RoughNightForLulu

Christmas shoes make me angry

Anger. That blasted “Christmas Shoes” song makes me angry. That’s probably not what Mr. Carlisle was going for, but that’s what happens every damn time I hear his song. I can’t be alone in this.

I can identify songs quite quickly. I have a great ear for music and a mind that catalogues and retrieves fast enough to make loved ones uncomfortable. About half a note into “Christmas Shoes” I point myself in the direction of whatever speaker is expelling that vile song, and I begin my speech - the first portion of which is directed toward the child:

“Kid, just draw mommy a picture. Someone please bring this child a box of crayons! Jesus doesn’t have a dress code nor is he supportive of your materialistic bent - where did this come from at such a young age?  How about she just comb her hair and open her heart as preparation to “meet Jesus,” huh? No, we have to go with an earthly good? (If anything you should be *selling* mommy’s existent shoes, but I’ll stop and try not to completely reveal my cold, cold, practical heart….) You are good intentioned, little one, but daddy has neglected to explain some important life’s lessons that unfortunately will be hitting you all at once quite quickly….

…And you, remaining parent! What’s the matter with you that you have not explained death, and the importance of non-commercially supportive (i.e. - free) gestures of love like reading mommy a story or bringing her a snack? And why is your child running around a store by himself? (And talking to strangers!) You’re conditioning your child to show love through consumerism instead of spending those last few moments with her, holding her hand. You’ve indicated that there’s “not much time” - why let him leave her side to get her shoes? This child will soon be in a one-parent household - perhaps now is a good time to teach him about thinking about purchases beforehand and not squandering money.”

Yes, I know that it’s just a song, but the sentiment irks me. It is irresponsible and cutesy…which means it’s perfectly marketable for the masses, yes, I see that. I simply do not agree. Do not even get me started on “Santa, Baby.”

How Theatre People Recognize Aging (A one-act performance)

“Did you get the alumni newsletter?”

“I did, holy crap, they’re doing the same musical WE did in high school!”

[pause]

“We’re old.”

[fin]

My Greek tragedy: Less "lascivious," more "lactic"

Illicit sex, remorseless fratricide, and duplicitous dealings — they have no part in my personal Greek tragedy.  My scandal and its consequent shameful legacy, however, will indeed be great, and will occur at check stand 2 at Safeway.

I am a pawn desperately scrambling to avoid her fate, frustrated because I recognize what awaits me, yet I am powerless to escape my destiny.  I cannot stop what has already been set in motion, what the oracle has foretold.

The only back information needed to understand this tragedy is that the curse upon my house comes in the form of an unquenchable love of dairy products. I am a woman who consumes milk at an astounding rate of 2-3 gallons a week.  By myself.  Honest to goodness. I am also a woman who cares about the environment and is never without her canvas shopping bags.

For the most part supermarkets have adjusted well to earth-conscious customers bringing their own bags, but there seems to be a reigning belief that gallons of milk do not need to be placed in any device for transport whatsoever, and that loose milk should be handed to the customer in one hand, empty canvas bags in the other.  This practice has become all the more noticeable to me, because my frequent trips to the store often entail *solely* the purchase of fruit and milk, and so my unused canvas bags get passed back to me right next to those blasted gallons of milk — never the twain shall meet — at least once a week.

I am at a loss to explain why this one particular seemingly trivial practice provokes that rage accused murderers describe in their trials right before they receive a “temporarily insane” ruling.  Perhaps it’s the stupidity of a person who could overlook the fact that I’m standing here buying fruit and milk and holy crap maybe I knew that when I came into the store so maybe that’s why I brought the damn bags in the first place and maybe I want them all in there.  Perhaps it’s the sheer repetition of the insult. But I am a patient woman. I honestly am. Originally, when this affront would occur, I would pull my cart to the side (so as not to inconvenience the next customer) and put the milk in myself. Then I started doing it at the check stand. Now I ask the bagger to do it, but they seem put out when I do.

There is only one possible trajectory.  The oracle has prophesied it: I will get into a brawl with a supermarket bag boy.

It will start as an altercation - at first, confined to words - alas, if only it could remain at the level of words!  But the bagger will roll his eyes or let loose a “pfft!” at my request and my blood will boil and my veins will bulge, and I will let loose one of the quips I usually can contain in my mind…then all will go black.  What will ensue will be the stuff of battlefield legends.  Witnesses in the 15 items or fewer lane will tell of a woman who unleashed a barrage of (creative, grammatically correct) f-bomb derivatives that could make a trucker lower his eyes in shame.  The employee performing a wet clean-up in the pickle aisle will note the animalistic agility of the irate dairy-loving woman as she seemingly shot straight up into the air, cleared the grocery conveyor, lunged at the checker and his imbecilic penny-pinching cohort, and unleashed a fury of punches until she woke up on the cold cement floor of a jail cell. So they say.

I will be ejected from the store and asked never to return. The bag boy will lose a clump of hair on the left side of his head, and consciousness.  I will lose a tooth and what remained of my dignity.

It is only a matter of time.

p.s. -

Mom has yet to text. Dad has sent 3, each with poor (if any) punctuation and bizarre spacing (not because he’s using LOLspeak, but because he’s not sure where the periods are yet), and I have saved each one of those beautiful efforts, because he’s trying. My sweet dad.