A short bus story

When Friday does this, I feel like a midget at a puppet show.


It's hard to follow the migration pattern of the free-range idiot. Sometimes the idiots show up singly, sometimes they come in pairs, and quite often an idiot is accompanied by a semi-willing/semi-mortified/just-used-to-it-and-ignoring-it companion. One thing that can be predicted about the species, however, is that each and every idiot within a 50-mile radius of here will, eventually, will find me where I work and will annoy the living shit out of me.

**************

I've already introduced you to Motormouth Gramps. This would be as good a time as any, I reckon, to have you meet The TV Bitch.

She and her husband arrived via bus, and as I always do when customers are dropped off by the bus, I said a little prayer to the retail gods that these people would not be assholes. In Grand Haven, you see, the bus does not run on a set schedule - it's a dial-a-ride service, so when someone has to call the bus to come fetch him or her, there's no guarantee that it will be there in anything resembling a timely fashion. Since there were no other businesses within walk-in distance, it wasn't like they could really wait for the bus anywhere other than in my store.

So, the couple disembarked, entered the store, and made straight for me. I either have a sympathetic face, or I look like a complete and utter sucker, because the weirdos will inevitably zero in on me. These two didn't seem outright weird; but you know how some people look...not quite right? Yeah. That.

They were nice as could be, though, and I chastised myself for pre-judging them based on their bus ridership and not-quite-rightness. Quick and pleasant transaction made, bus called, my customers wandered the store awaiting the chariot of mass transit.

While they waited, I walked over to talk to my boss toward the front of the store. She and I were deep in conversation, probably about something completely inappropriate, when the lady of the bus couple appeared next to us fairly abruptly.

"Hi, did you have a question?" I asked her, hoping it wasn't the "Do you have a bathroom?" question.

"I don't like those TVs." She said it emphatically, firmly, with great conviction in her voice and a fervor in her eyes that burned like jalapeño ass lube.

My boss and I were caught totally off guard. Confused, we asked her which TVs, and why the hate, hon?

She gestured at the three TVs we had on display. "All of those. I don't like those TVs." Still totally serious and not to be fucked with.

We finally figured out, after many interjections of "I don't like those TVs." that she was not a fan of the flat-screen TV.

"What if they fall over? Who's gonna put that on my wall? Why don't you have the regular TVs in here?"

She just kept at it and kept at it, always coming back to her questioning of why we didn't have any of the old, square, hella-heavy TVs in stock. Well, ma'am, it's because most sane people prefer a TV with a better picture, and one that can be moved without a fucking crane.

Finally, I tired of the question and said, "Neither of us has any say in what is or isn't stocked in the stores. You'd have to ask someone a lot higher up on the corporate food chain about the decisions made." That's the standard joke I make each time I encounter an idiot customer who's under the impression that I have any control of any part of the company for which I work. See the name tag, pal? People who make the decisions don't usually have to sport a "Welcome to...My Name is..." lapel-side.

TV Bitch looked a little confused by my statement, and my boss translated for me. "You'd have to talk to our CEO."

TV Bitch rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah, that'll take a hundred years..."

Boss and I briefly exchanged raised-eyebrow looks.

TV Bitch rolled on, "...and then the ghosts will come in and knock over this building."

We had a moment of silence in memory of any true direction this conversation was taking. Boss and I had no idea what to say at this point, and TV Bitch/Ghost-Demolition lady looked like she was winding herself up to continue down the path of whatthefuck-ness. I glanced over at her husband and the expression on his face said many things, but mostly it said Oh, crap, she's doin' it again, and I have to be married to her, you guys, and please just entertain her so I can shop in peace for a few minutes, 'kay?

I have never in my life been so overjoyed to see the bus pull up in front of the store.

September: rhymes with dismember

Well, shove another statue in my ass, how the hell did it get to be September already? I thought I was bein' all productive, putting up a post early in August, thinking I'd follow it with at least one or two more...and then BAM. Now it's cold and my ass is all jiggly with the shivers, and not in a good way.

First things first (because it's more arrangey that way): The winners of my caption contest are Bone Machine, for the timeless "She's got Sandy Duncan Eyes." and Sheryl Stephen for the heartwarming sentiment, "Oh, Sonny, you just dislodged my mucus plug with your teeth!" I couldn't pick just one, so I am crowning Bone and Sheryl the King and Queen of the Cotillion Prom. Or is "Cotillion Prom" redundant? Either way, I'm forced to wear something made of taffeta and to put my hair up into ridiculous turd curls. Go on and dance your spotlight dance, you two.


In other news: Now that my local store has closed, I'm driving a half hour each way to a different store, and working an average of six hours a week. Like a 30-year case of diarrhea, it's gettin' old. So, my chaps and I are actively back on the job hunt. I'd really like to find employment as a court jester, or perhaps the pastie technician at a strip club; I'll keep you informed on my career progress.

Speaking of progress, how awesomely fucking awesome is it to have Project Runway back on the air? I'll give Bravo props for trying to give us a substitute, but let's face it: The Fashion Show was nothing more than a scrap of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of Tim Gunn's always-polished shoe. It was like asking for a Classic Coke and instead being handed a warm glass of piss. Well, maybe I'm being too harsh here; warm piss isn't as bad as The Fashion Show, not if it's fairly fresh, and doesn't have those lemonade fleaks in it.

Also, I did, in fact, make it to the zoo this summer. Here, have a camel's ass:





And, finally, I'd like to offer proof that just because you're about a thousand years old (in cat years) doesn't mean you ain't still cute enough to stop traffic.















Eeyore prefers to summer at the Monkey-Head Hilton condo. And where's that catnip julep he ordered ten minutes ago, hmmmmm?

That is all. Transmission ended.

Do it. Do it.

Caption this picture!
(Bonus points if you know who this is and can work a General Hospital reference into your caption.)




The winner of this contest will NOT receive any Rice-a-Roni. Just thought that ought to be clear, as I have no desire to dress like Bucky Crocker again.

It's that time of the month

Damn, how did I get to this point, this "oh, crap, it's the last day of the month and I haven't posted anything" point? Maybe I should start a policy of drunken blogging; the content might not make sense, but there would be content.

The last couple of weeks have been a blur, as the hammer came down on my store and we closed shop. The company has been assuring us for months and months, "Oh, yeah, we're gonna move you to a better location in town, we wouldn't just close your store, heavens, no!" Sure. And the Tooth Fairy is gonna respect me in the morning. I know bullshit when I hear it.

We had two weeks to pack up every last bit of merchandise in the place and ship it out to other stores, remove all the shelving and fixtures, and sweep and vacuum a building that is going to be demolished in a few days. Up until mid-day last Saturday, we were also doing all this with customers coming in to make purchases from our ever-dwindling inventory. Some of them felt the need to come in to gawk and generally get right in our way as we were trying to get shit done. We so desperately needed Officer Barbrady to come in with a cattle prod. "Nothing to see here, move along, all you lookie-loos." Really, folks - if watching a few people pack up a store is your idea of entertainment, I would suggest going home and jabbing a crab fork into your eyes; it's the next logical step.

Even after we put a sign on the door that explained the fact that we were closed, people would not stop coming in and asking about it, as if the sign were some kind of joke and we were withholding their precious batteries. Customers would phone us, and on average, would make us repeat "No, this location is no longer in business" at least five times during the conversation. Yes, we're closed, so get the fuck out of my way and have a blessed day.

It's all been a bit more physical work than I'm used to; it's made me realize, "Hey! I'm a middle-aged woman who's grossly out of shape!" And then I go get some pizza. Yesterday, we finally got the dumpster that we'd been trying to acquire for days, and the only two of us who were on site that day happened to be the two oldest employees in the store. I have to say, though, that the two of us kicked ass, kicked paunchy, varicose-veined, silver-haired ass. My muscles are still not on speaking terms with me, my knees are on strike, and my feet are in negotiations with a different, younger body, but the worst of my injuries out of all that lifting and tossing is the giant hole I ripped in the armpit of my RENT t-shirt when I hooked it with a bracket attached to the rather weighty shelf I was tossing over the side of the dumpster. If that shelf had been half an inch closer to my body when I heaved it up and over, I'd be typing this with stitches in my side.

Starting tomorrow, I'll be working at another of our locations. My drive will be half an hour instead of seven to ten minutes, but at least they're keeping me, and I'll no longer be working with Annoying Boy. Today we wrapped things up, took the last of the keep-it crap out of the building, and shut off the lights for the last time. Last Sunday was my one-year anniversary at this job, but I really didn't think I harbored any sentimentality toward the location, save for the fact that it was a short commute. But damned if I didn't spill some tears as I was driving out of the lot.

Shit, I'm gonna miss that crappy little store!

Because I'm a grownup

The best-laid plans of mice and men never get laid. I'm living proof of that.

I had my day off all planned out: Tuesday would be My Day at the Zoo. I love the zoo. I haven't been to the zoo in years. Nobody fucks with my day at the zoo.

I would spy on the spider monkeys, drink beer with the bears, stroke the stingrays, badger the budgies, hump the camels, all the while working up the nerve to ride the four-story zip line that would send me in glorious pseudo flight over the petting corral. I would be five years old all over again, except for the driver's license and wrinkles, but those were mere technicalities. It would be a glorious summer day wherein I pestered animals besides my own with a camera and my insane, delighted giggles.

Somebody fucked with my day at the zoo.

Somewhere around the get-the-fuck-outta-here-on-my-day-off hour of 7:30 a.m., an hour that doesn't even technically exist on one's weekend, I was awakened by what seemed to be a marching band but was just my phone. I was just awake enough to mutter "Fuuuuuuuuck..." in a sleep-raspy voice when I saw on the caller ID that it was my boss. There had been an emergency in her family, and could I work for a few hours?

Now, you'll never meet an asshole who's more selfish than I am, but even I have a tiny sliver of decency when it comes to family medical emergencies, having lived through enough of them myself, so work was on and Operation GiggleZoo was aborted. My inner five-year-old went off into the corner to pout and draw pictures of me with a pig nose, and off to work I went.

Though rain had been predicted for the day, it turned out to be sunny and a little cool - the perfect day for a middle-aged woman to go compare necks with the giraffes for a few hours. I couldn't help but fantasize how my day would've gone had I not been called to cashier duty...



Monkeys! I love monkeys!















Aw, dammit, I knew I should've buttoned my shirt before I wandered over here. Sorry 'bout the stray nipples, guys.




Well, monkeys are just rude anyway. I'll go visit the elephants and see if they want these peanuts I shoved down my pants.















Hmmmmm...guess not.




There's a pretty polar bear. Oh, look - the polar bear wants to give me kisses! Butt kisses!



















There's no way I could be misreading that signal, right?




















Wrong!




Not my best zoo day ever. Even the puma hates my display of too much belly.





















"Oh, I want a LOT of lumps!"


The point to all this is...there's no fucking point. The only way I can keep myself from having a pouty hissy fit over going to work and missing the zoo is to imagine massive amounts of animal vomit.

That, my friends, is maturity.

AfterBirth Day reflections

Damn, I just realized I haven't put up a single post this month. I'd like to say it's because I'm much too busy shagging young sluts...so I'll say that: I'm much too busy shagging young sluts.

It's not true, but I can say it.

Things I haven't actually been doing this month:

• Shagging young sluts.
• Cleaning up the leaves in my yard.
• Shagging old sluts.
• Cleaning my house.
• Shagging anyone.
• Cleaning anything (unless you count loading the dishwasher; then I am a domestic goddess).
• Earning commission.
• Writing blog posts.
  
  

Things I have been doing this month:

• Turning 44.
• Looking 55.
• Fighting off a nasty head/chest cold that has left me with the crown for Mistress of Mucous.
• Putting a mighty strain on the scales at the doctor's office.
• Attending a Mary Kay party and feeling as out of place as a...well, as a man at a women's party. If I could've sunk into the couch and slithered, unnoticed, out the door, I would have done so. I mean, really...I looked in the curio cabinet, and wondered why the hostess had a decorative plate adorned with a picture of 1980s-era Morgan Fairchild made up to look like she should be running the Best Little Whorehouse in Texas; then I realized it was a picture of company founder Mary Kay. What a whore. I thought it best to avoid the makeup and instead bought some Satin Hands. I can't even begin to tell you how disappointed I was to find out it was lotion.
  
• Watching my cats freak the fuck out when my niece brought her chihuahua puppy over to visit. Stella hid in the kitchen cabinet, and when my brother opened the door to get a peek at her, she shot out of there with the speed of a much thinner cat, collided explosively with a bag of returnable cans, and hid under my bed for two hours. She seems to have forgiven me, but I won't be surprised if she pees on my feet during the night.
• Feeling the subliminal pull of infomercials that offered me such tempting items as Dual-Action Colon Cleanse and Yoga Booty Ballet. Come to think of it, I'm not so sure those are two different products.

Here's to June, where I hope to finish the post upon which I've been dawdling for weeks, and maybe, just maybe, shag someone worthy of my charms. Trouble is, I never see homeless women in Grand Haven.

And it'll be choreographed

Really, the original ad is more overdone and laughable than any parody. If you haven't seen the original "Gathering Storm" flatulence fest, check it out on YouTube.

Now, here's my favorite parody to date:

A Gaythering Storm from Jane Lynch

Beware the gobble-ins

This used to be such a nice town, a serene town, a place where you could raise up a nice li'l family and your child could dream of growing up to be somebody. Somebody like a mail carrier.

I'm sorry to say that times have changed; it's like the Wild West up in here now, and not even a can of mace and a stout leather bag - a mail bag, I mean - can keep our postal workers safe from the threat of gang violence in the streets of Grand Haven.

Those god damned turkeys.

The devil wears blah blah

Old guy wanders in, wanting product a co-worker ordered for him. I check and it's not in yet; old guy is very cool about it, and I'm thinking, Well, isn't that a relief that he's not bitching at me for something out of my control. What a nice old man. Then he compliments my speaking voice, and I suddenly remember that I've waited on him before, that he is the Talkiest Talkingest of the Talking Old Guys, and that I may be eligible for full retirement benefits before this conversation is over.

He tells me, at length, about his friend with the bright red hair and the melodious voice who used to be a DJ, and about another friend with a booming voice that needed no amplification, the guy who should have been a DJ but couldn't be bothered to learn the trade. Somewhere along the line, he segues into the story of his immigrant grandparents, and how they were made to run up and down the stairs at Ellis Island before being granted admittance to the States (I suspect that it was because watching people run in wooden shoes is universally hilarious, but I keep that to myself), and how his grandmother took all her money out of the bank the night before the stock market crashed in '29, and he doesn't know why they called it the "Great" Depression, 'cause it kinda sucked, actually.

My boss is wandering through and gets dragged into the conversation because she's found the item that was ordered for him. She and I share the thought, in our girlie telekinetic way, that perhaps he'll buy it and vamoose so we can get back to the stock that needs to go up. But no, he's now launched into the tale of how he and his wife ventured into the wilds of New York City in the late '60s, and how, by God, it was really a hellhole, and there were people dancing topless on the tables. I'm wondering, to myself, how I get on the waiting list for this hellhole, and then I remember that some asshole cleaned up Times Square in the '90s, and my little private bubble of breast awareness is deflated as the old guy relates, in excruciating detail, how he and his wife were trapped on the 88th floor of the Empire State Building during a blackout, but "this little Jap" fashioned a battery-powered lamp and led all the tourists down the stairs to the darkened street. I can't help but picture George Takei dressed as the Statue of Liberty.

We edge him over to the counter and manage to ring up his purchase as he launches into his explanation of how the Mexican drug wars could be easily eradicated with some of the US of A's heavy artillery. I decline to mention that the US of A's heavy artillery seems to be already in use elsewhere in the world, as doing so would only prolong the conversation. He asks me at least three times if I've ever been in the military, and I keep thinking, Do you really think anyone would willingly hand me a gun? Finally, miraculously, after the longest 45 minutes on record, he's out the door, and my boss and I are staring at each other, eyes wide with disbelief, exclaiming in unison, "Oh. My. GAWD."

And the thing is, he's a nice enough guy. Not once do I have the urge to hit him or gouge him or tightly wrap his danglies in speaker wire. Really, I feel kinda bad, because it's obvious that no one he knows will hold still long enough for him to get this out of his system, and dammit, it's a family's job to let him ramble at home so he's all rambled out before he's allowed to go out in public.

So, we go back to our work, and there is work aplenty for the two of us. We price, we stock, we hang tags, we sell phones, we sell cell phones, we sell cell phones by the seashore, we do price changes, and before I know it, it's an hour to closing time and my boss is leaving me to close the store by myself. I still have a few tasks on my list, but the last hour is usually slow, and I'm figuring it will be a breeze, a cakewalk, a walk in the park, a walk in the cake. Boss lady has her hand on the door when a familiar vehicle pulls up...

Chatty Grampy is back.

I shriek at my boss and she whips around to see what's gotten up my ass. Then she sees who it is and I can see her getting ready to bolt past him, out the door and into her car, where she will lock the doors and squeal out of the parking lot like she just robbed the place and put three bullets in the clerk. I beg her, "Oh, sweet Jesus, promise me you'll give me FIVE MINUTES and then call me on the store phone, where we will have a long conversation about digital converter boxes and their place in a kosher household. Promise me." She promises me, and I have no reason to doubt the sincerity on her face, though I only see it for a split second before she makes like the Road Runner and she's gone, into her car, a streak and a puff of dust, tire tracks on the concrete all she's left us to remember she was ever really there.

It seems we neglected to preach the gospel of "Do you need batteries with that?" when he made his purchase, and as it turns out, he needs batteries. The battery sale turns into his proud display of a bullet-shaped pen, which somehow turns into a solid half hour of his movie recommendations for me. He likes Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton together, and also that Jack Nicholson movie "where that one guy is a queer." He basically spoils the endings to several movies which, thankfully, I have no interest in seeing anyway. Surprisingly enough, his most enthusiastic recommendation is The Devil Wears Prada. In fact, he mentions high-heeled shoes and women in high heels so many times during the conversation that I begin to wonder if he's going to whip out a pair of red stilettos and beg me to wear them as I clog dance on his back. I begin to wonder exactly how much I would charge for that.

But mostly, I begin to wonder Where the hell is that phone call I was promised? Betrayal, that's what I call it. When a chick asks another chick to make a fake phone call to rescue her from an awkward situation, it's Chick Law that she make that call at precisely the preordained time. My boss has broken one of the cardinal rules of Honor Among Chicks. I make a mental note to fart in her office chair if and when this conversation ever concludes.

Thirty minutes to closing time, my work list not getting any smaller, and finally, miraculously, another customer walks in. Old guy sees him, grabs his batteries off the counter, and has the good grace to say "Well, you have a customer, so I'll let you get to it." The angels sing for just a split second, until New Customer smiles at us and says "Oh, you guys go ahead, I'm fine over here."

NO! I scream in my head. YOU'RE NOT FINE! YOU DESPERATELY NEED MY HELP TO PICK OUT A CALCULATOR! My attempts at telepathy fail. I will the phone to ring, but its will to remain unrung is stronger, and I swear that the caller ID briefly, silently flashes Sucks to be you. I'm sure New Customer is doing this to me on purpose, this blatant "knowing what he wants and where it's located" nonsense that he's pulling just to fuck with me.

After an eternity of movie plot spoilers, I see New Customer making his way toward the counter, slowly, slowly, slowly, and I practically spit a lung out screeching at him, "I CAN HELP YOU OVER HERE, SIR!" Old guy moves aside and bids me adieu, and I take my time waiting on New Customer, making sure I ask a lot of questions, make a lot of recommendations, assure myself that old guy is really and truly out the door, on his way out of the parking lot. I bag New Customer's items, and then I pick up the phone, dial about four digits, and pretend to engage in a fascinating debate about the availability of lead-free solder, just in case Grampaw Fuck-Me Pumps changes his mind and turns the car around.

It is with the greatest sense of relief that I lock the store, kill the lights, and shut down the electronics; it is with the greatest sense of revenge that I let loose an ass-rumbling thunderstorm upon the office chair where my can't-bother-to-phone boss will sit in the morning.

I shall never again forget to offer batteries with each purchase. Amen.

Lazy Bucky's quickies (Spring edition)

I've started and abandoned about four different posts since the last one that went up, so I guess it had better be quickies or nothin' at all.

• I got my hair did! Squirl's very nice hairdresser (also the stylist who dyed my hair the last time it was done, about a year and a half ago) offered to do it for me pro bono (because who doesn't like Cher's ex?). How could I pass up an offer like that? I went about as wild with the color as I'm allowed to at my present job (where they also make me button my shirt right up to the collarbone; how's a girl supposed to make commission with her cleavage obscured?).
  
  
  It's called violet burgundy, with just a little Roxy mixed in for brightness, whatever that means. I give it the Bucky Stamp of Approval, which is generally reserved for the finer things in life, like Corona Light, solar-powered buttplugs, and drama-free girls who will put out on the first date.
  
  
• Perhaps the TV needs to be turned off while I sleep. I recently had a dream where I was in a natatorium, but for some reason, there was snow in there, so as I walked to the main pool, I kept falling into the drifts and found it difficult to stand back up again (I think this is my subconscious mind telling me "Lose some weight, you four-eyed lardass!"). After I regained my feet, I decided to walk in the opposite direction, where I spied a smaller, wading-type pool. Martin Sheen was in the pool, showing some boys how quickly it drained when the plug was pulled. Apparently, West Wing was on TV as I slept, because I walked to the edge of the pool and addressed him thusly:
  
  Me: Mr. President, do you plan to fill the pool with Jell-O Shots?
  Martin Sheen: Not in front of the minors.
  
  
• While I have no use for their service (I don't need anyone to tell me my credit is about as solid as a bowel movement the day after Cinco de Mayo), I love the free credit report commercials. You know, the ads with the three dorky guys who sing about how their credit sucks ass big-time? I recently found out that there is a pirate hat in each one of the commercials. Of course, the one in the seafood restaurant is rife with pirate hats, but I've also managed to scope them out in the used car spot (it's in the back seat next to the bass player), the "married my dream girl" spot (on a table next to the singer), in the bicycle ad (on a shelf in the garage where the band is playing), and at the renaissance fair (on the drum kit). But I can't find the one in the ad where the guys are waiters at the hip-hop party. Has anybody else cared enough to spot that one? Do tell, do tell.
  
  
• I have about had it with this itchy nipple syndrome. It's not wintertime anymore, I'm not wearing steel wool in my bra, and I'm not being stingy with the goddamned lotion. I know that itchy palms mean money is on its way (or, in my case, it means a fresh growth of hair is always sprouting every time I shave), so what do itchy nipples mean? Is the milkman on his way?
  
  
• Millionaire Matchmaker Patti Stanger has given me a new word for which I find daily use: Bragasaurus. I think it every time I listen to that kid at work open his mouth. Why is the Bragasaurus not extinct? Can't we move that bit of evolution along a little faster? He and I had the following conversation today:
  
  Bragasaurus: (talking about how he's charmed his latest romantic conquest) I really try hard not to brag or talk myself up...
  Me: (incredulous, to say the least) No, you don't!
  Bragasaurus: (caught off guard) Uh...well...that's what I like to tell myself.
  
  And then I smashed him in the face with a subwoofer while screaming "Why don't you tell yourself to shut the fuck up?"
  Well, no, I didn't. But I thought it, and that has to count for something.