I’m just going to pretend like I haven’t sucked the big one at this blog biz for the past 6+ months.
So, a few months ago, I pulled into a Walgreens parking lot in some snazzy workout capris and one of those breathable workout tops from Old Navy (bitch, please- like I can afford Under Armour), feeling great after a pretty impressive 174-minute workout at the gym. I only stayed for so long because The Sound of Music was playing in the gym movie theater and I obviously had to wait till the very end to see if that bastard Rolf would change his mind and not blow his whistle in the abbey to alert his Nazi buddies. He did. He always does. With a pep in my hole-in-the-toe New Balance sneaks, I pass by the $5 flu shot sign on the window. I scoff at the sign, thinking that flu shots are for the weak, and that $5 could get me 24 Italian-ice cups at the Marinos Italian-ice warehouse. TWENTY-FOUR. That’s approximately 5 days worth of Italian-ice. BLUE OR LEMON, PLEASE AND THANK YOU.
And now, here’s another number for you: 58.
Fifty-eight is the amount of dollars my Italian-ice loving ass has spent in the last four days on products that will help rid me of the miserable flu that is currently crippling my soul. Nyquil, Dayquil, Mucinex, Alieve, bottled water, OJ, Ramen, sorbet, hard candies, soup, tea, and endless tissues ain’t cheap. Damn you, summertime stupidity. So yes, I have spent the last few days pretty much unable to move my body. I have been swilling cough syrup like I should have gold and diamond teeth and a hit on HOT 97, and my tongue literally has cuts on it from consuming so many mints and Halls. I am convinced that I belong in the Arkansas wilderness because I was about to pass out dead. Last night was the first time in days I was able to drive a little, and I knew where I had to go. I had to go on a hunt for margarine. Dar-Dar had made cornbread to go with dinner, and I only like margarine on my southern, bread-like treat, NOT butter. And what’s the only spreadable butter-ish topping we have in the house? Fucking butter. The grocery store was too far to drive (approx. 4.5 minutes) and I didn’t wanna push it, so I decided to go with CVS down the street. They sell those stupid-ass Crustables and 10 varieties of flavored milk, so surely they would have my I Can’t Believe its not Butter.
On a day when I’m at 100%, ready to take on the world, I can usually be found in ratty topsiders, some sweats, a tee (or a polo, only if I’m feeling extra sassy), and the messiest messy bun this side of the Jersey Shore. You can only IMAGINE what I look like when I have been knocking on deaths door. I was sporting a rainbow sherbet stained shirt with a bizarre hole right in the nip (think Mean Girls), a stretched out sweatSKIRT (yup, they make ‘em), and my men’s slippers from K-Mart. I’m not even going to go into what my hair and face were doing. The only coats I could find in a 15-foot radius (I got some of my energy back, but no way was I going to walk down the hallway to the coat closet; that would have been simply absurd) were a thin vest, a NorthFace fleece (yeah right, what am I, still in high school? pass) and Dar-Dars knee length, faux-fur coat. Can you guess which one I went with?
If the Olsen twins can walk around with some bullshit homeless-chic style, why can’t I? Or is that look only reserved for 11-pound billionaires? No one has ever owned dirty slippers, ashy legs, a fur coat, and ratty hair the way I did at 7:37 PM on Sunday, January 9th, 2011. I walked into that CVS the way I imagine Naomi Campbell walking into an anger management class- with nothing but swagger and pride. I strut my stuff over to the grocery aisle, past the canned pistachios, vanilla wafers, and salsa, and head to the fridge section. What does this crap-ass fridge have to offer me? One tub of cream cheese, 11 single sticks of butter, expired milk, and half a carton of eggs. WHAT. THE. FUCK. Rite-Aid would NEVER let this shit happen. I can’t even describe my disappointment. You have regular, chocolate, strawberry, banana, MINT, and creamsicle flavored milk, but you only have six eggs? LITERALLY SIX EGGS?? As I stomped away in disgust, I also passed those damn Crustables.
To get back to the front of the store, I had to walk through the diaper/lady product aisle. As I walk past, plotting possible solutions to my cornbread spread dilemma, some 15 year old, pizza-faced shit has the nerve to chuckle under his and mutter “that’s a look”. Okay, Im still so angry that I just now had to take a minute and say my cool down mantra that I learned from Carl Winslow. Three, two, one. One, two, thee. What the heck is bothering me. I stopped in my tracks. Pivoted on the heels of my discounted men’s footwear. Swooshed my fur around like my idol, Cruella DeVil. I was NOT in the mood for this. I was so fuming, all I could say was “what was that?” and he looked me up and down, smiled and said, “nothing ma’am. Have a terrific night.” You stupid shit-head. Right now, even though I feel like I have been tackled by two of my future husbands (Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson and Vin Diesel), I STILL come out here and manage to look like former sitcom stars who went on to make some pretty bomb straight to VHS movies in the nineties and early aughts and then became weird bag ladies. And I look awesome doing it. Do you know what he was doing at that moment? HE WAS STOCKING THE SHELVES WITH GENERIC VAGINAL ITCH MEDICATION. Last time I checked, which was just yesterday, organizing genital cream always tops looking like a hobo on the FML list, so keep the laughs to yourself, Chuckles. If I wasn’t all talk and no action, I would have pulled a Naomi and spread that vag cream all over his face, but alas, I will just vent my frustrations here. But if any of you happen to go to CVS on Broadway-Greenlawn Rd in Greenlawn, NY and happen to run into a tween-looking jerk named Henry with lots of pimples on his nose and frosted tips in his greasy hair, please make fun of him.
Oh, and Dar-Dar burnt the cornbread.