Today I went to Cub to get a few grocees. I paid and was packing my stuff. BTW, i got free eggs, english muffs, hash browns and frozen waffles. All. for. FREE!
Score!
Anyhoo, like i said, i was packing my grocees (I hate bagging, don't you?)and the conveyor belt starts moving. You know how it does that? This happens while i'm trying to get the plastic bag open -- which takes me about five minutes per bag because the sides stick together and my fine motor skills suck -- the cashier rings up the next person's grocees and for some reason that starts the conveyor belt. You KNOW how it does that. It is your signal to haul ass.
So my stuff is coming at me like the ducks at the carnival shooting gallery and I am like, wtf ! And my red, white and pink m&m cookies start making their way toward me and the kitty litter and diet mountain dew are right on their tail and then the cookies get held up next to the OJ and the kitty litter and diet mountain dew start marching right over the cookie container and there is this terrible screeching and crunching sound (the plastic cookie container). And this young chick bagging opposite from me looks at me and I look at her . I'm thinking she is somehow making the conveyor belt go and I'm getting pissed.
And the cashier and the goon behind me in line and the chicka bagging across from me and I are all staring, just watching the cookies crumble, so to speak. Time stood still.
Yeah, well, you guessed it. I was unknowingly leaning on the button that makes the conveyor belt progress and it was humiliating because the chicka and the goon and the cashier were all looking at me and they were embarrassed for me because i'm such a goob and i'm old and i cannot even figure out grocery converyor belt technology.
But, good news, the cookies were fine and I recommenced packing and went out into the rain to unload my grocees into the trunk.
When I got home and we were unpacking the grocees, R thought it was quite odd to find a cookie remnant in the bottom of one of the grocee bags, but I just shrugged and popped it in my pie hole.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
If I were a zookeeper
I would be in charge of the giraffes. They are everything I admire and am not. They are tall and gentle and silent. Although, some experts say the silent part might just be to our human ears, which are too low-tech to hear their air puffing communication style. Apparently, they can hear each other just fine.
They are gentle and mellow and they come in different patterns. They love their children and they don't dessert the lame or physically challenged in their herd. They're lovers.
I've always loved giraffes, but today I know more about them than I did yesterday because I watched part of a television show about them last night on The learning channel or Animal Planet. It was great!
That's about all for now.
They are gentle and mellow and they come in different patterns. They love their children and they don't dessert the lame or physically challenged in their herd. They're lovers.
I've always loved giraffes, but today I know more about them than I did yesterday because I watched part of a television show about them last night on The learning channel or Animal Planet. It was great!
That's about all for now.
My Little Walmart Man
A couple of weeks ago, I was cruising through Walmart, because, yes, mother, it IS a race,(commas much?). I was approaching my favorite aisle: Clearance Row, because you never know what sort of treasure is lurking behind the bamboo-scented-gel air fresheners and the weird women's-sized socks that look like baby booties with all sorts of buttons and bows and do-dads and bajangles adhered to them (WHY in the world are those on clearance???). Like I was saying, I was approaching MY aisle at something pretty close to hyper-speed when I almost collided with a little, flannel-clad man in a John Deere baseball cap saddled up on a little scooter and snorting from an oxygen tank, which made me nervous, because I associate oxygen tanks with large explosions.
We executed that little crowded discount store sort of dance during which I narrowly escaped tangling the string from my hoody in the web of his on-board basket. Smiling my most patient and sincere smile, I gave him a flirty self-depreciating "excuse me" and proceeded to extract myself from said pre-tangling. A moment later, I lost myself amidst the heaven of heated hunting boot buddies, stacks of orange wash cloths, george foreman knock offs and bottles of generic salsa suspiciously close to their expiration dates.
After a tad of perusing (no big finds, but there's always next time!) I headed over to the craft department to look at some things for Hayley's graduation party. I was bending over the puff paints, trying to figure out what to get because the world would not be complete without four thousand different kinds, when I had that creepy, pin-prickly feeling. Someone is WATCHING me. I lift my head to scope the store for security cameras, lost children and Velcro friends (the losers I seem to attract and can never get rid of). Nothing. Hhmm. Go back to the puff paint.
Almost at once, the back of my neck feels naked, like right after you get a short haircut and your skin is exposed to the cool air for the first time in months. Slowly, I stand up and try to naturally turn around.
How did I not hear the little scooter approaching? Aren't they usually really loud and annoying? Just my luck, this one was jiffy lubed just that morning. So I give my oxygen-deprived, plaid-shrouded voyeur another smile. This one with the definite brush off eyes I perfected while waitressing at the Albatross in college.
That'lll learn 'em.
Confident I've taken care of everything, I resume my puff paint purchasing. But wait. He no go.
I repeat the entire "go-away" ritual. But wait. He no go.
Uh. Oh. Now what? Can't be rude to the little dude in the amigo. But I want him to GO. Indecisive, I keep looking around like a cornered rabbit. I look at him again. He smiles at me. He's short several teeth.
"I like your pretty red hair," he says, smiling even wider, revealing the empty black hole behind his lips. Hhhm. What now?
I say thank you, drop whatever style and color of puff paint I'm holding into my cart and make a bee-line for the self-checkout.
I'm SORRY. I know this is not nice, but C'MON PEOPLE!
I know I am no beauty queen. However, does this sixty-year-old, oxygen-pumping, scooter-riding, John-Deere-cap-wearing, under-toothed, in-need-of-a-bath- man think I'm attainable?
And you know the worst part? I have to go back to return that stupid puff paint.
We executed that little crowded discount store sort of dance during which I narrowly escaped tangling the string from my hoody in the web of his on-board basket. Smiling my most patient and sincere smile, I gave him a flirty self-depreciating "excuse me" and proceeded to extract myself from said pre-tangling. A moment later, I lost myself amidst the heaven of heated hunting boot buddies, stacks of orange wash cloths, george foreman knock offs and bottles of generic salsa suspiciously close to their expiration dates.
After a tad of perusing (no big finds, but there's always next time!) I headed over to the craft department to look at some things for Hayley's graduation party. I was bending over the puff paints, trying to figure out what to get because the world would not be complete without four thousand different kinds, when I had that creepy, pin-prickly feeling. Someone is WATCHING me. I lift my head to scope the store for security cameras, lost children and Velcro friends (the losers I seem to attract and can never get rid of). Nothing. Hhmm. Go back to the puff paint.
Almost at once, the back of my neck feels naked, like right after you get a short haircut and your skin is exposed to the cool air for the first time in months. Slowly, I stand up and try to naturally turn around.
How did I not hear the little scooter approaching? Aren't they usually really loud and annoying? Just my luck, this one was jiffy lubed just that morning. So I give my oxygen-deprived, plaid-shrouded voyeur another smile. This one with the definite brush off eyes I perfected while waitressing at the Albatross in college.
That'lll learn 'em.
Confident I've taken care of everything, I resume my puff paint purchasing. But wait. He no go.
I repeat the entire "go-away" ritual. But wait. He no go.
Uh. Oh. Now what? Can't be rude to the little dude in the amigo. But I want him to GO. Indecisive, I keep looking around like a cornered rabbit. I look at him again. He smiles at me. He's short several teeth.
"I like your pretty red hair," he says, smiling even wider, revealing the empty black hole behind his lips. Hhhm. What now?
I say thank you, drop whatever style and color of puff paint I'm holding into my cart and make a bee-line for the self-checkout.
I'm SORRY. I know this is not nice, but C'MON PEOPLE!
I know I am no beauty queen. However, does this sixty-year-old, oxygen-pumping, scooter-riding, John-Deere-cap-wearing, under-toothed, in-need-of-a-bath- man think I'm attainable?
And you know the worst part? I have to go back to return that stupid puff paint.
I laughted til I cried
So, Hayley and I spent an afternoon running errands. We headed home, Hayley behind the wheel. Riding next to my best pal, knowing she was heading off to college soon, I was nostalgic as we breezed by the tree-lined boulevards of Broad Street. It reminded me of my childhood and driving the same route under the canopy of green leaves that decorated the summer sky on my way to swimming lessons at the Y.
Enjoying the scenery and the bittersweet blend of what came before and what lies ahead, something caught my eye up ahead. On the front lawn of one of the little fairy-tale homes that stand sentry along the street, stood a man stood shirtless young man, wearing a crescent-brimmed blue baseball cap, cargo shorts -- the khaki kind, with a hundred pockets -- and a sexy smile. At his feet, a young woman sat on the green, grassy carpet. I imagined they were settling in for late summer's picnic or beginning a lazy afternoon in the sun.
Eyes twinkling, gazing intently at the girl before him, the young man hooked his thumbs in the waistband of those low-slung shorts. A naughty grin pulling up the corners of his mouth. I could see the patterned band of his cotton boxers crinkling in the space between his washboard abs and the top of said cargos. Just a flick of the wrist, a slight straightening of flexed arms, was all it took.
and.
uhm.
yeah.
Dude dropped trou! Right in broad daylight in the busiest section of Broad Street!
OMG!
Could NOT.
Believe.
IT.
I saw it ALL.
OMG!!
I screamed, laughing so hard, I could not speak and watched Hayley, trying to keep the car on the road, take an open-mouthed double take. She looked at me like: wtf???
We were whizzing by. The whole thing couldn't have taken more than 3 or 4 seconds, but time stood still. Part of me wanted to go back to make sure what we saw was real. Were my eyes deceiving me??? Hayley was so funny. So grossed out. Total disbelief.
I asked her, still laughing and screaming so much, I'm surprised she understood me, "did you see his schwank??!!!!!!!"
By this time, she was laughing as much as I was. We were inconsolable, uncontrollable. Tears streaming down our faces. We chortled our way through three intersections and two stoplights.
Got home, stumbled through the door, gasping for breath, raw voices chortling non-stop. Tear streaks mapping our faces. Randy looks up from ebay, questioning the commotion.
"Just saw a guy's schwank," I managed through the tears and giggles.
The look on his face was so comical, Hayley and I started cackling all the harder.
Not sure what that whole episode means or why in the world this dude did what he did. But it was a classic mother-daughter moment.
Enjoying the scenery and the bittersweet blend of what came before and what lies ahead, something caught my eye up ahead. On the front lawn of one of the little fairy-tale homes that stand sentry along the street, stood a man stood shirtless young man, wearing a crescent-brimmed blue baseball cap, cargo shorts -- the khaki kind, with a hundred pockets -- and a sexy smile. At his feet, a young woman sat on the green, grassy carpet. I imagined they were settling in for late summer's picnic or beginning a lazy afternoon in the sun.
Eyes twinkling, gazing intently at the girl before him, the young man hooked his thumbs in the waistband of those low-slung shorts. A naughty grin pulling up the corners of his mouth. I could see the patterned band of his cotton boxers crinkling in the space between his washboard abs and the top of said cargos. Just a flick of the wrist, a slight straightening of flexed arms, was all it took.
and.
uhm.
yeah.
Dude dropped trou! Right in broad daylight in the busiest section of Broad Street!
OMG!
Could NOT.
Believe.
IT.
I saw it ALL.
OMG!!
I screamed, laughing so hard, I could not speak and watched Hayley, trying to keep the car on the road, take an open-mouthed double take. She looked at me like: wtf???
We were whizzing by. The whole thing couldn't have taken more than 3 or 4 seconds, but time stood still. Part of me wanted to go back to make sure what we saw was real. Were my eyes deceiving me??? Hayley was so funny. So grossed out. Total disbelief.
I asked her, still laughing and screaming so much, I'm surprised she understood me, "did you see his schwank??!!!!!!!"
By this time, she was laughing as much as I was. We were inconsolable, uncontrollable. Tears streaming down our faces. We chortled our way through three intersections and two stoplights.
Got home, stumbled through the door, gasping for breath, raw voices chortling non-stop. Tear streaks mapping our faces. Randy looks up from ebay, questioning the commotion.
"Just saw a guy's schwank," I managed through the tears and giggles.
The look on his face was so comical, Hayley and I started cackling all the harder.
Not sure what that whole episode means or why in the world this dude did what he did. But it was a classic mother-daughter moment.
What the?
Not too long ago, a person whom shall remain nameless (my husband!), gave me a hard time because my car was a tad — how shall I say this?? —
uhm.
dank.
I am not known for my neatness in any way, shape nor form, so said dankiness should not come as a surprise to most of you. Ho-ever, even I had to admit that my car had become more of what I would classify as a giant purse than a comfortable mode-o-transport.
Empty coffee mug? Check.
Granola Bar Wrapper? Check. Check. Check.
Three pairs of shoes? Check. (So that's where my black sandals have been!)
Arby's receipt from two and a half weeks ago? Check.
Martini Shaker from a visit to my friend's in the cities last November? Check.
SO. The next day, after I got over being grrrr, I decide to clean up my act. Naturally, I feel the need to do this over my lunch hour because for some reason I cannot stand to do errands after work. Can. not. stand. to. Nope, not doin' it.
So, after depositing most of my junk in the trunk, I stop by the cash machine! My favorite! A money-machine!!!!! And order myself a twenty. (from hubby's account, not MINE, MINE, MINE.) That'll do me a nice spiff-up for my car and buy me a sanich for yunch.
Next stop: one of those snazzy automatonic car washes. Don't you love♥ technology?! We have no need for interaction with another humanoid. Just become mezmer-mezmer-mesmerized by a vaguely robotic voice gently instructing us via squaw box to follow orders. Hoorah, twenty-first century!!
First I needed some change, and what to my wondering eyes should appear? An automatic changer and eight tiny reindeer. (well, not really — but there was a change machine.) Since this apparatus does not have a drone speaking from within, I had to actually read the instructions, which were an enjoyable combination of diagrams and words. KEWL.
I could see by the imagery that this changer, would indeed be happy to exchange my twenty dollar bill for smaller denominations. You could put in ones, fives, tens or (yay!) twenties. So, after double checking which direction President Jackson (or Roosevelt, or Jefferson, or whom-eva! is on the frickin' twenty) should be facing, I feed my bill into the hungry mouth of my pal the change-o-matic. This is gonna be way cool! And after I get my fives, I'll change one of them for some ones and quarters so I can give the ol car interior a vacuum.
I'm really getting into it, which is normal for me. Once I commit, I'm in 100%.
I'm practically salivating with anticipation (out you spot!) as the changer consumes my money. But, pow, wham, bang, Batman! From the gurgling, churning and clanging, it appears that there may be a problem. Warning Will Robinson. Danger. Danger.
Slowly, as the clinking-clanking gradually evolves into a violent shimmy-shaking, I begin connecting the dots.
Zounds!!!
Coinage the likes of which I've never seen come spewing out of the change-o-matic.
Utter regurgitation, I say!
Oh no it di-unt!
Uhm. Ye-aaaahhhhhhh.
It did.
That change-o-matic don't got no bills, mother. No ones, no fives, no tens. But it does got your twenty, sucka.
Do the math. You know how many quarters there are in $20?
A lot.
It reminded me of the Brady Bunch episode where Bobby (or was it Peter? They're all interchangeable) wanted to wash his clothes for some reason, without the rest of the gang knowing. Well, you guessed it. Bobby, no!! Too much soap!
Too! Much!
He goes to get a sanich or something and comes back later only to discover bubbles, bubbles everywhere! Aawww no! Bobby, whatcha gonna do??
and fade to black.
Back to my problem.
Needless to say, I was a-freakin'. Look to the left of me, look to the right. Thank the Lord, nobody in sight. As the quarters over-floweth, I cup my hands under the drain pipe and hope for the best. As soon as my hand-basket is full, I dump the coins onto the driver's seat of my purse-mobile.
I don't even count it. I honestly don't care. I'm in damage-control mode. Clean up the evidence and clear the area as quickly as possible. Proceed toward your goal in an orderly fashion. Do not pass go, do not collect... well, you know the rest.
So, once all my change is collected, I haul ass into my car and commence to the drive-thru entrance of the car washer. The robo-rep waits patiently as I contract carpel tunnel from the repeated pushing motion of placing $7.00 worth of quarters into that microscopic slot. Yhow.
Finally. I can relax and listen to my tunage while the automatron washes my vehicle and with it the pain and misery I'm feeling from the last five minutes. (which felt more like five years.)
By the time I find myself creeping my way through the man made wind tunnel that is the dryer, I'm feeling quite a bit better.
I move on to the auto-vac, which isn't quite as automatic as I would have liked. There should be a better way. I really had to work, baby! But finally after about twenty minutes and another five dollars worth of quarters, the crumbs, stones, dirt and dust are but a distant memory.
Mission accomplished.
Time to treat me-self to some yunch. I go to my favorite yunch place: Erberts and Gerbets.
Again, thanks to the wonder of technology, I do not have to leave my pristine car and order via squawk box. Hey, no robo-drone here. A young guy I know is working the drive thru. A fragile lil dude who graduated with Hayley. Used live next door. Cool.
"That'll be five-eighty-two," he says.
I give him the money, and a sheepish smile, punctuated with a quiet "Sorry."
His hands don't even make a big enough basket to hold six bucks in quarters.
uhm.
dank.
I am not known for my neatness in any way, shape nor form, so said dankiness should not come as a surprise to most of you. Ho-ever, even I had to admit that my car had become more of what I would classify as a giant purse than a comfortable mode-o-transport.
Empty coffee mug? Check.
Granola Bar Wrapper? Check. Check. Check.
Three pairs of shoes? Check. (So that's where my black sandals have been!)
Arby's receipt from two and a half weeks ago? Check.
Martini Shaker from a visit to my friend's in the cities last November? Check.
SO. The next day, after I got over being grrrr, I decide to clean up my act. Naturally, I feel the need to do this over my lunch hour because for some reason I cannot stand to do errands after work. Can. not. stand. to. Nope, not doin' it.
So, after depositing most of my junk in the trunk, I stop by the cash machine! My favorite! A money-machine!!!!! And order myself a twenty. (from hubby's account, not MINE, MINE, MINE.) That'll do me a nice spiff-up for my car and buy me a sanich for yunch.
Next stop: one of those snazzy automatonic car washes. Don't you love♥ technology?! We have no need for interaction with another humanoid. Just become mezmer-mezmer-mesmerized by a vaguely robotic voice gently instructing us via squaw box to follow orders. Hoorah, twenty-first century!!
First I needed some change, and what to my wondering eyes should appear? An automatic changer and eight tiny reindeer. (well, not really — but there was a change machine.) Since this apparatus does not have a drone speaking from within, I had to actually read the instructions, which were an enjoyable combination of diagrams and words. KEWL.
I could see by the imagery that this changer, would indeed be happy to exchange my twenty dollar bill for smaller denominations. You could put in ones, fives, tens or (yay!) twenties. So, after double checking which direction President Jackson (or Roosevelt, or Jefferson, or whom-eva! is on the frickin' twenty) should be facing, I feed my bill into the hungry mouth of my pal the change-o-matic. This is gonna be way cool! And after I get my fives, I'll change one of them for some ones and quarters so I can give the ol car interior a vacuum.
I'm really getting into it, which is normal for me. Once I commit, I'm in 100%.
I'm practically salivating with anticipation (out you spot!) as the changer consumes my money. But, pow, wham, bang, Batman! From the gurgling, churning and clanging, it appears that there may be a problem. Warning Will Robinson. Danger. Danger.
Slowly, as the clinking-clanking gradually evolves into a violent shimmy-shaking, I begin connecting the dots.
Zounds!!!
Coinage the likes of which I've never seen come spewing out of the change-o-matic.
Utter regurgitation, I say!
Oh no it di-unt!
Uhm. Ye-aaaahhhhhhh.
It did.
That change-o-matic don't got no bills, mother. No ones, no fives, no tens. But it does got your twenty, sucka.
Do the math. You know how many quarters there are in $20?
A lot.
It reminded me of the Brady Bunch episode where Bobby (or was it Peter? They're all interchangeable) wanted to wash his clothes for some reason, without the rest of the gang knowing. Well, you guessed it. Bobby, no!! Too much soap!
Too! Much!
He goes to get a sanich or something and comes back later only to discover bubbles, bubbles everywhere! Aawww no! Bobby, whatcha gonna do??
and fade to black.
Back to my problem.
Needless to say, I was a-freakin'. Look to the left of me, look to the right. Thank the Lord, nobody in sight. As the quarters over-floweth, I cup my hands under the drain pipe and hope for the best. As soon as my hand-basket is full, I dump the coins onto the driver's seat of my purse-mobile.
I don't even count it. I honestly don't care. I'm in damage-control mode. Clean up the evidence and clear the area as quickly as possible. Proceed toward your goal in an orderly fashion. Do not pass go, do not collect... well, you know the rest.
So, once all my change is collected, I haul ass into my car and commence to the drive-thru entrance of the car washer. The robo-rep waits patiently as I contract carpel tunnel from the repeated pushing motion of placing $7.00 worth of quarters into that microscopic slot. Yhow.
Finally. I can relax and listen to my tunage while the automatron washes my vehicle and with it the pain and misery I'm feeling from the last five minutes. (which felt more like five years.)
By the time I find myself creeping my way through the man made wind tunnel that is the dryer, I'm feeling quite a bit better.
I move on to the auto-vac, which isn't quite as automatic as I would have liked. There should be a better way. I really had to work, baby! But finally after about twenty minutes and another five dollars worth of quarters, the crumbs, stones, dirt and dust are but a distant memory.
Mission accomplished.
Time to treat me-self to some yunch. I go to my favorite yunch place: Erberts and Gerbets.
Again, thanks to the wonder of technology, I do not have to leave my pristine car and order via squawk box. Hey, no robo-drone here. A young guy I know is working the drive thru. A fragile lil dude who graduated with Hayley. Used live next door. Cool.
"That'll be five-eighty-two," he says.
I give him the money, and a sheepish smile, punctuated with a quiet "Sorry."
His hands don't even make a big enough basket to hold six bucks in quarters.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
