Home Away from Home

I figured out the other day that I have a second home I didn’t even know about and I’m only thirty-eight. Pretty impressive, don’t you think? I’m not trying to brag either, but it is actually quite large. It takes ten air conditioning units and a staff of over sixty to keep it running. Sometimes I get lost in it. It has its own florist and a professional sushi roller on hand day and night, and a couple of convection ovens that even Martha Stewart might envy.
In case you haven’t guessed it by now, I’m talking about the Harris Teeter. The only thing that would make this less pathetic is if I actually owned the place.
Thank goodness the staff at Harris Teeter knows me pretty well and keeps me on my toes. I’m not sure if it has anything to do with me being there at least three times a day, but they’re like family.
“You forgot the litter, Mrs. Packard.” Jessica will say to me, “Isn’t it time to change the cat box?”
“You know, Laura. You really should be feeding the girls more vegetables,” Lorna tells me as she scans three frozen pizzas, a package of turkey dogs, and half a dozen Lunchables. “So, has Russell been voted off Survivor yet?”
“You know I can’t tell you that,” I say, swiping my debit card. “Last time I told you who found the hidden immunity idol you threatened to not talk to me for a week.”
“Did you TiVo it?” she asks.
“Of, course,” I reply.
“I’ll be there by six,” she tells me as she hands me my receipt. “And I’ll bring some broccoli.”
The funny thing is my husband won’t step foot in my second home even though I beg him to all the time. However, I’m not even allowed near the general vicinity of his either.
I don’t know about golf clubs everywhere, but down here they have managed to create a perfect cocoon (or womb, if you will) where men can hide out so their wives will never find them . . . and they pay good money for this service. My man will moan for days about having to buy a new pair of loafers after his toe has finally busted through a hole in the seam, but he is surprisingly silent when he pays the monthly dues.
Who can blame them, though? The Men’s Locker Room, in all of its perfection, is a place where after hitting the sticks, they can walk around in their boxers, drink Maker’s Mark, and gamble to their heart’s content. The only other items they might require are a little locker to call their own and a communal can of antiperspirant.
The feature that makes these places the perfect male utopia, if it isn’t quite evident in the name, is that no women are allowed. I don’t even know if they allow cell phones in there, because you sure can’t reach them. It’s like Def Con 1 at the Pentagon: no outgoing communication is permitted in case of foreign and hostile forces attempt to intercept official club secrets. Hostile forces being, you know, a member’s wife. It also seems that the front line of defense in their “situation room,” would be the all important locker room attendant. No one gets past him.
Here is what I imagine, since I can’t gain entry, may be a typical afternoon at any men’s locker room:
Phone rings. Locker room attendant efficiently picks it up on the first ring, while the members cease and desist all movement. There isn’t even the faintest sound of an ice clinking on the side of a crystal highball glass or the swooshing of a card flipping over for the double blind. Silence.

LRA: “Hello, Mrs. Harry Notinblock the third. No. No M’am. He’s not in yet. No m’am…. He’ll be lucky to get in nine before dark.”

Mrs. H. N the III: “But he teed off at seven this morning!”

LRA then deftly returns the phone to its cradle signaling that all conversation, drinking, and card playing may resume. Mr. Notinblock, relieved at going undiscovered, promptly orders a double and “a bowl of those cashews fried in bacon grease while you’re at it.” While at home, Harry’s wife wonders why her husband keeps gaining weight when she’s being told he’s walking eighteen holes a day and she’s put him on a strict diet of leafy greens and egg whites. (Both, no doubt, purchased on one of her twice daily trips to the grocery store.)
You and I both know what Title Nine did for women’s collegiate sports, but private clubs just look at this and laugh. Compared to the men’s locker room, the ladies’ facility reminds me of the nursery rhyme, “The Old Lady and The Shoe.” The only thing large are the lockers because even the powers that be at the country club know that women carry more stuff and they sure don’t want it spilling out into the hallway. In their defense, they do throw in some amenities like hair picks and extra large canisters of hairspray that carry enough air pressure to blow up a tire on a 747. Oh yeah, don’t forget about those individually wrapped packets of Q-tips. I don’t really bother with all of that though, seeing as I don’t want my hair looking like I came straight out an episode of The Real Housewives of New Jersey. I did request a locker the other day, however, which really raised a few eyebrows seeing as I don’t play golf; but seriously y’all, where else am I going to store my lightweight winter sweaters?
Speaking of sweaters, I should probably run by my locker and grab one before I head to the grocery for another four gallons of fat free milk seeing as they do keep it awfully cold in there this time of year. I shouldn’t complain though, because, as they say, home – even your second home -- is where the heart is. Especially, if there’s a two for one special on ground round and hamburger buns.

**Writers Note: The conversations in this article were sometimes embellished, even though the friendships were not. If y’all haven’t meet Lorna yet, all I can say is you’re missing out. Lorna, thanks for always looking out for me and my family, and for making me laugh. I love you!