OK, as you all well know, shopping is like mother's milk to me. Hell, I'll buy shit I don't even want just to keep other people from having it. Yes, I know, it's a sickness. I just hope that they never find a cure for it.
So, today I decided to go out grocery shopping at my favorite store, Woodman's. What can I say, you just gotta love a grocery store that's big enough to park a 747-800 in. I got lost in Woodman's once. They had to send out a search party with dogs to find me. They eventually located me in the ethnic aisle. Perusing the menorah candles and wondering why the kosher ones cost more. Anyway...
I was happily pondering the produce and pinching the peppers when I spy this smoking caliente little Mexican baby-daddy over by the nopalitos and was immediately smitten. He was gorgeous!!! He was swarthy, furry and built like a brick banos. Hell, he had eyes I would have sold secrets to the Russians for! SERIOUS papilito!!! Needless to say, I stalked him throughout the entire store. But I digress...
I finished off my shopping list in the pop section and was mindlessly grabbing 2-litres of Diet Pepsi off of the top shelf and tossing them into the cart when two of them decided to give up the ghost, so to speak. All of a sudden hairline cracks broke open on them and they start squirting out pop like a race horse that hasn't peed in three days. Geyser-esque is the term that comes to mind. Well, I yanked the damned things out of my cart before they could soak everything. OK, so now what, I thought to myself. There I stood, a bottle of Pepsi in each hand as they both sprayed out in opposite directions. What do I do next? Why, go brain dead, of course. I just stood there in the middle of the aisle, spinning in a circle like Blanche Hudson locked in the attic as I silently prayed for some sort of absolution to this cluster fuck. Before I realized what I had done I had not only managed to completely cover a toddler in the cart behind me with Pepsi but everything in that cart and his mother as well. I'm dripping with Pepsi. Both of our carts are dripping with Pepsi. Both sides of the aisle are dripping with Pepsi. A cascade of Pepsi is dripping off of the shelves. I'm standing in a puddle of Pepsi. The mother has a look on her face like she just found a turd in her purse. As Pepsi drips off of her nose. And then I take a look at the toddler. He's about half way into one of those 45-second inhales that can only result in one of those glass shattering shrieks that only a toddler is capable of making. You know that sound I mean. The one that starts out merely cruel and unusual and instantly shoots up to a frequency that only dogs can hear. I gotta tell ya, that little dude did his age group proud. Holy shit, the sound that came out of that little fucker was mind boggling!!! Oops, my bad...
I had no choice but to exercise my only option at that point. I dropped the now pretty much empty bottles onto the floor and sloshed my way over to the nearest check-out lane for some assistance. The clerk looks up and sees me standing there, dripping with Pepsi, and her mouth drops open. Trying to make the best of a soggy situation I just looked at her casually and said "You might want to call for maintenance, I think you're in need of a wet spill clean up in Aisle W." She grabbed the intercom phone with one hand and gave me a roll of paper towels with the other. "Thank you," I said, "I'm sure that the mother over there with the turd in her purse is going to want to dry off her kid before he hardens." And then I started giggling. And Pepsi came out of my nose. What can I say? Pretty, pretty princess...
Now, just to get some closure on this nightmare I decided to check out at the aisle with the clerk that had called for the clean up. If for no other reason that to give her back what was left of her roll of paper towels. All of about 3 sheets worth. All of which were brown, wet and sticky. But at least they were sugar free and decaffeinated. She was less than amused. Especially since she needed to dry off everything in my cart before she could run it over the scanner. And of course, I'm still kind of dripping Pepsi. As I was loading my car I started attracting insects from as far away as the airport. By the time I finally got my trunk all loaded up I looked like a two week old fly strip from Indonesia, for chris'sakes!!! I swear, a couple of more flies and I could have been airborne.
It's enough to put me off of shopping. Well, maybe not...
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
I SWEAR TO gOD, I'D RATHER GO CURTAIN SHOPPING WITH A MONKEY!!!
OK, I admit it, there are some things that I am just no damned good at. Waiting in line is one of them. In my mind waiting in line is a complete bloody waste of my time. And a serious threat to the health and well-being of any poor soul unfortunate enough to be ahead of me in said line. I have about a half a nano-second worth of patience on a good day but if you make me stand in line all bets are off. My fuse is about as short as a handful of fireworks in the pocket of a drunk in a trailer park.
My first experience with standing in line was in kindergarten at milk break time. Not a pleasant experience. Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to make 5-year olds queue up for milk??? Milk!!! What the hell was up with that??? I felt like I was trapped in some unholy pre-school Auschwitz!!! I was so pissed off I just wanted to kick that nun right in the nuts!!! And the lunch line wasn't much better. I just saw no sense to be made to stand in line for 5 minutes for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a couple of squares of hospital jello and half a bloody apple. And then to be forced to say grace to give "thanks" for that feast was the final insult. By that point the Wonder bread had dried out, the jello had congealed and the apple had turned a rather muddy shade of brown. And I'm supposed to be thankful???
I remember standing in line to get my drivers license. By the time I got to the counter they had actually changed the design of the application. I remember standing in line to get my state I.D. card on my 18th birthday. By the time I actually left the building I was 19, had a mustache and looked nothing like the picture. Don't even ask about the time I went in to pay my first speeding ticket. By the time it was all over blood had been shed and the Feds had actually raised the speed limit back up to 65 mph. I wanted to go back in and see if I couldn't get a refund grandfathered in somehow but I knew that by the time I finally managed to make it to the counter I would be using a walker and cars would actually be able to fly.
To this day things have not improved. If you are in front of me in line you will hear me groan, you will hear me grunt my disapproval, you will hear that "sound from the back of the cave noise" that I am famous for. Hell, you may even get spit on. I do not care how long the line is nor do I care how many people are in front of you. You are in front of me. YOU are holding ME up. ME!!! That is all that matters...
Only one thing riles me more that standing in line. That is when someone becomes my own personal human tope. Ah, yes, a tope. It's a wonderful Spanish word that is pronounced "toe-pay". It means speed bump. Or, as I like to translate it, "Hey, you mind-numbing turd, are you seriously going to plant your ass right there if front of me???". Today while grocery shopping I was tope'd at every turn. With reckless abandon, if you will. I was forced to give one shopper my cell phone number so she could call me when she was done squeezing ALL of the avacados. I was forced to ask another shopper who left all of her crap piled in the scale so she could start a conversation on her cell phone if she would mind if I used HER scale to weigh my apples. I graciously tossed 3 cans of imported white asparagus into the cart of the bitch that was blocking my access to my favorite brand of horse radish while she read the label on a bottle of French's yellow mustard like it was something on the NY Times best seller list. But I truly hit my stride when I got tope'd in tuna. Did you know that I can belch at will like a longshoreman? Not only that but I can follow it up with that noise that sounds like I'm getting ready to cough up a lugey the size and shape of Cuba. What can I say, it all boils down to one thing: MOVE!!!
Now, where did I put that monkey???
My first experience with standing in line was in kindergarten at milk break time. Not a pleasant experience. Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to make 5-year olds queue up for milk??? Milk!!! What the hell was up with that??? I felt like I was trapped in some unholy pre-school Auschwitz!!! I was so pissed off I just wanted to kick that nun right in the nuts!!! And the lunch line wasn't much better. I just saw no sense to be made to stand in line for 5 minutes for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a couple of squares of hospital jello and half a bloody apple. And then to be forced to say grace to give "thanks" for that feast was the final insult. By that point the Wonder bread had dried out, the jello had congealed and the apple had turned a rather muddy shade of brown. And I'm supposed to be thankful???
I remember standing in line to get my drivers license. By the time I got to the counter they had actually changed the design of the application. I remember standing in line to get my state I.D. card on my 18th birthday. By the time I actually left the building I was 19, had a mustache and looked nothing like the picture. Don't even ask about the time I went in to pay my first speeding ticket. By the time it was all over blood had been shed and the Feds had actually raised the speed limit back up to 65 mph. I wanted to go back in and see if I couldn't get a refund grandfathered in somehow but I knew that by the time I finally managed to make it to the counter I would be using a walker and cars would actually be able to fly.
To this day things have not improved. If you are in front of me in line you will hear me groan, you will hear me grunt my disapproval, you will hear that "sound from the back of the cave noise" that I am famous for. Hell, you may even get spit on. I do not care how long the line is nor do I care how many people are in front of you. You are in front of me. YOU are holding ME up. ME!!! That is all that matters...
Only one thing riles me more that standing in line. That is when someone becomes my own personal human tope. Ah, yes, a tope. It's a wonderful Spanish word that is pronounced "toe-pay". It means speed bump. Or, as I like to translate it, "Hey, you mind-numbing turd, are you seriously going to plant your ass right there if front of me???". Today while grocery shopping I was tope'd at every turn. With reckless abandon, if you will. I was forced to give one shopper my cell phone number so she could call me when she was done squeezing ALL of the avacados. I was forced to ask another shopper who left all of her crap piled in the scale so she could start a conversation on her cell phone if she would mind if I used HER scale to weigh my apples. I graciously tossed 3 cans of imported white asparagus into the cart of the bitch that was blocking my access to my favorite brand of horse radish while she read the label on a bottle of French's yellow mustard like it was something on the NY Times best seller list. But I truly hit my stride when I got tope'd in tuna. Did you know that I can belch at will like a longshoreman? Not only that but I can follow it up with that noise that sounds like I'm getting ready to cough up a lugey the size and shape of Cuba. What can I say, it all boils down to one thing: MOVE!!!
Now, where did I put that monkey???
Saturday, February 4, 2012
GENTLEMEN, I HAVE TAKEN A BRIDE AND HER NAME IS HYPOGLYCEMIA...
OK, is it just me or does hypoglycemia sound like the name of some ancient Roman Goddess??? Of say, stupidity. Or self inflicted injury. Or perhaps something akin to brain death. But I digress...
So, picture this: 7:15AM this morning, me bounding (shuffling) out of bed to go pee. Now picture my last half a nano-second of consciousness as I go "Hey, I'm kind of dizzy." Then picture me flat on my back, half in the bathroom and half in the hall way, covered in blood (as well as the doorway, the wall and the carpet), completely incoherent, slightly convulsing, frothing at the mouth a bit with Sea Squirt kneeling over me going "Oh, shit! You're gonna need stitches." Oh, yeah.... add on buck naked and still peeing. About the only thing this scenario was missing was a WalMart shopping bag, a bit of "chew" and a couple of missing teeth. Needless to say it was NOT a pretty sight. As I have oft times said, if you're gonna hit the pavement like a turd from a tall cow's ass at least have the good sense to do it with a bit of style and grace. Did I hit the pavement? Hell, yes. Did I do it with any sense of style and grace what so ever? Hell, no!!!
Sea Squirt finally managed to get me pseudo upright (I admire his courage) and I saw myself in the mirror. I'm bleeding profusely from several head wounds, I'm missing a patch of skin on my right elbow big enough to reupholster a cantaloupe with, my eyes don't match, I'm sweating like a glass of ice tea in August and I'm the color of a piece of typing paper. And I'm not only mumbling but I'm actually asking him who I am. Again, not pretty. And then he asks me "Are you OK?"
It's 7:17 AM, I'm covered in blood and my own urine, I've taken out a towel rack, I've knocked a picture of a Mexican drag queen off the wall, I look like the wrong end of a bludgeoning in an alley in Hanoi and you're telling me that I'm going to need stitches. WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK KIND OF A SHITHEAD QUESTION IS THAT???? No, honey, all is right with world. BTW, when you're done getting me my cup of coffee would you mind calling 911???
Oh, just fuck me to tears...
About 20 minutes later I finally stopped bleeding. Well, sort of. I'd managed to bleed through two towels, the front of me, the side of me, the back of me, a puddle under my ass was well on it's way to coagulating and I had a blood clot in my hair about the size of an avocado. I was well down the road to dehydration and starting to crave popsicles. And vodka. As well as Vicodin. Not necessarily in that order either.
Somehow, Sea Squirt was able to get a cup of coffee, half a dozen cookies and a cheese Danish into me so I was at least regaining my ability to communicate in complete sentences (kind of) again. After he counted my teeth and checked to see that my pupils were both of matching size he asked me what had happened. As I recall, my response was something to effect of "Grynispsle mo mo este mui mucho mas. Duarte.". At this point that still makes no sense to me but apparently at the time it at least let Sea Squirt know that I was still in there somewhere.
I spent the rest of the day in a bathrobe and bandaids (fuck that stitches shit, I'm a butch little motherfucker!!!) never wandering far from popsicles, vodka and the "occasional" non-prescription prescribed narcotic pain killer (what can I say, Pablo Escobar ain't got nothing on me!!!). Hypoglycemia sucks rocks!!! Especially for a sugar junkie like me. I've been this way my whole life. I was officially diagnosed with it in 1988 when I had an "episode" (I HATE that term) while I was sitting in a doctor's office and actually melted and flowed off of the exam table and puddled onto the floor like yesterdays gravy. A gallon of IV-push glucose later I was fine. I freaked the shit out of that doctor.
What can I say, I have the pancreas a diabetic would sell their soul for. I'm considering subdividing mine and selling it off in lots on eBay to the highest bidders. What ya got dude? Time shares? T-bills?? Blue chips??? How about a watch wiz a beautiful Swiss movement????
So, picture this: 7:15AM this morning, me bounding (shuffling) out of bed to go pee. Now picture my last half a nano-second of consciousness as I go "Hey, I'm kind of dizzy." Then picture me flat on my back, half in the bathroom and half in the hall way, covered in blood (as well as the doorway, the wall and the carpet), completely incoherent, slightly convulsing, frothing at the mouth a bit with Sea Squirt kneeling over me going "Oh, shit! You're gonna need stitches." Oh, yeah.... add on buck naked and still peeing. About the only thing this scenario was missing was a WalMart shopping bag, a bit of "chew" and a couple of missing teeth. Needless to say it was NOT a pretty sight. As I have oft times said, if you're gonna hit the pavement like a turd from a tall cow's ass at least have the good sense to do it with a bit of style and grace. Did I hit the pavement? Hell, yes. Did I do it with any sense of style and grace what so ever? Hell, no!!!
Sea Squirt finally managed to get me pseudo upright (I admire his courage) and I saw myself in the mirror. I'm bleeding profusely from several head wounds, I'm missing a patch of skin on my right elbow big enough to reupholster a cantaloupe with, my eyes don't match, I'm sweating like a glass of ice tea in August and I'm the color of a piece of typing paper. And I'm not only mumbling but I'm actually asking him who I am. Again, not pretty. And then he asks me "Are you OK?"
It's 7:17 AM, I'm covered in blood and my own urine, I've taken out a towel rack, I've knocked a picture of a Mexican drag queen off the wall, I look like the wrong end of a bludgeoning in an alley in Hanoi and you're telling me that I'm going to need stitches. WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK KIND OF A SHITHEAD QUESTION IS THAT???? No, honey, all is right with world. BTW, when you're done getting me my cup of coffee would you mind calling 911???
Oh, just fuck me to tears...
About 20 minutes later I finally stopped bleeding. Well, sort of. I'd managed to bleed through two towels, the front of me, the side of me, the back of me, a puddle under my ass was well on it's way to coagulating and I had a blood clot in my hair about the size of an avocado. I was well down the road to dehydration and starting to crave popsicles. And vodka. As well as Vicodin. Not necessarily in that order either.
Somehow, Sea Squirt was able to get a cup of coffee, half a dozen cookies and a cheese Danish into me so I was at least regaining my ability to communicate in complete sentences (kind of) again. After he counted my teeth and checked to see that my pupils were both of matching size he asked me what had happened. As I recall, my response was something to effect of "Grynispsle mo mo este mui mucho mas. Duarte.". At this point that still makes no sense to me but apparently at the time it at least let Sea Squirt know that I was still in there somewhere.
I spent the rest of the day in a bathrobe and bandaids (fuck that stitches shit, I'm a butch little motherfucker!!!) never wandering far from popsicles, vodka and the "occasional" non-prescription prescribed narcotic pain killer (what can I say, Pablo Escobar ain't got nothing on me!!!). Hypoglycemia sucks rocks!!! Especially for a sugar junkie like me. I've been this way my whole life. I was officially diagnosed with it in 1988 when I had an "episode" (I HATE that term) while I was sitting in a doctor's office and actually melted and flowed off of the exam table and puddled onto the floor like yesterdays gravy. A gallon of IV-push glucose later I was fine. I freaked the shit out of that doctor.
What can I say, I have the pancreas a diabetic would sell their soul for. I'm considering subdividing mine and selling it off in lots on eBay to the highest bidders. What ya got dude? Time shares? T-bills?? Blue chips??? How about a watch wiz a beautiful Swiss movement????
Friday, January 20, 2012
OMg! "PEACHES" HAS LEFT THE BUILDING...
Earlier today America lost one of its premier songbirds and the world became a quieter place with a lot less soul. Miss Etta James, aged 73, passed away today after a long and brave battle against both Alzheimer's and leukemia. Peaches, I will miss you with all of my heart.
With a career that spanned 58 years she saw unbelievable precedent setting highs coupled with crushing lows that would have broken a lesser person. She won 6 Grammy's, charted on Blues, Rhythm & Blues, Rock & Roll, Soul, Gospel and Jazz charts, had a truly groundbreaking debut album in 1960 and single handedly changed the way white bread America listened to music. Ain't nobody could wrap their heart and soul around a song and own it the way she could. She was still out on the road and touring until about 18 months ago when a little voice inside of her said, "Girl, you gotta slow down." Knowing Etta James she probably told that little voice to go fuck itself. But still, the little voice won out. That battle has been our loss.
Her eldest son recently described her in a way that made me smile. He said, "Mama never sugar coated anything. If she had an opinion you were gonna know it." I love that.
Today, we are missing a Diva but heaven has a brand new soloist. Peaches has gone home. At Last...
With a career that spanned 58 years she saw unbelievable precedent setting highs coupled with crushing lows that would have broken a lesser person. She won 6 Grammy's, charted on Blues, Rhythm & Blues, Rock & Roll, Soul, Gospel and Jazz charts, had a truly groundbreaking debut album in 1960 and single handedly changed the way white bread America listened to music. Ain't nobody could wrap their heart and soul around a song and own it the way she could. She was still out on the road and touring until about 18 months ago when a little voice inside of her said, "Girl, you gotta slow down." Knowing Etta James she probably told that little voice to go fuck itself. But still, the little voice won out. That battle has been our loss.
Her eldest son recently described her in a way that made me smile. He said, "Mama never sugar coated anything. If she had an opinion you were gonna know it." I love that.
Today, we are missing a Diva but heaven has a brand new soloist. Peaches has gone home. At Last...
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