I'm Amused

It has just occurred to me how funny it is that there is such a thing as the Penthouse fantasy forum, but no such thing as a reality forum.

Perhaps if men spent less time honing their writing skills and more honing their social skills, they would be too busy to fantasize.

Just a thought...

Not So Super Market

I, for one, greatly welcomed the advent of self-service checkouts in supermarkets. While I vividly remember being a hormonally motivated 16 your old myself, it was often annoying, to say the least, to wait for the bagger and the checker to tear themselves away from each other long enough to ring up and pack my stuff. With a couple exceptions, it has really speeded up my egress from the grocery procurement showroom. Further, I prefer to suffer my irrational anxiety regarding those card reader machines alone. I never get the card in correctly, and all the beeping makes me feel like a failure.

Many moons ago, before I discovered the joys of the debit card, I always used to pay with a check and write the draft for a larger amount so I could get change back. During one inauspicious trip to "Go & Buy" I did my usual, and waited for the young lady responsible for helping check writing hellions such as myself. She informed that she had no change to give me, and would be right back. I said, "oh never mind, just void it, and I will go through a regular line." She insisted she would be right back with change. Fifteen minutes later, I had grown incredibly lonely, my boyfriend’s ice cream was melting and his date was being to seethe. I just wanted this nightmare to end so I could go home and watch Die Hard for the billionth time with Mr. Chunky Monkey. So I dumped all my stuff out of the bags, left my register slip on the "self check" cashier’s stand to be voided, and went to a line with a cashier.

All went well, the checker and bagger appeared to be two heterosexual females who did not really like each other. They actually talked to me and did their jobs. Hot shit! Just as I finished collecting my change, so as to rent Die Hard, Miss I’ll Be Right Back appears. She insists I have stolen the items for which I just paid. I explain I left the slip for her to void, and that I have just paid for the items in full, which the two young ladies, and the people behind me in line, verify. Now what really fried my ass was the fact that Miss I’ll Be Right Back stood at the end of the check out lane in front to of my cart so I could not move. Very not cool. I told her she needed to get out of the way. After the terrified young ladies at the register called the manager, who never came, again, and the people in line all told the girl she was nuts, she still insisted I was going nowhere. Apparently she did not understand you can not hold people against their will, harass them, or otherwise impede their progress just because you are having a bad day at work. She would not move, until I gave her the death glare while simultaneously giving her the absolutely unmistakable instruction, in my most malevolent voice, MOVE. People, I’m a lover, not a fighter, but don’t fuck with me.

It occurred to me she was a very young person, and probably had no idea how bad she had just fucked up. She could not possibly have meant to hold me hostage or otherwise unwisely restrain me. She also could not possibly recognize how lucky she was that she was not at the moment having a shopping cart surgically removed from her ass. I went to the service desk and asked for a manager. One finally came. No wonder Miss I’ll Be Right Back took so long to come back with change, the lunatics were running the asylum. Mr. Absentee Management was very startled by our conversation. Not just that I did not want any coupons, or anything, or that I was not wanting to file a formal complaint, or call the police, but by what I said. I told him, "Thank you for finally responding to your page. I wanted to speak to you about an incident with one of your cashiers." I continued; "I do not want you to yell at her, nor do I want you to fire her. I want you to teach her how to do it right." I then explained I truly understand all the demands of the job, not to mention having no one to help you when you need it, by giving you the things you need to do your job. (Dig dig at the Absentee Manger who left all these little girls alone without supervision, direction, or the sanctuary or an authority figure.) Finally I pointed out that the young lady was very lucky I am not a crazy person. She could have been very badly hurt by a person who was less able to calmly deal with being restrained. The store needed to train its personnel not to jeopardize their personal safety for a few fucking groceries. I actually think he got it.

Ever since then I have had over all good experiences at the self check out. And I have actually had a lot of fun teaching numerous hotties how to maneuver the items so the temperamental scanners recognize them. One thing really gets on my last nerve though. I use the "Self Serve" line because I want to do it myself. I want to go as fast or as slow as I please. I do not want to discuss my payment method or my cash back amount with anyone. Most importantly, I do not want anybody touching MY stuff. I know where I am going with the stuff I buy, and I want to pack it in the way most efficient for me to mete it out. I know whose house I have to stop at first, not to mention, what I store together and where in my own house. And, last but not least, some people are gross. Don’t be sneezing on your hand, and rubbing your boogers, and then touching my fucking croissant. You dumb fuck, this is America! We have tissues! Back off! I am serving myself. If I want help, I will ask for it. And, by the way, where the fuck are you when I do want help? You’re up my ass smooshing my bread and asking me what I do with avocados. (Totally loved the guy behind me who nearly passed out trying not to laugh when I told you it was sex thing.) Please, when I am in the supermarket self serve line, leave me alone, and don’t touch my freaking stuff, dammit.

Spiritual Sucker Punch

As I’ve said previously, I have a lot of issues with religion in general, and mine in particular. Having been raised CATH-O-LIC, suffering issues is pretty much par for the course.

Nonetheless, I like to go to church, even though I do not go to communion, or say that I believe in "one holy Catholic and apostolic church" and often have a sinking feeling I am the only asshole actually really listening to the readings and gospel. Even if I consider them Judeo Christian mythology, I think the sentiments communicated are worth hearing.

I thought some of my issues had maybe to do with the parish. It was the parish I have gone to most of my life. I decided to leave, which was hard to do. Then I had to decide what to do next. I went to another one of the local parish churches with one of my friends on Palm Sunday, but had not been since. I did not feel right going for Easter, to a new place, and then felt backpedaling on my decision to change parishes.

Yesterday, I woke up, at a freakishly early hour for a Sunday, especially since I had my latest night in ages the night before, and got up, and scrubbed and dressed and went to church at the new parish. I had not consciously recalled it was Pentecost. In retrospect I feel it was a convergence of serendipity that I decided to get up and go to mass yesterday. I like the new to me church. It seems friendlier. I was really surprised by my feelings yesterday during the prayers of petition. Essentially, Prayers of Petition are when a reader, or sometimes the Deacon, or, like yesterday, the Priest, reads off stuff to pray for, and the people respond "Lord, hear our prayer" or a reasonable facsimile. So, its a lot of stuff about prayers for the community, and the world, and pray for our soldiers blah, blah, blah, every week. I am sure in every religious service, regardless of the denomination, prayers are offered for the military.

During petitions yesterday, the priest said, "Let us all pause to pray and reflect, and give thanks to those who are, and have served, in the military." "Lord, hear our prayer." "Let us especially pray for those in our parish who have given their lives for us." Ok, that is when many people, including me, stopped breathing. Then, the priest read the full name of every parishioner who has died in Iraq. Not many names, but also far too many. Every syllable was like a punch in the stomach. I could not breathe. I felt winded. I started to cry, soundless, unstoppable tears. All war is horrible, and dirty, and mean, and disgusting, and a lot of actual human annihilation takes place. It ain’t pretty, or neat, or cut and dried, ever. This war has done so much damage to us all. I just pray some workable way to extricate ourselves from this current debacle will come to light.

LORD, PLEASE, HEAR OUR PRAYER.

Today Sucks

Mostly, I love my Mom and Dad, and they died about three years ago, and that sucks, but I am a grown up, and shit happens and in the scheme of things, when it comes to the death of a loved one, the fact your parents will die is a pretty safe bet in life. Sometimes I remember things about them that infuriated me about them. Sometimes I remember things that I loved about them. When I catch myself making a gesture, or using an expression I picked up from them, I smile.

For the past few days I have been mad at my Mom. It did not occur to me until very late last night that I was just trying to convince myself that I did not miss her and Mother’s Day is no big deal. I am full of shit. I miss my Mom sometimes, so palpably and so terribly that I need to catch my breath. I have been exhausted today. Today I had planned to get up early, and go to church for 7AM mass, and then go to the cemetery. Well, I was up early, but it took me until almost 10 o’clock to actually manage to take a shower and dress myself, and go outside. At the cemetery I was aware that there were a lot of other people there in a similar state.

My Mom died the day after we buried my Dad. I was surprised my Dad died as soon as he did, and more surprised that my Mom survived so long. Dorky and insane as it sounds I believe that she decided it was finally ok to die after she buried my Dad. I, and several close people in my life, am absolutely convinced that my Dad "hung around," for lack of a better way to say it, and waited for her. We all believed we felt him there. After my Mom died, a lot of us believed our parents "stopped by" to visit us and check on us for awhile. Many of us had the exact same dream about my parents, laughing and smiling and happy and dancing. Until all this happened, I was sure people who "believed" such crap were at worst nut cases and at best deeply grieving people who had profound and vivid memories of loved ones. It is one of the sweetest things I believe about my parents, that even when they died, they stuck together.

I was upset and overwhelmed when my Dad died, due in large part to the fact that I had no idea how I was going to take care of my Mom without him to help me. I was terrified I would forget how to work the oxygen tank, or that I might actually kill one of my sisters without him to tell me to get over myself and them to get the fuck out of my way. When my Mom died, we decided to do things a little differently than when my Dad died because church freaking killed us, to watch the coffin go down the funeral home stairs and up and down the church stairs was vile. Church mass did nothing to comfort anyone. So, when my Mom died we had calling hours for people to come visit with her. Another thing, by the way, I thought was pretty fucked up until my parents died, now I get it.

After her wake, my Mom was cremated and we had a memorial service. It was nice. Lots of my Mom’s friends were able to come. I was so upset because I had not been able to write out something to say about my Mom. I had so much I wanted to say, and I could not organize my thoughts or breathe or think. I had made a list of things I wanted to talk about. I still have the list. I do not remember what I said at all. I remember crying, and feeling like I was going to pass out, and looking up at the people there, and noticing they looked like they thought I was going to pass out too. I have no idea what I said. My friends and my sister tell me it made sense and I was very well-spoken, but I think they are just being nice. And, really, what kind of asshole would tell you if you fucked up your Mother's eulogy? But I feel very guilty about it. My Mommy was very special and very smart, and all kinds of other wonderful things, and I just feel awful that I still cannot figure out how to communicate all that to anybody.

Mission Critical

I have a personal problem. I’m a picky bitch. No, that is not the problem, not for me anyway. See; I’m what I call a put up or shut up kinda person. I know what I like, I know what I want, and I do not generally settle for anything other than what I want.

There are a lot of things that I prefer. I am quite ding dang opinionated about what I want, and why I want it. I buy the local skim milk in the recycled paper cartons for lots of reasons. I only like skim milk, and screw you if you think it is disgusting blue water you uncultured fucks. It supports the local economy as well as actual people and cows I have met. It is good for the environment. The containers are better than plastic because they block light and therefor retain the nutritional benefits of the milk. I think Han Solo is way hotter than Luke Skywalker and will forever harbor a grudge against anyone who disagrees. I like paper AND plastic, and I do not feel this is in contradiction to my concerns about the environment, and will gladly tell any tree hugging hippie mother fucker to suck it if they try to convince me to give up this habit. As a rule I would rather stay home and watch reruns of shows I like than go on a date just because somebody asked me. I love the following programs. Law and Order in all its incarnations. The West Wing. X-Files. My new obsession Angel. By the way, I am so bummed, I watched some stuff I recorded in the thick of tax season, and Wesley dies in the end! Oh, my poor broken heart. Rest in peace Wesley, you genius studmuffin British prude. Any James Bond movie. Any Discovery channel documentary, especially about elephants, I love elephants. Jimmy Hendrix, Eric Clapton and Carlos Santana are good guitar players and I will listen to their music until I die. Most of the alleged music that is coming out these days is over engineered, appeal to the lowest common dominator, more representative of marketing aptitude than musical talent, unmitigated crap.

Speaking of crap, as it were, I also like only one kind of toilet paper. It is the Kirkland brand embossed bath tissue sold at Costco warehouse stores. This is where my personal problem comes in. You see, I have three rolls left, and am no longer able to finagle a free business customer membership, and as much as I love the toilet paper, I refuse to pay for warehouse club membership just so I can have it. So I am picky and cheap. Or, as I prefer, discerning and prudent. Now I do have some options, I could suck up to any one of a number of friends to take me to Costco as their guest so I can procure the object of my desire. However, since I have thus far maintained I have no bodily functions, the potential ridicule is too much for me to bear. I could just go buy some other kind. But that is heresy. I cannot abandon my blessed favorite. I looked all my life for the toilet tissue of my dreams. It is of a texture that is comfortable. It does not scratch my delicate lady parts, nor does it disintegrate into useless lint half way through the job at hand. Further, it is excellent for many uses such as the blending of eye liner, the only make up I regularly wear, and the blotting of my allergy eye drops before I apply the liner. I use it to clean up Mon Petite Amour and Girly Kitty when they themselves have a potty problem. It is excellent for wiping off the sink after I get too happy with the splashing of water on my face. Not to mention being an excellent stand in for tissues when I am all stuffy and sick and run out of tissues in the middle of the night and do not want to go out in the DARK, ALONE, to go to the 24 hour store to get more tissues. I am at a loss, I do not know what to do, except seriously cut back my fluid intake, until I am able to find a solution to this problem.

Perspective

The world is a very different place in a lot of ways from when I was growing up. Some things are still the same too. For families like mine there are more resources to deal with the overwhelming problems. It is, to a certain extent, socially acceptable to ask for help now. And, there is a lot more help to get. It seems to me, particularly with the advent of the Internet as a daily presence in many people’s lives all over the world that our world has gotten simultaneously smaller and bigger. We able to learn how similar we are to people who are radically different. Sometimes a stranger on the Internet can provide better advice, greater comfort, or a more effective kick in the ass than people who have known and loved you all your life.

Silence is Acquiescence

I am really terrified of how things are going in the world, and feel very helpless and at a loss as to what I can possibly do to make a difference. Please pray for our country, and our world. Please do whatever else you can to make the world a better place, we need all the help we can get, both tangible and intangible.