Friday, June 4, 2010

I Don't Even Know What to Call This...

but I wish you happy reading. And good luck. Lots and lots of luck.

Being an author is like being in charge of your own personal insane asylum.
Graycie Harmon

So the other night I ran in to CVS to buy six things. Had they not been six vitally important things, as in my life depended on purchasing them, things like mints, lifesavers and Cherry Coke, I would have left them on the counter and spared myself from the tale I'm about to tell. But as I said. Vitally important. Cannot leave store without them. No matter what the cost. And believe me, friend, the cost was great.

I was third in line behind a nice couple, who must also have been purchasing something vitally important because why else they would stand for this I do not know, who was behind a portly pink woman. I would like to call her the portly pink pig because alliteration rocks my socks, but I am a nice person and I like pigs and I would not want to insult them by comparing them to this woman, who upon further reflection I think must have been an alien sent to see how much torture we humans can endure. And I’m pretty sure those of us who stayed in line passed the test, which actually means a big fat fail, because to pass a torture endurance test you must have a high tolerance for torture. So basically we’ll be the first ones the aliens take to their spacecraft to experiment on. Because of our torture tolerance (seriously, alliteration, I heart you.) And if you are still reading this, you too, must have a high torture tolerance. Your torture tolerance towers above all others. You are a towering torture tolerant.

What was I talking about?

Oh, right. The portly pink woman (PPW) who held up the line at CVS for forty-five hours due to the 37 things in her cart that she insisted be rung up as eight different transactions.

Two words in that sentence should stand out to you:

1. Cart. Cart. She had a cart. At a drug store. As much as I’d like to blame the PPW alien for causing me to spend my night in CVS, aliens get blamed for enough stuff, like the pyramids, except I don’t know if we so much blame them for those, or credit them for those, because really they are a wonder, one of seven in the world I believe. But I’m not sure. I could Google it, but I’m a Yahoo girl, and what does this have to do with anything? Oh, yeah- aliens getting blamed for stuff that is all CVS’s fault. CVS, you are called a drug store for a reason. Drugs* are supposed to fit in your pocket. So they are easily concealed from law enforcement. No one wants a cart, CVS, to transport their drugs. It arouses suspicion. So by providing carts, you enable PPW’s to fill them with things like eight thousand cases of Pepsi, and diapers and baby wipes, and nail polish, and nail polish remover, and candy bars, and, and, and…she wants to purchase all of these things as…

2. Eight. Eight. Separate. Transactions.

Why does she do this? Coupons, of course. Stacks and stacks, and piles and duffle bags full of coupons. Which apparently can only be redeemed with the right combination of diapers, baby wipes and Pepsi. And Pepsi, and nail polish remover. And Pepsi and a candy bar. What, cashier lady, you didn’t know that this combination of soda and chocolate meant the candy bar only costs 55 cents? Void it and ring it up again, biatch. What, cashier lady, you didn’t know that those diapers were on sale and you don’t have anyone on the floor to double-check and your manager is on the phone and there would be no one to cover the register if you left to go check the price and the line is enveloping the store in one giant boa constrictor death grip like my hands will be around your neck if you don’t go check the price on those diapers? Oh, you will go check? That’s what I thought, biatch.

This went on. And on. And on. I was about to slam my tampons on the counter and scream, “This isn’t worth it! I’ll just bleed all over myself!” Like that woman said to me when I was leaving the library one day awhile back. She was all “hey lady roll down your window.” And I was like “heck no psycho. Go away.” And then she shouted, “can I have some change so I can buy a box of coblahblah?” Except she didn’t actually say coblahblah. She said something that started with co and I couldn’t understand the rest so I was like, “oh sure you want to buy a box of coblahblah, more like a box of crack. I am not giving you money for drugs, now get out of my way.” And then she screamed at me, “I have blood on my pants!” And I was like “Ew crack whore. TMI.” And then I wondered if crack whore is even an accurate statement or if it’s just one of those things we say, like meth head and jumbo shrimp. I mean, why do we even call them crack whores? Is it because all crackheads are whores? Or do all whores do crack? And if neither is correct, who are we offending more by the pairing of the words? Crackheads or whores? These are the questions that keep me up at night.

After leaving said crack whore I call Mark and am all, “you’ll never believe what just happened to me,” and I begin to tell my tale. When I get to the point of telling him she screamed at me that she had blood on her pants, the light bulb turns on and I’m like, “oh my golly wolly Mark, she didn’t want a box of crack she wanted a box of…”

“Kotex,” Mark finishes for me. Which means he realized long before I did that a box of coblahblah was not a box of crack but a box of tampons, and I’m not really sure what that says about him, but what it does say about me is that I am a terrible woman for not realizing the plight of my fellow menstrators. In my defense, though, I’m a Tampax kinda girl so my senses were not tuned in to the butchering of the word Kotex. I used to use Kotex until I realized Tampax was better for girls with a wide set vagina and a heavy flow (Mean Girls anyone? Seriously, tell me you’ve seen Mean Girls or else I’m the one with TMI.)

So in conclusion ladies, if a crazy lady comes up to your car and asks for change for a box of coblahblah, have a heart and give it to her. She’s on her period. And by denying her, you are forcing her to spell it out for you, which is humiliating. And if you’re as clueless as I am, it will take your husband to explain what she’s asking for, and by then it’s too late. You’ve left her to fall victim to the sharks and vampires. Way to go.

And that is my advice of the day. Now I’m off. Like a prom dress in the back of a station wagon.

What? I didn’t start this post talking about blood and crack whores? I was talking about an alien at CVS and I didn’t finish the story? Really, I don’t think it matters. I highly doubt anyone is still reading.

Oh fine. I’ll continue. (I should find it disturbing that I just had a conversation with the Internets, but I have conversations with myself on the daily, so really, it’s a step in the right direction if you think about it.) I didn’t slam my tampons down on the counter - because tampons wasn’t one of the six things - and storm out - because I’d stuck it out this long and I was committed to seeing it through to the bitter bitter end.

The cashier with the perpetual head cold was all kinds of stressed out by the PPW alien and kept asking her how many more transactions and glancing nervously at the mile long line, as if we were suddenly going to attack her and tear her limbs from her body and start eating them, which would be totally ridiculous because then who’d ring us up? We’d be in CVS for, like, ever.

PPW was finally done, just in time for her husband, who’d been chained to the bike rack outside, to break free and ask her, “what the heck have you been doing? You’ve held up all these people.” And she was all, “this is the way CVS makes you do it, cuz you can only use one coupon at a time.” And the cashier was like, “this was not the right way to do it, but that’s beside the point. Now get out biatch.”

And I was all like, “you go cashier lady with a perpetual head cold. Btw, you should seriously get that checked out. You’ve been sick for like five years.”

The cashier lady did not respond, because apparently I said all that in my head, and rung up the nice older couple in front of me, who I’m pretty sure purchased KY warming gel, and then I totally understood why they waited out the PPW alien.

FINALLY, it was my turn to purchase my six items. The cashier apologized profusely and I said, “no problem.” And then I was tempted, so tempted, to ask her to ring up each of my six items as Six. Separate. Transactions. You know, for old times sake. But then I envisioned the CVS card she’d fashioned into a shank while the PPW alien was strategically sorting her items for maximum coupon benefit lodged in my aorta, and thought maybe now is not the time for jokes.

The End.

*I don’t actually use, deal or buy drugs. Nor advocate the usage, dealage or buyage of drugs. This post was one of sarcasm or satire or something like that. Drugs are bad. You shouldn’t do drugs. Mmkay? Especially the marriage-you-wanna. (South Park anyone? No? Seriously people, you need to brush up on your tv and movie references.)

P.S. This post is probably littered with typos. But trust me, they're there on purpose. I'm sure of it. It enhances your reading pleasure. You're welcome.

1 comment:

  1. Do you drink Pepsi or Coca-Cola?
    ANSWER THE POLL and you could get a prepaid VISA gift card!


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