Monday, August 11, 2014

No idea

Today I had a long chat with a lovely elderly gentleman at my local Co-op. Older gentlemen like me a lot. I think it's because my silver hair makes them feel safe, like--despite being a spectacularly well-preserved 51--I might have some insight into where they are, some inkling of that place I'm headed, and might also know a thing or two about produce. As a result, I often have friendly discussions with the old guys at the grocery store while I'm helping them buy ripe cantaloupe, avoid mushy bananas, or find the kind of yogurt that. . . you know.

But from now on I'll be shopping for groceries in a head-to-toe disguise because REAL-LIFE STORY:  Today I learned, while comparing groceries with the gentleman being me in the Fast Check line (we both had dairy products and cereal!) that, unlike me,  Lanny's wife, the much-missed Ann-Marie, preferred her tampons to have a deodorant in them, on account of her impaired mobility toward the end of her life. (I didn't ask what the correlation was.) (Rare burst of sagacity on my part.) Sometimes they made her itch, but the ones she liked best didn't. He wasn't sure what she would make of these new "pearl" tampons. He was on the verge, I swear, of asking me to give him a product review, just for old times' sake, when the checkout clerk, a child of about 12 (are there not labour laws in place to protect all these children who suddenly seem to be working in responsible positions all over this city??), saved me by grabbing the little pink box, thus completing my order. But no matter how acrobatically she scanned those little pearls of great worth, the machine would not beep.
Other things started to happen.

Cashier: WHO KNOWS HOW MUCH THE TAMPAX PEARL SUPERS COST THIS WEEK?

Lanny: I used to be able to buy Ann-Marie a box of a dozen of those scented tampons for about $2.50, I think. Seems like a lot when you get right down to it.

(I think Ann-Marie has been in the Great Beyond for quite some time.)

Me: I will just go check and I'll be right back.

(Confession: I was thinking about fleeing. I am crazy good at seeing where situations like this are heading.)

Cashier: NO I WILL ASK PHIL ON THE PA SYSTEM JUST A SECOND AND WHY ARE YOU TURNING SO RED JUST BECAUSE I HAVE SAID PRICE CHECK TAMPAX PEARL SUPERS FOR CASHIER 3 TO ALL OF THE PEOPLE?

Phil returns. The price is $5.95.

Lanny: $5.95? Are you KIDDING me? I wouldn't spend more than $3 on a box of tampons for Ann-Marie!! And that's with that added perfume. Yours don't even have perfume.

Cashier two rows over: EXCUSE ME, SIR, BUT DID YOU SAY $5.95 FOR THE PEARL SUPERS? I THINK THEY'RE ON SALE THIS WEEK. YOU SHOULD CHECK AGAIN.

Lanny: Oh, they're not for me. My dear wife, Ann-Marie, passed away a few years ago. They're for this young lady. <pats my shoulder.>

AGAIN THE PA SYSTEM ASKS SOMEONE TO DOUBLE-CHECK TAMPAX PEARLS SUPER BOX OF 16 FOR CASHIER 3.

People are starting to crane their necks around the chocolate bar torture stations to check out who exactly is having all the trouble with--no: who is HAGGLING ABOUT--the price of tampons over at Cashier 3. I try to hide behind Lanny, who stops me flat in my tracks with a beefy smack on the back that nearly knocks me out of my shoes.

Lanny: That's okay, honey, they'll get this all straightened out for you in no time. I bet you just want to go home and lie down.

LANNY, YOU HAVE NO IDEA.



Thursday, June 19, 2014

A Sign

So I'm thinking maybe it's time for a change of attitude. Today when the grocery cashier and I were talking about the possibility of a change in weather for the weekend, I THOUGHT I was going to cross my fingers dramatically, give her one of those half grimace/half hopeful smile things that sometimes creep across my face (frightening children and small animals). What I DID, purely from muscle memory, was give her the finger.

I am running out of grocery stores that I can enter without assuming some sort of disguise. 

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Travel does broaden the mind so

Note: I chose "extra large" for the image size.

Think of me May 22.

I think I see the problem

Not feeling quite yourself? I might know something to cut out of your diet that will make you feel a lot lighter about life in general.

Just an idea.

UPDATE MAY 14: http://www.faltersmeats.com/product/bung-bologna/

Tuesday, May 13, 2014

Quick note

'Your children are not your children.They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself'--Gibran

Dear Life's longing for itself:
Please ask your son to pick up his freaking Lego.

All the best,
L

Monday, May 5, 2014

What are you afraid of?

Jann Arden tweeted today "NEVER tell people what you're afraid of."

Well, I certainly couldn't tweet it because 140 characters even times 400 wouldn't take care of everything that I'm afraid of.

Brooke Shields: I have recurring nightmares in which she's chewing on my shoulder. CHEWING, not nibbling. And I can feel her eyelashes.

Fork in the neck: Just what happened to that frog in Grade 7 in the sadistic science teacher's insane classroom of horrors. I have to sit with my back to the wall wherever I go and airplanes are a constant upset. The fact that its spleen juice shot into my eye upon puncture, necessitating a trip to the emergency eye wash station on the very first day I ever in my life wore mascara? I think that was karma announcing itself. What if it is not yet done with me??

Bug under pillow: All pillows, everywhere, even hospitals. Even when stoned on morphine because of a broken kneecap, I squirmed up and around, upsetting the bedpan, to make sure that there were no bugs under the pillow. In Alberta. In the winter.

Pee dye: When you get to be of a certain age, continence is no longer a guarantee. I don't think I'm there yet, but it's coming. I would never EVER on purpose pee in anyone's pool, but what if a little happened and I was trailed by tell-tale green dye, letting everyone know I might be the sort of person who might just pee in someone else's pool. The smell of chlorine now fills me with a sense of criminality sort of like crossing borders with nothing to declare does.

Banana shortage: WHAT WOULD I DO.

Snake in midnight toilet: Obviously.

My dog knows when I'm lying: And is judging me.
"Tell me another one, sugar."
That this look of aloof disdain has nothing to do with his essential houndiness and everything to do with being disappointed in me. That he writes things down and one day everyone will know that I often do not walk him as often or for as long as I should.

The chair will collapse: In the restaurant and everyone will laff and I will have guacamole in my hair. Only Mexican restaurants affect me in this way.

My fingernails are just waiting to shatter, right up to the elbow: I believe this requires no further comment.

I will run someone over without realizing it and then everyone will think that not only am I a killer, but I am a heartless killer: So let me just try to clear that up right now. If I run you over, I'm really sorry about that and I really truly didn't do it on purpose. It's probably just that Leonard Cohen came on the radio and I had to make an emergency swiping gesture or put my fingers in my ears.

There you have it. And that's just what I could come up with in the last 5 minutes. We should totally grab a drink and talk more about me (or, I guess, you) one of these days. But not in a Mexican restaurant. Gracias.

Saturday, May 3, 2014

Spring in my step?

Okay, so since last September:
Some people I know have died.
Some people I didn't know before were born.
We have had 8 straight months of snow.
The Ice Queen herself grew so fucking sick of this weather that she buggered off to Spain.
I learned about the existence of something called a Snorlax and dipped a sad toe into the world of Pokemon tournaments.
I fell in love with this man.
I perpetrated four baking disasters on perfectly nice people who deserved better.
I didn't finish my novel but read a lot about how to finish my novel.
I established a wiry chin hair preserve.
I started doing hot yoga in an attempt to calm the hell down, but haven't been for a week because I found myself chanting "shut the fuck up shut the fuck up" for 90 minutes as a tattooed child shared his "teachings" on the meaning of life with me as I strained not to buckle at both knees in something called the happy baby pose, which involves pointing your bum at the ceiling while clutching your ankles. At my age this is known as the farting granny pose. 
I tried not to get cancer because everyone else has it and who will be the one to go down to the tuck shop for chips?
I watched my baby sisters grow old.
I avoided the gaze of a judgmental squirrel who thinks I need to cut down on the chips and rootbeer.

I wonder what you've been doing.