So I was sitting there last night on my LayZBoy recliner, the one we inherited from Ward and June and I hate because it is the color and texture of the insoles of a hundred old man shoes, and I had just made dinner for myself because Esteban was working uber late and ditched me yet again, and I was feeling pretty proud of myself over the dinner because it was pork loin, covered in Shake N Bake (something that I make once a decade for Esteban, as it was something his grandmother used to make), green beans, refrigerator biscuits, and actual real mashed potatoes that I peeled and boiled and put through a ricer and then mashed with chicken stock and fat free sour cream and just a wee bit (half pound) of butter and also there was brown gravy making a nice ishy skin on the stove, and I had changed into my pajamas even though it was still light out because hey, I wasn’t going anywhere and pajamas are just little coordinated outfits that you sleep in, right, and there was nothing on because the primetime Monday night lineup is God’s way of saying ‘You know, you really should read a book sometimes, I’m just saying’, so I was watching EVERWOOD of all things, (EVERWOOD!!!!) and thinking, man, I could go for some tapioca pudding, still warm and frothy, and then I realized, my god, I’m sitting here at 7 pm in my pajamas and it’s two days after Daylight Savings Day so it’s really 6 pm and I’m in my pajamas eating old people food sitting in an old person chair.
So here’s my question: why am I not dead yet? The shame of that should have rightfully struck me dead on the spot.
Weird moment: this weekend I trekked out to find myself a potato ricer and found myself in Kmart for the first time in a bazillion years. I was a bit dismayed, for if you listen to Martha Stewart you would have thought it was all redone and looking like Restoration Hardware in there, but I tell you, that is not the case at my local Kmart. The smell of cheap plastic crap still wafts through every now and then, but I suppose that even a liberal dousing of Febreze (blue light special in aisle 15, two for five!) would eradicate years of vinyl tablecloths, plastic pink flamingos and jelly shoes. However, it was almost a kinder, gentler shopping experience. Lots of old people in the store and lots of quiet accidental people, the people that don’t want you to notice them, the miscellaneous people that probably went to your high school but no one remembers, even after they look them up in the yearbook. It was strange. It’s almost like there was a mass merchandising consumer reorganization that sent the Loud and the Smelly to Wal-Mart and the Quietly Confused to K-Mart and the Too Snotty To Be Seen At Wal-Mart Uppity People over to the Target. I was mystified.
But then the answer rang out over the PA. Katie Couric telling the good shoppers of Kmart to get their colons checked.
Katie Couric. Talking about her rectum. At Kmart.
I actually looked around at the other shoppers. Were THEY hearing this? It was so surreal. I actually stopped there in the Household Organization aisle, where they had a sale on Martha’s lovely glass jars, to listen to the message from Katie about getting your butt checked by a registered physician.
Then I understood. The answer was clear. Kmart was for the people who could remain calm when reminded about colon health. People who are not thwarted with reminders of the existence of a morning personality’s elimination processes.
I am obviously not a Kmart person.
I’m still not entirely certain that I didn’t have some sort of blackout and dream it all, but my unconscious meanderings usually have a fashion montage set to an 80’s comeback hit and there is a very important lesson learned for all involved. But usually not involving my ass.
Is it online diary flirting if someone keeps linking me?
