There are two types of Moms in this world: The ones who gently peel off a Band-Aid to minimize the pain, and the ones who rip them off your delicate skin in one swift go, maximizing pain, while utilizing time efficiency.
Which could possibly be a young girl’s first encounter with waxing
There are sub-categories too: Moms who use common sense, like maybe applying a bit of baby oil to loosen the Band-Aid from the skin vs. Moms who think it’s a good idea to slather some oily natural peanut butter on it thinking that will do the trick.
Mine was the Band-Aid ripper-offer type. She was also the type to cut chewing gum out of your hair rather than using peanut butter the way it could be used (not on Band-Aids), and certainly not on a sandwich, that would be crazy.
My mother never packed my sister and I a normal lunch, say, with peanut butter sandwiches. Nope, she thought it would be a good idea to pack her kids’ lunches with a can of sardines, a handful of some walnuts and golden raisins, and a stale chunk of baguette.
If you’ve never smelled fishy during the second half of class and gotten your ass kicked after school for being a weirdo who eats fucked up lunches, you haven’t lived! Had my mom embodied the foresight to know if you pack a lunch like that for your kids, it would create serious social issues, then maybe she would’ve reconsidered.
By the way, back then, cans of sardines had to be opened with a key that was attached to the top of the can, and if it was missing… well then, you’d be pretty hungry by the time three o’clock rolled around… loser.
She was also the type of Mom who consistently made poor judgments based on techniques that had no scientific evidence whatsoever. For instance, she believed the best way to treat burned skin, was to rub a cold stick of butter on it, which for the first two seconds, felt really good.
I don’t know about any of you fucking scientists out there, but to me, adding grease to a burn is not a good way to treat one. It is a great way to cook the skin however, especially if you like that smell mixed in with melted butter and your child’s screams for mercy.
Oddly enough, she would make us sandwiches from time to time, just not normal ones, and of course, never for school lunch. She would make a peanut butter sandwich, but spread butter on the bread first, which I never understood because all my friends’ moms would add jelly or jam, which sounded way better. As you can imagine, I always got an upset stomach after eating one of them because why wouldn’t I?
I don’t understand parents who worry about leaving their children alone in the department store because I didn’t grow up that way. Your kids should remain right where you left them while you went about your business of shopping two floors up.
Believe me, your kids will come looking for you when the terror of abandonment sets in after they haven’t seen you for two hours, mainly by approaching a nice saleslady and asking if she’ll page you over the loudspeaker. Thank God we were able to convince my mom to tell us what her first name was, so in those circumstances, we wouldn’t be forced to admit we didn’t know it.
She was a foreigner, so maybe things were done differently in England, I don’t know. Certainly she would scoff at the idea of giving cells phones to an eight year old.
I can hear her now:
“Why the fuck do these kids keep bothering me with this phone whilst I’m shopping?”
There’s something to be said about being an introvert.
We don’t jump into things quickly. Our measured actions provide a counter balance to the impetuousness of the extrovert, so we’d make a great collaborator in places like Las Vegas, or say, on a bank heist.
Cool heads prevail.
We often gather in corners at parties with subdued looks on our faces, but it’s not because we don’t like people, just not a lot of you all at once. “Please keep it down, I’m trying to read.”
Extroverts are always admired in society because it’s considered healthy to be loud and gregarious at all times, including during sleep. But did you know introverts make fewer mistakes when dreaming?
Some of the most famous people are introverts; leaders, innovators, speakers, ax murderers… we’re not all bad.
Next time you meet an introvert, don’t assume we don’t like you, we do. We’re often attracted to our opposite. Just don’t expect us to join you on your crazy excursions. We’d rather curl up by the fireplace with the cat.
“Quiet people have the loudest minds.” – Stephen Hawking
Apparently during a government shutdown, the court system remains open for business, and the only reason I know this is because I got a notice in the mail for jury duty.
You know, if there’s anything good that’d come from government shutdowns, it would be the closing down of the courts.
Crime never takes a holiday though.
I really hate jury duty. I’d rather be forced to watch last week’s super bowl over and over than waste an entire day in Gloomsville.
It’s probably safe to assume almost every one of us has had to go to court for one reason or another, and if you haven’t… well, you haven’t lived! There’s nothing like experiencing the prison-like nuances of each room and corridor of courthouses, or the richness of disdain that court employees display, especially the ones at the counter windows.
The employee training manuals must have chapter headings like: “How to Waste Everybody’s Fucking Time Effectively”, or “Excelling through Apathy”. It’s always really overweight women in these jobs too, because let’s face it, no one can make a person’s life more miserable than an apathetic fat lady who knows she can wield her power over some sad sack having a bad day.
Yes, I’m making a blatant stereotype…
FEMINISTS AND FAT LADIES, DO NOT EMAIL ME
I am a feminist… chubby, even. But that doesn’t supersede reality based observations. I don’t know about your courthouses, but the ones here in California employ overweight ladies who are pissed off and wanna make your life miserable. Have you ever seen a beautiful woman with a beaming smile and helpful attitude working behind the counter at a courthouse?
Send me the video.
I suppose an argument could be made that these women were made to be miserable by having to deal with large swaths of the general public on a daily basis, many of whom broke some sort of law, but I don’t think that’s true at all.
These women had given up on life long before they resigned themselves to government employ. Something terrible happened to them at a young age; something that made them want to make people’s lives miserable in return, like for instance, forcing them to watch Fox News repeatedly during their formative years while feeding them donuts.
When an adult asks a child what they wanna be when they grow up, no one ever says “I want to work for the court system behind a counter window!” But take that same child, do something really shitty to them, make them believe people are inherently stupid, and violà, you have yourself a future government courthouse employee.
You know what I think should happen? They should be laid off for a few weeks, just so they know what it’s like to feel shitty and desperate (like the rest of us on a court day). When they’re allowed to come back to work, they should have to go through what we have to go through: Receive a summons, a ticket, or a jury duty notice (in their case, a government return-to-work voucher), then fill out a shitload of paperwork they don’t understand. Upon arriving at the courthouse, they take a number, have a fucking seat in a shitty plastic chair in a hideous looking waiting room, and wait for several hours to be called up to the window.
When they finally get called, they should be told they’re at the wrong window and sent down the hall to another hideous looking waiting room where they have to pick another number, and do more waiting. When they get their number called, the person serving them should have acute skills in passive aggression, and take an inordinate amount of time assisting them while displaying a grimace on their face. If they complain, they should be arrested and spend the night in jail for inciting violence.
To top it off, they should be put in the courtroom cafeteria with the meter maids to see who comes out alive.
I’d place my bet on the meter maids.
So I went on another date with my usual low expectations, which is a great approach for anybody who’s in the dating game, because that way, you don’t get too disappointed.
There’s a lot of disappointment out there
Before I go into my tirade, let me just say this: Men my age look like shit. I don’t know if it’s because they’ve had it so fucking good for so long they don’t have to try, because let’s face it, in this man’s world, they’re not required to do any upkeep on their looks because it hasn’t been demanded of them like it has with women, so they just let life happen to them… and it’s shows. Maybe it’s simply because they think they’re the cat’s dinner and still look hot. Either way, most of them don’t look hot, they look fucking disgusting.
They don’t know how to take selfies either, so their online profile photos are awful. They look down into the camera, rather than from a more flattering upward angle, so their double chin turns into a triple chin while the shitty lighting enhances the dark circles under their eyes. Frankly, they look like serial killers, the creeps. When I see a photo like that, all I can think is: If he’s on top fucking me, that’s what I’m going to be looking up at… *shudder*
Then I slightly throw up in my mouth.
Actually, that was my tirade. Let’s move on…
My date reminded me of one of my friend’s ex-husbands, whom I never liked, and who sported a round, doughy face; the type that begs to be slapped around like raw pizza, so I almost cancelled because I wasn’t sure I could move past it. But I figured it was only gonna take 30 minutes or so, which was the time I had allotted before meeting friends to do something that would actually be enjoyable.
We chatted for a while and I could tell he was nervous as hell because he thought I was hot, which I cannot argue with, so at least he had good taste. In the course of the conversation, he admitted he had only been with two women his entire life, so if there was even the slightest chance he could turn me around, that killed it right there. After we parted ways, he texted me… then a few hours later, he texted me again, which put the final nail in the coffin; it came off really desperate. He probably went home and wacked off thinking about me, then decided he should make his move.
You know how it goes, we’ve all done it: We meet someone we’re immediately attracted to and get scared the person will slip through our fingers, so we jump the gun because we’re desperate and believe if we move quickly enough, we won’t lose them. We try too hard… we call or text too soon and too often, which inevitably makes the person run in the opposite direction because they can smell the desperation a mile away. We’re left feeling lonely, confused and like the losers we are.
I get turned off by a guy with no game and no confidence. I texted him back and said “Look, call me when you’re an asshole.” Poor guy didn’t have a chance from the get-go, I mean, look at me. Okay, you can’t see me, but if you did, you’d say “Oh yeah, he didn’t have a chance.”
I’m not trying to toot my own horn, it’s just that I’ve taken care of myself and I’m taking this whole dating thing in stride… not desperate, in other words. I’m assertive and I’m confident… unless I’m bloated, then not so much. But my point is, he just didn’t have that cocky attitude that makes a girl’s panties wet. I’m an eighties rock chick, I’m used to rocker guys with swagger who are complete assholes; it’s a turn on.
Yeah, I realize rocker guys probably take the swagger and cockiness a bit too far, and they go through women like water… and they’re not necessarily the cleanest of the bunch; leather and spandex aren’t the most breathable fabrics, let’s face it. If they’ve been sweating in leather pants all week, they don’t exactly smell that great, but once they strip that shit off and let everything air out for a few minutes, it’s something a girl can move past. Anyway most of them will shower beforehand if you beg them to.
Plus they know how to take a damn good selfie.
You ever do something out of the ordinary… push yourself out of your comfort zone, and it changes how you view yourself and what you’re capable of? And in doing so, it strengthens that muscle and sets you on a course of discovery and reward?
For me, one of those instances involved a chicken sandwich.
I used to live in San Francisco, and for a short time, I worked as a temp on the fourteenth floor of the Citibank Tower downtown. I loved that office, everyone there was so quirky, and I was especially friendly with another assistant named Craig. He had tousled ginger hair and freckles all over his face; he was a ski bum trying to get serious in a financial career. We both liked the same music and had the same sense of humor, so we became fast friends. One morning, he told me there was a film crew outside doing one of those testimonial commercials for Wendy’s fast food restaurants, and they asked him if he wanted to be in it, but he turned it down. He urged me to go check it out.
I want to think I’d have no problem walking right up to someone and saying “Hey, put me in your commercial!”, but the truth is, I was scared out of my mind. What if they have me arrested? What if I drop dead right on the spot, or worse, they tell me I’m too chubby? But I saw an opportunity to take a chance to do something out of the ordinary and push myself out of my comfort zone, so I made myself do it.
I rushed downstairs and saw this large trailer with some people milling around. I searched for the most important looking person I could find and spotted a woman with a clipboard in her hand. As a rule, anyone who holds a clipboard is someone who makes decisions, so I walked straight up to her and asked if I could be in their commercial. I waited for the world to come to an end, then she said “Sorry, but we’re done here, we’re moving to another location.”
All the air went out of my balloon.
She must’ve seen the disappointment on my face, so she said “I tell you what, we’re going to Washington Square, meet us there.” and she handed me a map and walked away. I ran back upstairs to the office to grab my belongings and ask my super cool boss if it was it okay to leave for a couple hours. She told me to take as long as I needed, so I hopped on a bus to Washington Square and found the woman with the clipboard. She said “Okay, before we get started, I have to ask, are you a member of SAG?”
SAG is the Screen Actors Guild, it’s the union for actors and performers, and I was not a member. For a brief moment, I thought about lying and saying I was, which would’ve been really stupid, but I decided to be honest and told her no, preparing for the rejection to follow. She told me that was good, because if I were, I wouldn’t be able to film; this was a testimonial ad, they weren’t allowed to use professional actors.
She had me fill out a form and sign my life away to whatever their contract demanded, then we waited for the director. A few moments later, he arrived, and he was organized, professional, and didn’t waste any time. He had me stand in front of the window of some music store, then told me he was going to ask me a series of questions as prompts, and to just be myself. There was a production crew of about ten people all watching me, and I was nervous.
A production assistant appeared and put a warm Wendy’s chicken sandwich in my hand (don’t ask me how they kept it warm), then the director told me to take a bite of the sandwich and tell him what the sauce was. I must’ve taken a bigger bite than I meant to, because I heard someone say “Whoa”. I nearly spit it out from laughter, but also because it tasted awful; I never ate fast food… and here I was, trying to hawk some on camera.
I said “Mayonnaise”… nope. “Uh…horseradish?” nope, not that either. “What is this sauce?” was all I could come up with. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what the damn sauce was! Now I was getting really nervous because if I couldn’t figure it out, they were gonna give up on me. The director changed gears and said “Okay, I want you to say something about the sandwich, but I want you to sing it.” He was probably inspired by the musical notes floating across the storefront window I was standing in front of, and I was inspired by the prompt, because I never turn down a chance to ham it up.
I belted out a jazzy little ditty, right there on the spot. The entire crew started laughing and I knew it was a good take. I stood there with a shit-eating grin on my face because I managed to pull something out of my ass after blowing it with the sauce… which was Ranch, by the way. It was Wendy’s Monterey Ranch Chicken Sandwich… which I don’t recommend.
The director said “It’s a wrap”, the production assistant took away the sandwich and woman with the clipboard handed me five bucks. I turned to the director, shook his hand and thanked him, then thanked the crew and walked towards the bus stop on a natural high. I had one hell of a story to tell my boyfriend when I got home. I didn’t go back to work, I was too giddy from the experience.
After a week or so of excitement, telling everyone I knew about my experience, it started to wear off, and I actually forgot about it. That is, until I received a phone call three weeks later. A guy who worked for the ad agency was calling. He had one question: Was the song I sang in my take something I made up, or was it a published song? I laughed and told him I definitely made it up. He said he figured that was the case but needed to make sure in case of copyright infringement, and with an excitement I could barely contain, I asked him if I was in the commercial. He couldn’t tell me for sure… company policy… but he did say that Dave, the owner of Wendy’s, loved me.
Holy crap, you’d have thought he told me it was the President of the United States, I was so excited!
A few weeks later, when I got home from work, my boyfriend said “Guess who I saw on t.v?” I started jumping up and down squealing with delight and prodded him with questions: How did I look? When did you see it? Was I funny? He told me he’d already seen it twice that day.
Then the checks started coming in. Every week I’d get one, and it continued for months. I think all in all, I made about seven thousand dollars in residuals. It ended up playing nationally and in Canada. Everyone I knew saw it.
Oh, in case you’re curious, I found it on YouTube:
I had to make a trip to the post office, so I prepared myself for the inevitable long wait by getting some delicious cookies.
The post office is the wrong place to be jacked up on sugar
I don’t know why I thought it was a good choice at the time, but I’m not even in control when it comes to sugar anyway. When I think about eating sugar, a signal is sent to my brain that something delightful is coming. It reminds me of the anticipation I felt knowing I would be snorting some fat lines of coke on Saturday nights in the Eighties.
Yes, every Saturday night.
Go ahead judge me, I don’t give a shit. It’s not like I do it anymore… mainly because I have no idea where to get it, but also because sugar’s a lot cheaper.
Cheaper than sex too, turns out
Anyway, studies have connected eating excessive sugar to reduced performance in parts of the brain that deals with memory, so I really try to limit my consumption. However, these experts said the same thing about cocaine and that had zero negative impact on me that I can remember.
A couple weeks ago, someone gave me a gift of white chocolate peppermint dipped Oreo cookies, and normally, I never eat those things. I prefer really good quality cookies, something imported or gourmet. If someone handed me a bag of Oreos, I would say no thanks, but I decided to try one of these because there were dipped in peppermint white chocolate and who can resist that? It was ridiculously addictive. After one bite, I shoved the entire thing in my mouth then followed it up with a few more.
Sort of like shoving a line up my nose and immediately following up with more
As it happens, I was at this gourmet market and they had almost the exact same cookie. They were right near the checkout counter, conveniently packaged in a mini pack of two cookies, so I bought some before I left for the post office.
These particular ones were called unicorn cookies because they had multicolored sprinkles all over them, which I don’t give a shit about because it’s really just a marketing ploy; I don’t believe in unicorns, and even if I did, in my world they certainly wouldn’t be colored, they’d be pure white, like in fairy tales.
Does that sound racist?
I couldn’t get just one packet either, I had to get two… and eat all four of them at once. So there I was, sitting in my car in the parking lot, shoving these goddamn unicorn Oreos into my face… I must’ve looked like some crazed drug addict. Once I got inside the post office, I couldn’t help but notice how bland everything seemed compared to my unicorn cookies.
The postal worker who ended up helping me, was really bland too, and he was talking me through the checkout process like I was a friggin’ moron and had never done it before. He instructed me each step of the way in this annoying monotone voice: “Okay, now you can put it in. Okay, now you can take it out.” (referring to my debit card of course), and it sounded just as perfunctory him saying it, as it does you reading it. If I ever questioned whether postmen would be boring as fuck in bed, he put that to rest.
Thankfully the entire process was over in about fifteen minutes, which I imagine, is about the length of time this postal worker has sex… and the average time it takes for sugar to kick in…
…and the average time it takes to find the nearest coke dealer through my new coke app if I ever decide to get off sugar.
I belong to this woman’s social group. Last weekend they decided to get together to make vision boards.
That’s where everyone gathers a bunch of magazines, large pieces of poster board, scissors and glue, and you all sit around a table and cut out stuff from the magazines, like photos or text, things that represent what you want to manifest in your life, then you glue them onto the poster board in a collage of personal dreams and desires. The purpose of making one helps you envision the life you’d like to create because the act of making a vision board starts a process of manifestation.
When it’s completed, you get really excited because for a brief moment you actually believe your life will change by gluing pictures onto a board, so you proudly hang it up somewhere in your house as motivation. After a while it starts to taunt you because you realize it takes a lot more fucking effort than that, but you don’t do anything else to manifest those desires; you’re too damn scared and insecure to try, even though you realize death is imminent and you should do everything you can to squeeze every drop out of life. You know you’d have nothing to lose, but you still do nothing, so you go back to believing you’re a loser because you never do anything to change your life… except make vision boards with a woman’s group.
But it’s really uplifting.
I knew I wasn’t gonna go. How on earth would I find a photo in a magazine that represents I want to kill myself… or become a comic… either one. Then I started thinking about what these women would add to their vision boards; what a suburban housewife would want to manifest into her life. Like, could they put on there they’d like to tell that bitch Karen, who runs the PTA she can stick it up her ass? Do you think that could be found in a magazine? What would they put on there to manifest other than new hand towels and a trip to Cancun?
The more I thought about it, the more I concluded that it wouldn’t matter what the hell they put on their vision boards, anything would be a step up from their current suburban existence. Once they’ve popped their Prozac and had a glass of wine, new hand towels probably sound fucking amazing.
I haven’t participated with these ladies yet, because frankly, I’m scared the mundane will rub off on me. It’d probably be safe to assume some of the women in the group aren’t on hormone replacement therapy either, so the uteri of the ones who aren’t, would constantly be trying to sync up with the ones who are, causing a lot of emotional confusion and defying the earth’s gravitational pull. Then no one would eat the deviled eggs.
You just know there’s always one or two whack jobs in these kinds of groups, too. One woman, who probably took too much hormone replacement therapy and not enough Prozac, is always starting trouble on the group’s social media page, which I find immensely entertaining as long as I can view it from the safe distance of my smartphone; I wouldn’t want to have to interact with this lady face to face.
Maybe when it comes down to it, I’m afraid I’ll have a good time at one of these things and then what’ll I do?
Naw… I’m just not cut out for these kinds of interactions.
Get it? “cut out” *snicker *snort.
I was thinking the other day about anticipation versus gratification, and I was thinking about this specifically as it relates to taking photos: cameras we used to use that required a roll of film, as opposed to smartphones that take photos instantly.
Assuming some of you don’t know this, back in the day, all cameras were their own mechanism, they weren’t part of a phone, and you would have to load it with the film before you’d be ready to take photographs. Once you finished the roll of film, you’d have to take it to a film processor to get developed, which usually took about a week or so. If that sounds like a long time, it was. But that’s where the anticipation would lie. Rather than seeing them right away, you’d have to wait.
Also, what was great about these rolls of film, was they were sold in small, plastic canisters that ended up being the perfect sized container for stashing your weed, which wasn’t legal back then so you’d have to hide it. If you wanted to keep it in your purse or vehicle in an inconspicuous manner, you’d just pop some in a film canister and you’d be golden. Unless the cops opened it up, dumped it out, and crushed it into the ground with the heel of their shoe… goddammit!
There goes your stash, dumb ass.
When your film was ready to be developed, you would drop it off at the photos kiosks; small huts with one employee, and normally found in the middle of the parking lot. It was for convenience, so you could drive right up to either pick up photos or drop off film instead of walking into the store to do it. They were always manned by some dude too, usually around eighteen or nineteen years old with long hair, maybe a few pimples, most likely stoned. Of course it was always guys who worked in those things, girls weren’t stupid enough to spend eight hours in a kiosk in the middle of a parking lot.
So the anticipation of using a film camera was the waiting to see what the photos looked like after getting developed, because most of the time, you snapped a bunch of them and never really remembered exactly what photos you took until you got them back from the lab.
Unless you took naked photos, then you remembered exactly.
Yes, I did. Look, there was some alcohol involved and it was with a boyfriend, big fucking deal. Lots of people did it. In fact, more people are doing it now than ever before, isn’t that right, Mr. Dick Pic? In fact I was just on Twitter last night and you wouldn’t believe how many assholes I saw!
You know how when you were younger and saw all these beautiful photos in a magazine spread, you wanted to take some of yourself and have them end up looking like the ones you saw in the magazine? Well, that doesn’t work with a shitty 35 millimeter camera; you have to have a professional camera with a professional wide angle lens and the right lighting and a backdrop and props and airbrushing (the Eighties version of Photoshop) and everything else… but how the hell were you supposed to know that when you were just a drunken little slut in a hotel room?
What you ended up with looked exactly like what they actually were: cheesy photos taken in some hotel room. I still thought I looked good though, comparatively speaking, meaning I’m comparing them with how I look naked today and I… well, I was a friggin’ Playboy Bunny back then comparatively!
I remember my boyfriend and I dropping the film off at the kiosk to get developed and being really nervous. We were leaving this roll of film in a stranger’s hands, and although photos at labs were mass processed, they could still be looked at individually for quality control.
Not only that, if you had the negatives, you could make as many copies as you wanted. Holy crap, that means there could potentially be naked photos of me in some fucking guy’s closet who used to work in the kiosk, and there’s a possibility he takes them out once in a while and pleasures himself while looking at me…
…that’d be awesome!
Last night I went to this Thai restaurant for a bite to eat. After I gave the server my order, she commented “That’s a lot of carbs.” At first, I wasn’t sure if I heard her correctly, so I asked her to repeat herself, and she said, “That’s a lot of carbs.” I looked at her with an expression like, you’ve got to be kidding me? I got annoyed, and I almost blurted out “Oh yeah, well you’re just a fetish!” but decided against it because I’m no racist.
What are you, a Tiger mother or something?
Instead, I found myself justifying it by reminding her it was brown rice and letting her know I was going to take the extra home, that I intentionally ordered extra so I wouldn’t have to worry about lunch the next day, and then I got more annoyed because there I was, explaining this to some L.A. server who’s supposed to just take my order, not make commentary on it.
After she brought out my food, I started spooning piles of rice onto my plate as I stared her down, just to show her who was boss. I think I made my point, because after I was finished eating, I felt quite full since it was a lot of carbs, but I wasn’t going to be intimidated by some skinny L.A. chick. See, what her problem is, is that her body is starved of carbs, so her brain isn’t working properly, making her do stupid things like state the obvious.
Don’t people understand that at my age the only thing I have going for me is carbs? I dream about carbs… I have fantasies about how I’m going to cook carbs and what I’m going to pair them with… I’ve got a giant tattoo on my ass that says CARBS… in cursive!
I’m a former member of Carbs Anonymous, goddammit!
It’s not enough that almost every person in L.A. is on some stupid food trend or diet: Paleo, Keto, Vegan, Raw, blah, blah, blah… now they’re going to count carbs for everyone else, too? Just because you’re stupid enough to avoid carbs, doesn’t mean everyone else has to.
Why do people feel the need to comment on your food, or on how and what you eat nowadays anyhow? It never used to happen before, this is a recent phenomenon. It’s like Asians, I mean, aliens, took over our planet and they’re all on diets and now they’re brainwashing us into all being on diets too.
It’s not just L.A., I was at a local store the other day buying some specialty and imported goods, and when I got to the checkout, the sales lady would pick up each item and make a comment on it, like “Ooh, this is really good.” and “I’ve never tried this one before!”, before putting my groceries in the bag.
Then she started giving me suggestions on how to eat one particular item, which was ludicrous; This woman with her Eighties suburban hairstyle and Lane Bryant outfit, working behind the register at a retail store, was gonna give me advice on how to eat imported food? Lady, I’m Italian, I am an import, I don’t need advice on how to eat one!
Although eating an Italian a day is supposed to be good for you… snicker*, snort*
I got asked for my I.D. at the market. Now, you should know I don’t drink alcohol, I was buying kombucha. Yep, you heard that right… kombucha.
See, there are two types of kombucha from a specific brand I like: The original, brewed style that has a trace amount of alcohol in it (you don’t really get a buzz off it, but they have to label it as such), and the kind that has the alcohol taken out of it. The original brew containing alcohol tastes way better, which is the one I was purchasing, so when I previously said I didn’t drink alcohol, I was lying.
That’s what kombucha alcoholics do, we can’t be trusted.
I don’t like drinking regular alcohol, partly because of the after effects, but mostly because of the during effects. I don’t like having loss of control over what I say and do. Yes, I realize sometimes I write things that are, um… opinionated. Okay, so it’s more than being opinionated, I get it. Okay, so it’s not sometimes, it’s all the fucking time. No, I do not have Tourette Syndrome, but thanks for asking, asshole!
Look, it’s a compulsion, the truth comes spilling out and I lose all sense of composure, it’s like taking a few shots of Kamikazes. The difference is the delete button… now if I could just find it *snicker* *snort*
I used to drink. Looking back, I acted like a real asshole; a funny one, but an asshole nonetheless. Thank God I’m not like that anymore.
I’m just glad there was no such thing as Facebook and Instagram and all the other stupid social networking apps, my reputation would be fucked. Nowadays, my idea of having fun and partying is to walk through a puff of second hand smoke while drinking a kombucha, which, now that I think about it, is also fucking up my reputation.
It’s okay, people still think I’m a slut.
But back to getting carded: after the check out guy asked me for my I.D., I laughed, but he just looked at me with a straight face, so I said “You’re joking me, right?” to which he replied “No. It’s a new thing. We’re really cracking down on checking I.D.s now.”
… for kombucha.
This is ridiculous, I’m not even close to being underage.
I’m old enough to be his never mind how old I am I’m fifty two and so goddamn what?
Then the lady bagging my groceries asked me “Isn’t that a compliment though, to get asked for your I.D.?” and I replied “No, it’s not.” because it isn’t, and I’ll tell you why: I’m clearly well over twenty one year’s of age, and one can ascertain that just by looking at me. So if someone’s asking me for I.D., it’s because they were told they have to, not because I could be mistaken for someone younger, and so they ask me just in case, complimenting me in the process.
It’s not a compliment. You wanna compliment me? Tell me how hot I look, how you love older women, that you know I’m not a slut and you love how I tell it like it is, then tell me the fucking chocolates are on sale and what aisle they’re on!