Tuesday, September 22, 2009

two peas in a pod.

"hi, honey."

listen, i'm trying out this new thing. i'm going to start calling you bitches "honey" and "sweetie" and "baby" from now on. i'm working on a new image, you see. a sunny disposition kind of thing. because i can be a snatch in the worst kind of way, so i'm going to try to offset that with a few "sugars" and "angels." so when i say something nasty about your mother you get less mad. you know, because i called you "kitten" first. as a general rule i call most of my friends lover or gorgeous anyway, so this will just be taking it a step further.
(i tried this shit with laura's bitch ass last week, and she got all mad and uncomfortable and said it didn't sound authentic. that i'm not believeable as a nice person. what a jerk. i am TOTALLY fucking nice. bitch.)

i hate the grocery store in the worst way. the same people who can't drive on the fucking road can't maneuver their way through neatly organized, widely-spaced, roadblock-free aisles, either. and it kills me every single time. without fail, i am inevitably nailed in the ass by someone's cart or chasing down the woman who absentmindedly mistook mine for hers (were you really about to buy ONE can of green beans and a box of alka-seltzer, bitch? gimme that back!) or annoyed at some douchebag frat boy's loud ass cell phone shouting while perched DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF the beer i'm trying to get (you know, and i know, and you know that i know that you know the only fucking thing you are going to get is a case of natty ice. so get it. and shut the fuck up. and move already. stop contemplating the good beer that we all know you're not going to buy and let me get some). and I'M the asshole if i politely ask him to slide his 1.5 GPAss out of my goddamned way? right.
 
when i read that recent news story about that grody old milkshake who slapped the dogshit out of some screaming little kid in walmart or wherever i was immediately flooded with sympathy. for the dude. places like the grocery store (and walmart and target and pleasedontgetmestartedoncostco) do something to my brain, man. i just can't even handle it. the bright lights, the sensory overload, the constant swarm of people who just can't help but touch you in some way: i nearly have a complete emotional meltdown every single time. i can't realistically claim to have OCD; anyone who has been in my apartment when there are dishes and cutlery IN THE BED would shoot that down in a second. but i do have my fair share of crazy, and i'm going to give you a taste. some grocery-specific crazy, to be precise. watch out, this might make you hate me for reals.

everyone who has been in the store with me knows i have a bunch of (certifiably) psychotic rules and/or phobias while shopping. and i adhere to them no matter who is around or how embarassing it might be, though i am never really embarassed because i'm reasonably certain death really is lurking around the corner just waiting to snatch me if my dairy products and sweet potatoes touch even a little bit while inside my cart. THE HORROR.

so here goes:
1 i will only purchase an item if it is three or four items behind the first, but never the one at the very back. 2 i try not to buy paper products that have anything green on the packaging. 3 i like canned goods, but i will never buy a dented can or one with a damaged label. 4 buying things in the bulk section makes me physically uncomfortable, so i rarely do it (i make an exception for the raspberry hearts at whole foods). 5 i will never buy the last one of anything. EVER. 6 i try to never buy more than twelve grocery items at a time. 7 i will never buy anything located on the bottom shelf. 8 i will not buy anything in the freezer section that has that snowy/icy stuff on the outside of the container. 9 i refuse to buy unpackaged fruit. 10 i read the label three times before buying something i've never bought before. and 11 i would literally DIE before i'd eat anything left out in an open sample.
i think it goes without saying that the salad bar is absolutely out of the question.

toss a shrieking child into the mix with all that crazy and you'd have a combustible situation on your hands. all of that said, if you were in dominicks with me you'd never notice all of my little "quirks" (sounds much better than "batshit mannerisms," no?) unless you were paying especially close attention to me and had no shopping of your own to accomplish. all of that just hums along inside my brain; as a matter of fact, i've been doing it for so long that i don't even notice it anymore. my hand just instinctively reaches out for the fourth of six cereal boxes. you know what's really insane?! people who shop with me often or have known me my whole life find that they have subconsciously started doing the exact same fucking thing. travis and i were buying a dvd player in target and when he reached down to get it i proudly noted that he took the third from the rear. a little tear even came to my eye. like aunt, like nephew. sigh.

i haven't had a car for a few years and when the last one blew up it pretty much put an end to the limited amount of grocery shopping i'd been doing. i've spent the last three years surviving on "supermarket runs," brief trips that require little more than a backpack, a basket, and the 10 items or less line. i used to peapod all the time when i had a 350-lb hulking linebacker of a boyfriend who would eat my chairs if they weren't bolted to the floor to cook for, and carrying five armloads of groceries up three flights (after stopping to talk shit to nina on the 2nd floor, of course) was never ever going to happen.

the other night i almost had a stroke because i had depleted my beer rations and was down to the two bottles of that apricot pyramid bullshit that had been hiding behind all of the decent beer since the days john and i ground to a screeching halt. which was FOREVER ago in vagina years. (like dog years but sexier. cat years, maybe?) and limping to the liquor store to get beer to drink alone with helen seemed too tragic even for me. to add insult to injury, i was hungry. and the only thing i had available was dried-out swiss cheese. (i told you i don't shop) so my unhappy foot sent a signal to my bitchass brain and i placed a peapod order.

for twelve items.

yesterday morning was a busy one at casa sam, and i was lying in bed with a t-shirt wrapped around my head listening to the new muse record (buy it buy it buy it) as loud as i think is appropriate for six-thirty a.m. on a monday when there was a sharp, and unexpected, knock on the door. i immediately reached for the hunting knife that i keep under the pillow and instructed helen to get her sawed-off (she keeps a cat-sized one behind the litter box in her crate) before i answered the door.

ever since the attempted robbery heard round the world two years ago i've taken to sleeping almost fully clothed. really. the suckiest part of fighting that crazy asshole off was not that he wanted to take my shitty tv, but that i had to do it in my "i'm not getting laid" panties and without my glasses. OR A BRA. nowadays i wear a fucking parka and jack boots to bed. if you want to kill me this time, you're really going to have to try.

so it was the peapod dude, inexplicably early, holding my two measly grocery bags. i could tell he wanted to say something, something along the lines of "bitch, are you insane for making me deliver some shit a pigeon could carry?!" or maybe i looked hot enough to rape, with my baggy sleeping pants shoved into my walking boot and the american apparel hoodie i shrunk in the wash clinging to all the wrong places. RAWR.

or maybe he was just waiting for a tip, which i realized half a second too late to avoid that awkward unspoken is she or isn't she? should i stand here or just GO? foot shuffle. i was instantly irritated (motherfucker i have an elevator, how hard could it have been?), but something resembling yuppie guilt rose up like bile in my throat and i dropped the bags (probably denting my can of young peas in the process) and ran to fetch my wallet from the bottom of my school bag. i had two dollars and a handful of quarters and, after re-opening the door, i made the "i'm so sorry, i know i suck" face while trying to hand it to him. but he just looked me up and down quickly and damn-near sprinted down the hall, leaving me holding a handful of dirty change.

"what the fuck was his problem?" i asked helen, whose non-response reminded me that that bitch is a fucking CAT, not my quiet roommate who mostly keeps to herself. i had already brushed my teeth, what could have been so offensive? it wasn't until i bent over to put the (cellophane-wrapped) watermelon slices into the fruit bin and almost fucking gutted myself before i realized i had been standing at the door with a goddamned machete sticking out of my kangaroo pouch. totally fucking dumb.

here's a tip: i'll cut a bitch.