoons and wanting to know what hilarious scrapes Max and P.J. were going to get into. Like, remember that episode where they were doing a science project and they accidently convinced the citizens of Spoonerville that the city was being invaded by aliens?  Or the one where they have to dress up as Goofy and take his place in the skateboarding demo?  Anyone?  Well I remember.  I remember the show, and I remember thinking to myself "who the hell would have sex with Goofy?"  Which is, I suppose, the real question behind this weekend's post.  What kind of character would fall in love and procreate with a socially awkward dog?  (I'm allowing myself to make the assumption that a heterosexual courtship and marriage led to little Max's birth.  This was Disney in the early nineties, after all).  I get the whole Mickey/Minnie relationship.  Minnie is a hottie and Mickey demonstrably has his shit together.  Donald Duck was sort of a jerk but it was all bluster, and with Gladstone Gander as his competition, Daisy would have been a fool not to choose him.  But Goofy?  All faux pas and foible?  All elbows and embarrassment?  He's the sidekick, not the leading man.  It never made sense.

I took to the internet to find out if Max's mom had ever been identified and quickly realized that I was by no means the first one to raise the question.  The parsing of Goofy's sexual history is fodder for several 'toon discussion boards.  My search immediately revealed that Goofy was a widower; beyond that there was nothing to be found but idle speculation.  Instead of answering the question that's been weighing on me for 16 years, my search left me with more questions.  Is Max the black haired re-incarnation of the '50s era "Goofy Junior?"  If so, does that make dog-faced Penny Max's mother?  Wouldn't the coupling of Clarabelle the Cow and Goofy have resulted in some cow/dog breed Disney wasn't quite prepared to deal with?  Who is the mysterious Glory-Bee?  Why is fanboy such a toolbox?  I leave these questions to you, dear readers.  I've resigned myself to the fact that I will probably never know who got into Goofy's pants ... and on that note I'm going to try to get some sleep.

~M