Ok, the commercial with all of the people standing out of it, doing the weird open door close door synchronized dance thing? For the GMC Envoy? Is the dorkiest thing ever. And also, I think they’re opening and closing the doors to the bridge for Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk. Some commercials take themselves way too seriously. It’s painful.
I had a lovely weekend, aside from the coughing and the not-being-able-to-breathe thing. Esteban’s been working nonstop, so on Saturday, finding myself alone, I got a hankering to go to Milwaukee and wander around my favorite mall in the world. I called up Mo and she was up for a trip, so after hitting Starbucks, we were quickly on our way south. We tooled around Mayfair. I spent too much at the Franklin Planner store, bought a Jem and the Holograms shirt at Torrid, some chocolates at Godiva and a really lovely frame for my Japanese flash cards at Eddie Bauer Home. Then we had a late lunch at the lovely Maggiano’s, with the gluttonous portions. We had so much food that we were both taking home more than half of our lunches, but we really wanted to get dessert, so we decided to share a cr’me brulee. It turned out to be the size of a pie. Between the two of us, we couldn’t even finish one dessert. And that’s unheard of, right there. It was Mo’s first time experiencing the Weetabix shopping extravaganza and I think she was muy impressed. Then I demanded that she accompany me to the Hootchie Mama store.
When we got out of the car, she said ‘I thought it was called Hootchie Mama’
I laughed and explained that WE just called it that.
‘Do you call it that because of the clothes or because of the people?’ She asked. I really didn’t have an answer for that.
Soon, however, Mo was just as enamoured of the Hootchie Mama store as I am. She was browsing through jeans but then she joined me back in the clearance section. I thrust a pleather jacket with fur trim in her hands and said ‘Try this on.’ She did, wrinkling up her face. ‘I don’t know. It’s a little weird. I wouldn’t wear it very much.’ She opined.
‘Who cares? It’s SEVEN DOLLARS. If you only wear it twice, it’s still totally worth it.’
Then she found a very cute corduroy and fleece jacket that looked like it should have been at Abercrombie and Fitch. Also seven dollars. THEN she found a suede jacket in her size. For nine dollars.
Ain’t nothing but a thang at the Hootchie Mama store. She looked at me from over the racks and said ‘I am having SO much fun!’
In the end, she opted to not get the pleather and fur jacket, but she did get the corduroy jacket and the suede jacket and a pair of black boots, all of which totaled under $40. I was feeling picky, so I only got a black and red hoodie (one of my weekend staples, which will totally match the red on my Tinkerbelle baseball t-shirt) for $5. Then we drove home with Mo whining about how she should have listened to me and bought the fur and pleather jacket and about how the Hootchie Mama store is the best store EVER.
I should be going to bed, because I have had the Vicodin cough syrup. (Yay for drugs! They’re sexy, they’re cute, they’re addictive to boot!) but instead, the incredible urge to update consumes me. I think it’s the lack of oxygen. No, really. I’m not kidding. I am actually feeling lots better, but the case of bronchitis that has wanted to happen since early November finally has finally managed to overcome my onslaught of drinking mass amounts of water and juice and has taken over my weak little effeminate lungs. I want new lungs. I want man lungs. I hate my lungs.
Thus, I threw in the towel and called my doctor for an appointment today, except that my own doctor’s office was completely packed with people who have the flu, therefore they sent me to visit another branch across town. I was ok with that because it was by Tarsjay. Which is a whole big story. Probably bigger than it needs to be, but then, such is the way with my stories.
Yesterday, I went to Tarsjay to wander around and perchance buy something to use up the Tarsjay gift card that has been floating around my purse for months. That is how I operate. I felt vaguely weird, so maybe spending money would help. I managed to score a stainless steel wastebasket for the cat food (to replace the one I tried to buy a few months ago) that was on sale. I also ended up impulse purchasing the Sims Hot Date (because I lost my previous copy of Hot Date in the tempest that is Esteban’s office, and also it was my only illegal Sims expansion pack and I certainly get $20 worth of enjoyment out of it, so it wasn’t a big deal to replace it) and also Sims Superstar. I did some random Tarsjay shopping, like little pretty paper cups for me to use when I brush my teeth (I hate yucky rinse cups in bathrooms’ eek), some more Cherry Honey Ricola cough drops, some deodorant for Esteban, a Glade Plugin for next to the litter box (Orange & Green Tea’ a nice companion for feces apparently. Who knew?) and a Real Simple magazine. Because they get me every time. It’s a magazine full of complete and utter fluff and yet every time I see a new one at the check out, I am compelled to buy it, but after I read it, it’s as satisfying and enjoyable as airplane food. I think it’s the font they use on the cover that sucks me in. That’s the only explanation I have.
The cashier was very short and generally not customer focused. I put up with it because I was in a fine mood. I explained that I was paying with a gift card but I also had a credit card. She didn’t listen, snatched the gift card out of my hand and then sniped ‘This isn’t enough to cover it.’ I nodded and said ‘Yes, that’s why I also have a credit card out.’ She snatched my card from my hand and then shoved it into the self-scan thing (the one that the customer is supposed to use themselves). When it popped back out, she asked to see the back. I gave it to her and then flipped open my wallet to show her my id (because I shop with my credit card so often that my signature has actually worn off and I haven’t gotten around to resigning it). ‘You need to take it out of there.’ She barked. Fine, lady, fine. Then she started to explain about identity theft. Being a friendly kind of person, I said, ‘I have no problem showing you my id and I appreciate that you ask for it, actually. My husband’s credit card number was lifted online somehow and luckily we caught it.’ ‘You’re KIDDING! That’s incredible!’ she gasped. I contined, ‘It turns out that the guy has over 1100 credit card numbers.’ And then she started to tell me about how her sister had someone steal her identity and the thief even got a driver’s license in her sister’s name. The cashier had started to ring up the next bunch of people, so I just nodded, smiled, and backed away with my one bag and the waste basket. She kept talking, senseless idle chatter, so I finally said ‘Wow, that’s tough. Have a good day! Bye!’ and turned and left.
I got home and started to watch the Packer game (which made me ALL kinds of pissed off’ seriously, I didn’t think it was possible to play professional football with your head stuck up your ass, but apparently it is possible to coach it that way. Fourth and inches? Fourth and INCHES and you’re going to fuck around. Idiots. Lombardi is doing a triple gainer in his grave thanks to that shit.) and put away my stuff. I opened my one bag and there were the two Sims games and the Real Simple magazine. That was it. I checked the breezeway to see if anything had fallen out. Nothing. I checked the trunk of my car. Nothing.
I called Tarsjay. After a complicated system of pressing one then three then pound and finally hitting 0 four hundred times in angry rapid succession, I talked to a very brief young man named Brian who asked me to identify what was in the bag. Then I froze because that’s when I remembered that there was something else in the bag. Something that I didn’t really feel comfortable discussing with Brian. So instead, I said ‘Um’ air freshener? Orange and Green tea plug in kind. There was some more stuff too. I don’t remember everything.’ Because for some reason, I really didn’t want to acknowledge the existence of my damned tube of spermicide. Because it involves penises. Hi. I’m exactly eleven years old. Luckily, that was enough of a description and Brian put my name on the bag. And acted really put out about the whole thing, even though the damned cashier never gave me my bag in the first place.
So then, today, before I went to the doctor, I stopped at the Guest Services of Tarsjay and who should be back there but Miss Grumpy and Forgetful cashier. I didn’t even understand what she was doing in Guest Services. She had given me the least amount of service I had ever experienced at Tarsjay. I walked up. ‘Hello, yesterday, one of my shopping bags was left here. My name is Weetabix and they said they put my name on it.’
‘What was in the bag?’ She sighed. My request had clearly interrupted her very important agenda of withholding other people’s unmentionables from them.
‘Um’ I don’t know’. There’s some air freshener in there’ and some other stuff. I don’t remember.’
‘Do you have a receipt?’
‘No, I think it’s in that bag.’
She sighed again and then wandered into the back area. She came back with my tiny little bag and started rifling through it. ‘No, the receipt isn’t in there.’ She started making noises as though I were a shyster, involved in a multi-national Tarsjay spermicide theft ring.
‘Look, the air freshener is a plug in and it’s Orange and Green Tea flavored. Enough for you?’ I didn’t feel good, I couldn’t breathe, and I was completely exasperated at that point.
She reached into the bag, pulled out the air freshener and squinted to read the description.
‘Oh, all right, I guess we’ll give it to you. After all, I AM the one who didn’t give you the bag in the first place.’ She chuckled as though she was the most benevolent humanitarian in the world, plunked the bag down on the table and then turned to help the next customer.
I’m certain she’ll be promoted to manager by the end of the month. Next time I’m so double checking to see if I have all of my embarrassing items before I leave the store.
Then I went to the doctor’s office and saw their little pretend doctorlette (Doctor’s assistant, I think they call him) and basically said ‘Look, I get bronchitis every year, sometimes more than once. I’m getting worse and I’d rather not have it turn into pneumonia like last year. I need a combination of prednisone and Zithromax and also a cough syrup of either codeine or Vicodin, dealer’s choice, ok big guy?’ He nodded, listened to my breathing, agreed that I had bronchitis, took my blood oxygen level and then threw me a curve ball and said ‘How are you feeling right now? Weak?’ ‘No, actually, aside from not being able to get a decent breath, I feel pretty good.’ ‘Ok, with your blood oxygen level, you’re right on the cusp of needing hospitalization, but since you are feeling pretty good, let’s try a breathing treatment and the medicine and see where we go with that.’ I guess he needed to feel in control. Maybe next time I’ll pinch his cheeks and say ‘Who’s the big doctor?! Who is it! Come on! YOU’RE the big doctor, aren’t you?! Yes! Big doctor man!’
This entry was made possible with support of Vicodin. Which pretty much explains everything.
