I had not mustered my courage, but I was back at Goodwill a few months later, armed with a list reading "red sweater". Have I mentioned what a large Goodwill this is? It would take up to 3 or more hours if one were to briefly glance at all of the clothing, and have no thought about them at all. Easily 5 or 6 if one was to contemplate buying anything. I usually get through about 5 racks before I em exhausted. My list did not embolden me.
So I prayed, 'O Dear Lord, if I don't find a serviceable red sweater in a half hour, please give me the stamina to leave and not waste my time lolly-gagging. Amen.'
Needless to say, I found a red sweater from New York and Company in about ten minutes. I smirked and, feeling so blessed, I decided to peruse the cassette tapes for new music. I found two: the soundtrack to "Empire of the Sun" (one of the three movies I own) and something from the 80s with a lady in a bright red leather jacket--how could I go wrong? (I have still not listened to the soundtrack, and the other tape was smooth rock of a nature so volatile that I ejected it and did not finish one song.)
The price sign above the cassette tapes said 50 cents.
I had overstayed my half hour by this point, so I hurried up to the register, and froze. One register was open. Oh yes, it was her. The whirring of the oxygen tank seemed to growl at me as I approached, cautiously.
'See me smiling?' I said nothing.
Red sweater. $3.99 RING!
Cassette tape. $1.00 RING!
Had I been moving, I would have stopped immediately. 'Why are you charging me twice the already outrageous amount for a worthless piece of technology?!' "Um..." I started.
The woman froze, mid-ring of the next tape and her head snapped up to stare at me. My stomach crawled up through my esophagus and lodged itself in my throat before I could utter another sound. The white-haired lady blinked, and scanned the next tape.
Cassette tape. $1.00 RING!
She stared at me as she handed over the plastic bag. 'That's for the so-called jacket you bought last time that was clearly a coat, and you still owed me for that dollar. Don't mess with me.'
I praised Jesus for delivering me from that pit alive.
11/25/10
Haggling
Since I do the majority of my shopping at the local Goodwill, I have begun to recognize some of the employees. There's the young inmate with tattoos all over his neck, 27 piercings in his face, and earlobes about one inch in diameter, the woman, mid-age, with dyed brown hair and a visible history of plentiful eating, the small man that limps and glares at everything, and the old lady with short, white hair. When I first saw the older woman she reminded me of my grandmother, and I smiled in her direction every chance I got.
Having successfully chosen my purchases, I joined the queue at the white haired woman's register. 'How sweet you seem, dear old lady, I hope my youthful smile will bring joy into your dull life.'
"Hello! How are you?" I said cheerily. Her portable oxygen tank whirred in reply as she reached for the clothes on the counter. She sent me a scathing glance. I do believe my mouth fell open. A bit of dust fell from the ceiling and settled there. Silently, she rung my purchase.
One shirt. $3.99 RING!
One sweater. $3.99 RING!
"What is this?" Her harsh voice caught me off guard and made me jump. She was holding up a thigh-length, shoulder pad implanted, jacket spangled with large yellow flowers.
"Uh," I fumbled. "A jacket?" 'It's the most beautiful piece of sewn artistry I have ever encountered.'
She frowned and turned it over in her hands. "Is it a jacket? Or is it a coat?" Her eyes pierced mine. "They're different prices you know." Our gazes locked as her retnas burned themselves into my brain to see from which rack I had gotten it.
'I beg of you, do not release your wrath upon me!' I began to sweat. "Oh, well I'm not really sure. I realize it's long, but it is more of a jacket."
She squinted at it.
I dug deep in my gut for my voice. 'You should not charge me that extra dollar, I'm obviously shopping here because I don't have the extra dollar to spend.' "You see the thinness?" I squeaked. My salivary glands had ceased production. "It's not really a coat, I think."
She sniffed. "I suppose." $4.99
I bade her a good day (to which she did not reply) and rushed out the door, panting.
Having successfully chosen my purchases, I joined the queue at the white haired woman's register. 'How sweet you seem, dear old lady, I hope my youthful smile will bring joy into your dull life.'
"Hello! How are you?" I said cheerily. Her portable oxygen tank whirred in reply as she reached for the clothes on the counter. She sent me a scathing glance. I do believe my mouth fell open. A bit of dust fell from the ceiling and settled there. Silently, she rung my purchase.
One shirt. $3.99 RING!
One sweater. $3.99 RING!
"What is this?" Her harsh voice caught me off guard and made me jump. She was holding up a thigh-length, shoulder pad implanted, jacket spangled with large yellow flowers.
"Uh," I fumbled. "A jacket?" 'It's the most beautiful piece of sewn artistry I have ever encountered.'
She frowned and turned it over in her hands. "Is it a jacket? Or is it a coat?" Her eyes pierced mine. "They're different prices you know." Our gazes locked as her retnas burned themselves into my brain to see from which rack I had gotten it.
'I beg of you, do not release your wrath upon me!' I began to sweat. "Oh, well I'm not really sure. I realize it's long, but it is more of a jacket."
She squinted at it.
I dug deep in my gut for my voice. 'You should not charge me that extra dollar, I'm obviously shopping here because I don't have the extra dollar to spend.' "You see the thinness?" I squeaked. My salivary glands had ceased production. "It's not really a coat, I think."
She sniffed. "I suppose." $4.99
I bade her a good day (to which she did not reply) and rushed out the door, panting.
11/24/10
The Original
Today I had a wonderful experience.
(First, there is a new store in the mall located in close proximity to my house. I ventured there one day and sat in a Starbucks parking lot, without buying anything, for about two or three hours. I noticed the store, "Five Below" across the road. So I wondered: five below freezing? Five below the speed limit? Five below the average IQ? Five below the average 5.5? My ruminations became increasingly less charitable, so I drove across the street for exploration.
Second, do you remember your childhood? Think Hard............................... I hope you were Thinking very Hard in that space. I don't remember much about my childhood other than watering the flowers [with a green sippy cup] woven into my bedroom carpet in attempts to make them grow, carving my sibling's name into furniture in attempts to see it punished, rubbing bar soap on the tires of our tractor in attempts to make the tires spin out the next time my father operated it, hiding robins' eggs underneath my bed in attempts to incubate them, and throwing my new kitten off the crows nest of our swing-set in attempts to teach him to fly. Yours is undoubtedly similar.
There is no third. In fact, there was one, but I have forgotten it, and since this is my blog and my mind, you would have never known that there was a third, but I feel that proper justification to this story would not be given if I did not mention that at one point in time there was a third, but now there is not.
Fourth, have you ever cleaned your room and found something truly of value? [I could now attach my philosophy book here with a pretty little brightly colored link so that you would know to CLICK HERE if you wanted to read up on the different meanings of value, but I feel that the most entertainment I would get out of that is seeing how many of you actually clicked.] Yes, well we all have in our own quaint way I'm sure.)
I was completely stressed out (It is a holiday after all. "Holi": from the French, hooligans, and "day": from the German, are going to possess the bodies of your family members who will in turn force you to clean at insane hours of the morning, cook outrageous amounts of food, and watch movies you would not otherwise watch.) so I started cleaning my room. (This is an impressive task; that is all you need to know.) I dug through a few yards of clothing, garbage, cutlery, and homework, only to find a plastic bag from Five Below. I knew there was a DVD in it, so I took that out and threw it onto another pile of art supplies, sweaters, coffee filters, and cassette tapes, but as I was going to throw away the plastic bag, I realized something else was in it.
The catch phrase on the back of the package I found in the bag was: "Nothing else is... (know how to finish it? Of course not, no one remembers a catch phrase that could apply to every object on or off the face of the planet [I could link another philosophical essay here debating on how every item, even if there are "duplicates", has individuality, originality, and meaning in its own way, but you wouldn't fall for that twice, would you?] so don't sweat it.) SILLY PUTTY!"
Oh my blissfully poor memory that forgets the best things only to have them turn up in my hands and fill me with joy for a second time! I recalled instantly how excited I had been to buy the silly putty from Five Below (which I believe was named for the five below 1,567 warning signs about security cameras [I counted: 1,562] they had hung up), while simultaneously recalling my delight of playing with this embryonic fluid of aliens (hello? It comes in an egg!) as a child. Needless to say, I am no longer stressed about the holiday or the inerasably sloppy state of my room. Such wonder indeed!
(The satisfying snapping sound one gets from biting the Silly Putty with one's front teeth is entirely worth the headache one will get 2 hours later.)
(First, there is a new store in the mall located in close proximity to my house. I ventured there one day and sat in a Starbucks parking lot, without buying anything, for about two or three hours. I noticed the store, "Five Below" across the road. So I wondered: five below freezing? Five below the speed limit? Five below the average IQ? Five below the average 5.5? My ruminations became increasingly less charitable, so I drove across the street for exploration.
Second, do you remember your childhood? Think Hard............................... I hope you were Thinking very Hard in that space. I don't remember much about my childhood other than watering the flowers [with a green sippy cup] woven into my bedroom carpet in attempts to make them grow, carving my sibling's name into furniture in attempts to see it punished, rubbing bar soap on the tires of our tractor in attempts to make the tires spin out the next time my father operated it, hiding robins' eggs underneath my bed in attempts to incubate them, and throwing my new kitten off the crows nest of our swing-set in attempts to teach him to fly. Yours is undoubtedly similar.
There is no third. In fact, there was one, but I have forgotten it, and since this is my blog and my mind, you would have never known that there was a third, but I feel that proper justification to this story would not be given if I did not mention that at one point in time there was a third, but now there is not.
Fourth, have you ever cleaned your room and found something truly of value? [I could now attach my philosophy book here with a pretty little brightly colored link so that you would know to CLICK HERE if you wanted to read up on the different meanings of value, but I feel that the most entertainment I would get out of that is seeing how many of you actually clicked.] Yes, well we all have in our own quaint way I'm sure.)
I was completely stressed out (It is a holiday after all. "Holi": from the French, hooligans, and "day": from the German, are going to possess the bodies of your family members who will in turn force you to clean at insane hours of the morning, cook outrageous amounts of food, and watch movies you would not otherwise watch.) so I started cleaning my room. (This is an impressive task; that is all you need to know.) I dug through a few yards of clothing, garbage, cutlery, and homework, only to find a plastic bag from Five Below. I knew there was a DVD in it, so I took that out and threw it onto another pile of art supplies, sweaters, coffee filters, and cassette tapes, but as I was going to throw away the plastic bag, I realized something else was in it.
The catch phrase on the back of the package I found in the bag was: "Nothing else is... (know how to finish it? Of course not, no one remembers a catch phrase that could apply to every object on or off the face of the planet [I could link another philosophical essay here debating on how every item, even if there are "duplicates", has individuality, originality, and meaning in its own way, but you wouldn't fall for that twice, would you?] so don't sweat it.) SILLY PUTTY!"
Oh my blissfully poor memory that forgets the best things only to have them turn up in my hands and fill me with joy for a second time! I recalled instantly how excited I had been to buy the silly putty from Five Below (which I believe was named for the five below 1,567 warning signs about security cameras [I counted: 1,562] they had hung up), while simultaneously recalling my delight of playing with this embryonic fluid of aliens (hello? It comes in an egg!) as a child. Needless to say, I am no longer stressed about the holiday or the inerasably sloppy state of my room. Such wonder indeed!
(The satisfying snapping sound one gets from biting the Silly Putty with one's front teeth is entirely worth the headache one will get 2 hours later.)
11/28/09
Don't Ignore Me. Do You Feel that Pang Most Jerks Get?
Every year. Six years in a row. Usually about seventy hours or more. I volunteer for Salvation Army to harass customers and pedestrians around local grocery or department stores. Normally, I am a chatty, congenial person, so when it comes to bombarding the public with guilt and discomfort, there is no contest. Before I go out, I make sure I am wrapped up well. It gets very cold standing stationary with the wind blowing against the bones. Long underwear, clothes, more clothes, down vest, fleece, winter ski coat, wind-proof pants, two scarves, hat that almost covers my eyes, very thick gloves. I am now in disguise. I am the unidentifiable Salvation Army Volunteer.
The best victims are the moms who come in the day before Thanksgiving with three or more small children buzzing around them like the electrons of a nucleus.
"Hello!" I call out, clanging my bell at her. The mother smiles without eye contact and turns to yell at her children. "Ma'am did you know that just fifty cents can touch the lives of children like your own?"
The mother pauses and, with some eye contact, smiles again in my direction.
"Children are at risk Ma'am," I call after her. Clang, clangity, clang. "They must be provided for! They must be protected!" She snatches the hand of her son who is five feet away from me, staring curiously.
The men who are sent by their wives are especially fun.
"Doing all the work, eh?" I comment to a middle-aged man, tightly clutching a list decorated with indistinguishable writing. Clangy, clang, clangy.
The man sighs and nods. "I don't know why she couldn't have just gotten this yesterday when she went out."
"You know us women, Sir! We never think ahead." I smile.
He stops walking, and peers at me closely. He is trying to decide whether or not there is actually a woman under the sixteen inches of coats and scarves I am wearing. Clang, clangity, clang, clang. I beam him my best smile.
He cannot decide. He gives me $1.19 in change because he feels bad that he couldn't recognize my gender.
There is always revenue from the flustered ones who charge out of the store right before it closes with two carts, five feet of receipts, and a handful of change.
All you need to say is, "Happy Holidays!" and ring the bell a little. A handful of change is dumped into the pot, half of it spilling on the ground, as the person runs after their other cart.
Clang, clangity, clang, clangy, clang. Watch out! I'm here to take your money and your heart.
The best victims are the moms who come in the day before Thanksgiving with three or more small children buzzing around them like the electrons of a nucleus.
"Hello!" I call out, clanging my bell at her. The mother smiles without eye contact and turns to yell at her children. "Ma'am did you know that just fifty cents can touch the lives of children like your own?"
The mother pauses and, with some eye contact, smiles again in my direction.
"Children are at risk Ma'am," I call after her. Clang, clangity, clang. "They must be provided for! They must be protected!" She snatches the hand of her son who is five feet away from me, staring curiously.
The men who are sent by their wives are especially fun.
"Doing all the work, eh?" I comment to a middle-aged man, tightly clutching a list decorated with indistinguishable writing. Clangy, clang, clangy.
The man sighs and nods. "I don't know why she couldn't have just gotten this yesterday when she went out."
"You know us women, Sir! We never think ahead." I smile.
He stops walking, and peers at me closely. He is trying to decide whether or not there is actually a woman under the sixteen inches of coats and scarves I am wearing. Clang, clangity, clang, clang. I beam him my best smile.
He cannot decide. He gives me $1.19 in change because he feels bad that he couldn't recognize my gender.
There is always revenue from the flustered ones who charge out of the store right before it closes with two carts, five feet of receipts, and a handful of change.
All you need to say is, "Happy Holidays!" and ring the bell a little. A handful of change is dumped into the pot, half of it spilling on the ground, as the person runs after their other cart.
Clang, clangity, clang, clangy, clang. Watch out! I'm here to take your money and your heart.
11/19/09
Have You Ever Cried for Someone You Didn't Know?
Do you know who Tom is? You probably do. Myspace, anyone? Tom "made" Myspace, or something along those lines. No one knew who he was, I personally think he was an alien or a hypnotist. No one has that many millions of friends.
I had a Myspace for twenty-three hours and an unknown amount of minutes. I vowed never to have one, but I broke the vow in middle school. I felt so guilty that I broke my own vow, that the next day I deleted it. Of course, just because I didn't have a Myspace didn't mean I couldn't creep around on it. Don't shake your head at me dear reader; you have creeped around on Myspace too. I found lots of interesting things on Myspace, like Jeffree Star. That horrible day is forever branded in my mind.
I also found cute poems, funny quizzes, and hot guys. Myspace creeping was a good alternative to homework, and I enjoyed expanding my knowledge and vocabulary. I am no longer surprised by what people say on the Internet, or what they put up, or how they will detail a night out and "...hope my parents don't find out! Click this link for pictures!"
One day I was Myspace creeping and I found a page that hadn't been written on in a few months. That was odd, there were lots of messages, but they were all old. Next to the birth date of the person, was a death date.
"I will always love you Jeremy!"
"I can't believe you are dead..."
"Rest in peace Bro. I love you Man."
"I hope heaven is good!"
"Is this a joke?! Are you really dead?!!!"
"Goodbye Jeremy!! I miss you!!!"
"I love you Jeremy!"
"You're gone..."
There were hundreds of messages written to this dead young man. I don't know how he died. Lots of people didn't get to say goodbye, so they wrote on his Myspace. They wanted to talk to him, so they did. They wrote as if he would respond tomorrow. They wrote as if he would read them. He had been dead for months. The Myspace was there. It is probably still there. Drifting through cyberspace with empty wishes for a person who will never benefit from them. I read all of the messages.
I had a Myspace for twenty-three hours and an unknown amount of minutes. I vowed never to have one, but I broke the vow in middle school. I felt so guilty that I broke my own vow, that the next day I deleted it. Of course, just because I didn't have a Myspace didn't mean I couldn't creep around on it. Don't shake your head at me dear reader; you have creeped around on Myspace too. I found lots of interesting things on Myspace, like Jeffree Star. That horrible day is forever branded in my mind.
I also found cute poems, funny quizzes, and hot guys. Myspace creeping was a good alternative to homework, and I enjoyed expanding my knowledge and vocabulary. I am no longer surprised by what people say on the Internet, or what they put up, or how they will detail a night out and "...hope my parents don't find out! Click this link for pictures!"
One day I was Myspace creeping and I found a page that hadn't been written on in a few months. That was odd, there were lots of messages, but they were all old. Next to the birth date of the person, was a death date.
"I will always love you Jeremy!"
"I can't believe you are dead..."
"Rest in peace Bro. I love you Man."
"I hope heaven is good!"
"Is this a joke?! Are you really dead?!!!"
"Goodbye Jeremy!! I miss you!!!"
"I love you Jeremy!"
"You're gone..."
There were hundreds of messages written to this dead young man. I don't know how he died. Lots of people didn't get to say goodbye, so they wrote on his Myspace. They wanted to talk to him, so they did. They wrote as if he would respond tomorrow. They wrote as if he would read them. He had been dead for months. The Myspace was there. It is probably still there. Drifting through cyberspace with empty wishes for a person who will never benefit from them. I read all of the messages.
11/11/09
If You Wear Pantyhose, You Can Feel Like a Supermodel Too
The female restroom is a place of enlightenment, bursting with new experiences. I just had to pee, but well…you know how these things come out. I followed a woman into the restroom; I didn’t know her, she didn’t know me. The lady (we’ll call her Suzie) in front of me said hello to a woman (Mildred) washing her hands at the sink.
Mildred said, “Oh hello Suzie! Great minds think alike!”
Suzie, “Yes they do!” and entered a stall.
I am acquainted with Mildred, we have talked twice. However, since Mildred was already wrapped up talking to Suzie, I smiled in her direction and slipped into my own stall without a proper greeting. I almost had the door closed when Mildred sang out, “Hello Sadie!”
Isn’t it amazing how many different outcomes your mind can calculate in 0.3 seconds?
Option One: Don’t say anything.
Option Two: Leave the door closed (since it was nearly there) and say, “Hello Mildred!” from behind the stall.
Option Three: Open the stall door, give Mildred eye-contact, and politely say, “Hello Mildred, how are you today? I haven’t talked to you in a while, and since we are both in the bathroom at the same time and you are obviously just completing the action I am about to undertake, we should swap stories and chat for a while.”
Now Option One is clearly a very rude option. Mildred is a few decades my senior, and I thought I should show more respect than simply ignoring her. Option Two is a good choice, it acknowledges Mildred, but it also allows her to subtly understand the three cups of coffee that were giving my bladder muscles a work-out. Option Three is a particularly nice gesture, because, of course, eye-contact is always desirable, and I am particularly fond of Mildred so I wanted to continue to establish the idea that I would like to continue to be her acquaintance (because you see, I hadn’t conversed with Mildred for a few weeks).
In the 0.3 seconds it took me to run these options through my head, I had already closed and locked the stall door. But, since Suzie was safely tucked away in her own stall, and since I was feeling so friendly that morning, I chose Option Three. Boldly unlocking the door with a snack of the lock that did not help to hold the door shut at all, I swung wide the flimsy sheet metal, and extended my body forth.
I smiled, showing all of my teeth. “Hello Mildred!” I said in a bright, peppy voice.
Mildred was wearing a skirt. It was a nice skirt: black, simple, unwrinkled. Mildred was also wearing flesh-colored pantyhose under the skirt (on the box, it says “nude” in italics, backed up with a cut-out in the box so you can see the actual pantyhose as proof that they are indeed nude). Pantyhose are cruel. They itch, they squeeze, they make you sweat. The purpose is to instill the image that you are a skinny, tan model lying on a beach, seductively rubbing your legs. Mildred’s pantyhose were bothering her on the back of the waistband, which is where they usually bother me too. Mildred’s pantyhose were also bothering her in her crotch, and in her backside area. I was informed of this as I watched her bundle her skirt up to her waist and yank animatedly on the afflicted areas. My mouth still open to complete the soliloquy detailed in Option Three, I was thankful that my arm muscles worked faster than my jaw to close the door and leave Mildred to adjust in peace.
I don’t think she was aware that I witnessed this display. We didn’t have any eye-contact because of the slightly hunched over position in which she happened to be. With the failure of Option Three, I shrank back in my stall. Mildred said no more, and she left before I ambled, red-faced, from my throne.
I wish you the best in the new situations sure to be encountered in your female restroom experiences.
Mildred said, “Oh hello Suzie! Great minds think alike!”
Suzie, “Yes they do!” and entered a stall.
I am acquainted with Mildred, we have talked twice. However, since Mildred was already wrapped up talking to Suzie, I smiled in her direction and slipped into my own stall without a proper greeting. I almost had the door closed when Mildred sang out, “Hello Sadie!”
Isn’t it amazing how many different outcomes your mind can calculate in 0.3 seconds?
Option One: Don’t say anything.
Option Two: Leave the door closed (since it was nearly there) and say, “Hello Mildred!” from behind the stall.
Option Three: Open the stall door, give Mildred eye-contact, and politely say, “Hello Mildred, how are you today? I haven’t talked to you in a while, and since we are both in the bathroom at the same time and you are obviously just completing the action I am about to undertake, we should swap stories and chat for a while.”
Now Option One is clearly a very rude option. Mildred is a few decades my senior, and I thought I should show more respect than simply ignoring her. Option Two is a good choice, it acknowledges Mildred, but it also allows her to subtly understand the three cups of coffee that were giving my bladder muscles a work-out. Option Three is a particularly nice gesture, because, of course, eye-contact is always desirable, and I am particularly fond of Mildred so I wanted to continue to establish the idea that I would like to continue to be her acquaintance (because you see, I hadn’t conversed with Mildred for a few weeks).
In the 0.3 seconds it took me to run these options through my head, I had already closed and locked the stall door. But, since Suzie was safely tucked away in her own stall, and since I was feeling so friendly that morning, I chose Option Three. Boldly unlocking the door with a snack of the lock that did not help to hold the door shut at all, I swung wide the flimsy sheet metal, and extended my body forth.
I smiled, showing all of my teeth. “Hello Mildred!” I said in a bright, peppy voice.
Mildred was wearing a skirt. It was a nice skirt: black, simple, unwrinkled. Mildred was also wearing flesh-colored pantyhose under the skirt (on the box, it says “nude” in italics, backed up with a cut-out in the box so you can see the actual pantyhose as proof that they are indeed nude). Pantyhose are cruel. They itch, they squeeze, they make you sweat. The purpose is to instill the image that you are a skinny, tan model lying on a beach, seductively rubbing your legs. Mildred’s pantyhose were bothering her on the back of the waistband, which is where they usually bother me too. Mildred’s pantyhose were also bothering her in her crotch, and in her backside area. I was informed of this as I watched her bundle her skirt up to her waist and yank animatedly on the afflicted areas. My mouth still open to complete the soliloquy detailed in Option Three, I was thankful that my arm muscles worked faster than my jaw to close the door and leave Mildred to adjust in peace.
I don’t think she was aware that I witnessed this display. We didn’t have any eye-contact because of the slightly hunched over position in which she happened to be. With the failure of Option Three, I shrank back in my stall. Mildred said no more, and she left before I ambled, red-faced, from my throne.
I wish you the best in the new situations sure to be encountered in your female restroom experiences.
10/27/09
Yes, I'm Italian
I hadn't shaved my legs in over a week. My ankles looked like my freshmen-in-college, testosterone-pumped guy friends that shave every three days: sparse, uneven, dark, and cactusy. My leg hair is wiry and straight; it gets a little sweaty from time to time. If you run a hand in the opposite direction that it grows, I get a slight tickling sensation. The hair from my follicles is especially thick around the knee and ankle. In the winter I let it grow. It helps with insulation under those thin, skanky dress pants we have to wear to funerals and baby showers.
Last night I was tired. Instead of putting my leg up on the hand bar like I normally do to shave in the shower, I decided to take a seat. Sitting solidly in the tub (because there is no other way to sit without sliding around), I lathered up my legs. It was a little hard to rinse the razor, but I found it very beneficial to be so close to the hair while I was ridding myself of it. I don't wear my glasses in the shower, I usually shave by feel; I have a centimeter long scar on my left thumb as evidence.
When I completed my hair-extraction, I knelt down and looked at the shallow end of the tub. There were some soap suds. There was some water. I could have made a Wooly-Willy with the pile of tiny hairs dredged up amongst the regular bathtub scum. It looked like someone had mowed the lawn without putting a bag on the mower. I twirled my finger around in the hairs and they gracefully followed the current of the puddle. I scootched them together in an attempt to make a kind of sandcastle, but the water was slowly carrying them away...
My legs remind me of the hide of a whale. They are scarred and scratched. Pink scars, white scars, brown scars, red scars. Burns, falls, too much shaving without eyeglasses. My shin bones have little bumps on them that make up the backbone. Odd hairs stick up here and there. After almost a decade, my shaving skills still remain imperfect. I just remembered that I forgot about my armpits.
Last night I was tired. Instead of putting my leg up on the hand bar like I normally do to shave in the shower, I decided to take a seat. Sitting solidly in the tub (because there is no other way to sit without sliding around), I lathered up my legs. It was a little hard to rinse the razor, but I found it very beneficial to be so close to the hair while I was ridding myself of it. I don't wear my glasses in the shower, I usually shave by feel; I have a centimeter long scar on my left thumb as evidence.
When I completed my hair-extraction, I knelt down and looked at the shallow end of the tub. There were some soap suds. There was some water. I could have made a Wooly-Willy with the pile of tiny hairs dredged up amongst the regular bathtub scum. It looked like someone had mowed the lawn without putting a bag on the mower. I twirled my finger around in the hairs and they gracefully followed the current of the puddle. I scootched them together in an attempt to make a kind of sandcastle, but the water was slowly carrying them away...
My legs remind me of the hide of a whale. They are scarred and scratched. Pink scars, white scars, brown scars, red scars. Burns, falls, too much shaving without eyeglasses. My shin bones have little bumps on them that make up the backbone. Odd hairs stick up here and there. After almost a decade, my shaving skills still remain imperfect. I just remembered that I forgot about my armpits.
10/26/09
Hello Out There?
It's fall. Goodbye humidity, goodbye warmness. Hello chapped lips and wet leaves blowing into my face. So where do they sell chapstick these days? Target (for only 99 cents), and gas stations (for $2.17). Ridiculous. I live about twenty minutes from the closest Target, and on my daily commute I'm not much closer to it. I'm thrifty...sometimes.
I've been waiting for about five days to get down to Target with a list larger than "chapstick" but I don't really do much shopping there. On my way home I watched a particularly large chunk of flesh fall off my lip and land with a thud on my leg. I got fed-up and pulled into the BP parking-lot at forty miles-per-hour. I grumbled to myself as I stalked into the convience store. The cheery metal bell on the door made my ears bleed and I found the aisle which contained fingernail clippers, tylenol, cough syrup, and those tiny tubes of deodorant which last two hours. I call it the Medical Aisle. I stood in the Medical Aisle for about five minutes. I mistook batteries for chapstick four times. The lady at the counter watched me reach for the batteries a fifth time and then snatch my hand back.
'I'm not trying to steal these...I swear, Lady.' I wiped my nose and sucked some blood off my lip and walked up to the counter.
"Do you have chapstick?" I asked the gas station lady.
"Yes," she said.
"...Where is it?" I asked. 'Watch out Gas Station Lady, I am a Vampire, see the blood on my lip? Vampires need chapstick too...'
"I have it behind the counter here," 'Back with the cigs and chew and other stuff you need to be 18 or older to buy, obviously,' she said with a Vanna White gesture to her right. "Would you like to buy Original or Cherry?"
"The black one, please," 'That's the one with the illegal drugs, right?' I said. Suck, suck, suck.
"That will be two dollars and seventeen cents," 'I need to see some ID for this.'
I paid with a debit card.
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