So breasts.
Got em? Like em?
Go sponsor Diaryland’s own Marn in her Boobtacular endeavor. I’m happy to be a Bazoonga supporter myself. God only knows what I’d have to talk about if I wasn’t all boobalicious.
I had a half day on Friday, so I went shopping for summer clearances because the siren call of Visa has been loud and clear for the past several days. I scored a cute white ‘ sleeve DKNY t-shirt, a pair of 450 thread count king size pillow cases and a navy/white toile slip cover for the love seat in our bedroom and also, in a rare bit of forethought, picked up the wrapping materials for Abby’s birthday party on Monday (Way cute blue/lime/orange see-through gift bag with lime tissue paper, two blue and lime suckers on long thin sticks and coordinated ribbons. I tend to go a bit anal on my gift wrapping, or as Chauffi once remarked ‘Martha Stewart just called and said you were a total bitch.’ Pretty presents make me happy.) Then Esteban sent me an email with the subject line ‘Arrrrgh’ and the body of which read ‘What time is the Pirate movie playing?’ And then I did a little cheer, because three times, I have been thwarted by exterior forces from seeing the damn Pirate movie and now, finally, the planks would be walked and the swashes would be buckled!
We caught a late afternoon show (because Esteban is pretty much his own boss and can just declare a Pirate afternoon should he so choose), chortled at Johnny Depp (who was BRILLIANT! He gives such good crazy!), and merrily consumed a dinner of popcorn, Dots and blue raspberry Icee, as it seemed like an appropriate Lost Boy dinner. We completed our very responsible evening by going home and playing video games and eating ice cream sandwiches.
Disclaimer: The Management realizes that Dumber Than A Box Of Rocks has several readers under 21, including many under the age of 18, who are practically fetuses, in our humble opinion. We do not in any way want to impose unrealistic concepts of the world upon these impressionable minds, such as the idea that being a responsible adult means evenings of eating dinners with questionable nutritional value. No. It also means that one can legally party like rock stars (well, maybe Justin Timberlake), get cheap insurance, and also have bunches of sex. Thank you.
On Saturday, we woke up relatively early. Esteban has been looking for a specific carrying case for his laptop, which is very possibly the largest laptop in all the world. He purchased a backpack (because the laptop looks at over-the-shoulder strappy bags and actually laughs, a deep guttural laugh that causes my little Toshiba to run and hide beneath the sofa) from Ebags, which claimed that it was large enough to fit the girth of Esteban’s enormous unit (heh heh), but alas, it apparently requires the Magnum Extra Extra Large equivalent. Thus, he had researched a bag by Jansport, and it so happens that Jansport is located in a nearby city, so we endeavored to visit their factory store and try stuffing the Behemoth into one of their packs.
We hopped into the Monte and were on our way, until I declared that I needed caffeine and I needed it fast and also I was quite hungry (wonder why, given the buffet of culinary delights I had the night before). I pointed out that there was a McDonald’s right by the entrance to the highway. I braced myself for Esteban’s general tirade about how McDonald’s is the Great Satan of Hamburgers and how we shouldn’t subsidize their evil plot to make everyone so fat that they cannot move and then Ronald McDonald will be able to overthrow the government because we’re all too busy watching The View and being cut out of our houses. But Esteban said nothing, just nodded. I smiled. This was going to be a good day.
We pulled up to McDonald’s drive through at 10:26 a.m.
Weetabix :I wonder if they have lunch menu yet, because I just want a cheeseburger and a Diet Coke.
McSquawk : Welcome to McDonald’s, how may we help you.
Weetabix :Hi, I’d like a cheeseburger with just ketchup and a large diet coke.
McSquawk : We’re serving our breakfast menu right now.
Weetabix :Um’ until when?
McSquawk : 10:30.
Weetabix :And’ what time is it now?
McSquawk : It would be10:27.
There was a moment of silence where the three of us let the stupidity of that sink in. Looking back, it was almost as though fate itself hung in the balance.
Weetabix : (Looking at Esteban)
Esteban : (Looking at Weetabix)
Weetabix : (about to say ‘Ok, we’ll sit here for three minutes and then we’d like a cheeseburger and diet coke’)
Esteban : (with scathing sarcasm) Ok, thank you VERY much. (speeds away).
Weetabix :What? Wait a minute! What about my Diet Coke!
Esteban :Look’ we’ll go to Burger King instead.
Weetabix :But’ but’ I need Diet Coke.
Esteban :Burger King has Diet Coke.
Weetabix :But it’s not the SAAAAMMMMME!
Esteban :It’s Diet Coke. They’re both Diet Coke.
Weetabix :Yes, but’ McDonald’s Diet Coke tastes better.
Esteban :That’s it. No more McDonald’s. They’re the Great Satan of Hamburgers. Consider this an intervention. Say Bye Bye!
Weetabix :But’
Esteban :Bye bye!
Weetabix :But!
Esteban :Go ahead, sweetie, wave Bye Bye to the Great Satan! Bye Satan! Bye bye!
Weetabix :But!
Esteban :(pulling into Burger King) What do you want?
Weetabix : (pouting) Diet Coke and a cheeseburger.
King Squawk : Welcome to Burger King, would you like to try our cinni minis today?
Esteban :They’re still serving breakfast.
Weetabix : (leaning over him shouting) Hi, when will you be serving your lunch items?
King Squawk : 10:30
Weetabix : (Looks beseechingly at Esteban)
Esteban :We’d like a Diet Coke and some Cinni Minis.
Weetabix :Cinni Minis! We don’t want no stinking Cinni Minis!
Esteban :I do, actually.
Weetabix : (grumbling) Inferior Diet Coke’. Probably lunchtime by now’ who are they do determine when people should be eating their breakfasts and when people should get their lunches’ mickey fickey breakfast Nazis, that’s what they are.
Esteban : (receives the Diet Coke and Cinni Minis) Thank you.
Weetabix : (loudly) YOU SUCK!
Esteban : (aghast) WEETABIX!!!!
Weetabix :There’s another McDonald’s up the highway’ we can get a cheeseburger there.
Esteban :No, you forget. Bye bye, remember? Apparently, you don’t need an intervention, you need an exorcism.
Yes, I know. It was not my finest moment. Sometimes my inner Diva sneaks out, particularly when I haven’t had any caffeine. I’m not proud of that. What is more, I’m not proud of the fact that I then unleashed the Mother Of All Pouts. Sad puppy dog eyes. Lip engaged to eleven. And it had no effect whatsoever. Thankfully, for all involved, the Pissy Snit lasted all of five minutes. Coincidentally, five minutes is the amount of time it takes for inferior grade caffeine to hit the system.
Through the miraculous recesses of my memory, I was able to navigate our way through the country roads of middle Wisconsin and lead us right to the Jansport factory store (which I had only visited once before, eight years ago). It was completely crowded and had only two employees checking people out, so I browsed while Esteban tried to jam his laptop into the plethora of backpacks available, but unfortunately, did not find the one he needed. I, however, scored an embroidered Notre Dame sweatshirt for $10, so I was very happy indeed.
We then traversed the landscape back to Ward and June’s suburb, where our growling tummies (Inferior Diet Coke does not a breakfast make) drove us to the restaurant where our wedding reception had been held four years ago. Afterward, we drove to Chez Parents and floated in the 91 degree water for endless hours until my back once again bore strap marks and Esteban gained a suntan hid his recent anemic pallor.
We then scurried homeward to watch the Packer game, as is our regional tradition. However, the Packers were of the tribe of Suck so I started cleaning the bathroom while watching the game. I realized that we were out of toilet bowl cleaner goop at about the same time that the Packers fumbled for the eightieth time, so I decided that it was a good time to go to the store. I also wanted to cut the art paper I bought at Flax in June, but most of it was far too large to fit into my paper cutter. I decided that the best course of action would be to cut it like fabric using my rotary cutter and ruler, but then I would need a self-healing mat thingy. And I also needed a box of Kleenex and some triple roll toilet paper (yeah, how diva is this? I have a bunch of packs of standard size stuff that we got free from Ward, but I hate using them because they run out too quickly and it ticks me off) And there was only place open at 7:00 pm on a Saturday night which sold cutting mats and Kleenex and toilet paper and toilet bowl cleaning stuff.
The dreaded Mal*Wart.
I took a deep breath. It wouldn’t be that bad. It was, after all, a double coup of shopping incidences’ a Saturday night and also a Packer home game, which meant that 70 some odd thousand people were sitting in a large green bowl on the other side of town and a good percentage of the remaining lot would be sitting at home, drinking beer, and watching the game. The odds were in my favor.
‘I’m going out to get some toilet bowl stuff and other stuff.’
‘Oh’ ok.’ Esteban shrugged. ‘Will you get me a twelve-pack of bottled water? And some sunflower seeds in the shell?’
I grimly nodded, knowing that we had just exceeded my list-remembering abilities. Four things? No problem. Five things? Um, sure’but just hope that I don’t get distracted by something shiny. Six things? If they were literary devices or Brady kids, no problem. But mundanities toilet bowl cleaner and sunflower seeds? This is some unknown territory. I just kept repeating everything to myself, turning it into a little song, but then I started remembering other stuff that I absolutely had to have’ like a notebook with a folder pocket for my writing workshop. And some more Blistex for my newly irritated, swollen and red lips. Gah! Eight things! Eight! Things! I have forgotten entire courses from college, how could I remember eight things without a list carefully written on the back of something pulled from the recycle bin? Eight! Oh and our folding table has been misappropriated by Esteban for an undetermined time for his Dorkathalon, so I really should also pick up another table. Nine! Nine things! I was going to pass out from the strain.
I pulled into the lot. This is why I’m not a bookie, people. I’m not very good playing the odds. Mal*Wart was fairly busy, but I was able to find a parking spot without getting pissed off at the exodus of shoppers bearing cheap plastic crap, so I took that as a good omen.
I grabbed a cart and ran to the back of the store. ‘Card table’ notebook’ sunflower seeds’ sunflower’.seeds’. there! One down’. Bottled water’ score!’.. need a card table’ and cutty thing’.. back of the store.’ I raced around like a maniac, grabbing the card table and my self-healing mat. Then I went back to the cleaning stuff and grabbed my toilet cleaner, along with several bottles of various squirting cleaners that I keep in various places in my house to ward off dirty spirits. Good thing the cleaners were in the same aisle as Kleenex, as I would have totally spaced that and the toilet paper out.
As I made my way back through the store to the checkouts (a record 18 minutes spent seeking my quarry), I had to weave my cart through various klatches of Mal*Wart shoppers, standing here and there, socializing. I looked around and realized that there were more people gathered here and there, wearing wife beaters and too much Brut or bedazzled in Tweety Bird from head to toe, watching their children run barefoot through aisles yanking down packages of cheese doodles, than actual shoppers. In fact, it was almost as though my local Mal*Wart has become some sort of quasi local pub, complete with popcorn, ammunition, and cheap cheap twelve-packs of beer.
The line for the one open checkout stretched around back to the magazines. The sole register was being manned by one Josh who looked as though he had been shopping and mugged by an overly salacious Greeter and awoke dazed and confused to find himself wearing a blue smock, replete with requisite flair. To pass the time, I studied the impulse purchases along the side of the checkout, which always boggle my mind. I realize that they are there for someone like me who has a hard time containing items like ‘batteries’ in our soft little heads, but even still. Playing cards. Who goes to the store and says, ‘Oops, I totally forgot to pick up some playing cards!’ Or teeny tiny recipe books. Or inspirational stories about house pets.
Finally, Josh made it to the bi-lingual man (or perhaps uni-lingual, as the case may be) who knew enough English to specify that his eighteen items needed to be checked out in four different transactions. Josh continued to work as though oblivious to the line of fourteen or more shoppers stretching behind me. We were now on Minute 45 of my shopping excursion and I had only just begun to load everything but the card table and the cutting mat up onto the conveyer belt. Josh finished the bi-lingual guy’s transactions and then realized that he had neglected to give the person ahead of him all of their bags of cheap plastic crap, and thus he disappeared out into the parking lot, leaving his cash drawer open. I leaned over and closed it, waiting for the Mal*Wart police to swarm down and slap a pair of cheap plastic handcuffs on my wrists. The nice old lady behind me shook her head, unable to believe the cluster that was happening in Line 14. Finally Josh returned and began to check my items. I asked him if he could just scan the two items without my having to take them out of the cart. He did, proceeding to bend the crap out of the cutting board. The nice lady behind him tsktsked him and then held the cutting mat up so that it wouldn’t bend, and then proceeded to rearrange my cart so that the shopping bags were holding the mat up. And I left Mal*Wart, a bit amazed that I was not the only sane person in the Always Low Prices Always Idiocy landscape. Even still, I felt as though I had just gone through the shopping version of Saving Private Ryan and barely made it out alive without getting some Stupid on me. You’d think I’d learn.
And I forgot to get the Blistex.
In other news, if you’re on the fence or procrastinating about registering for JournalCon, please be aware that it is filling up extremely fast (already 100 registrants and counting) and members of the committee have mentioned a likelihood that they will be closing registration much earlier than planned. I’ve even heard September 1 (which is Monday). So don’t snooze.
