The new year is upon us and a wind of 65 miles per hour is buffeting around the plastic Santa and Frosty figurines in my neighborhood and maybe that will inspire the welfare recipients to pack the cheesy things away. I don't need to work until 6 p.m. and this last month has been unrelenting obligation. I have not done any personal shopping since pre-Thanksgiving thanks to the 42 people who depend on me for Christmas gifts. Not that I particularly enjoy shopping but sometimes it is satisfying to wander around store aisles in a dreamlike state picking up nonessentials and charging them to my husband's credit card.
And I need bras again. I head toward The Minimizer counter, the brasserie that promises to skim off 1 3/4 inches off my overloaded chest and they only come in blah beige and Catholic girl white. They figure the women who want lesser cleavage can't be fun, oh those silly merchandisers.
Once the necessities are in my shopping bag I meander towards my favorite department, bathroom supplies. I am victim to a handful of genetically induced bowel syndromes and I spend a significant amount of time in that afore mentioned room so the decorations are important. I purr and caress shower curtains sporting teal hummingbirds and giant magenta peonies. There are matching soap dishes and my head is spinning with the possibilities.
Enough of this addiction and I head to the movie theatre. I am on a first name basis with the staff at said establishment and they know my order at the popcorn counter before I ask. Today's feature is The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and the redneck in front of me says to his buddy, I hope there are some good sex scenes, hee-uh, hee-uh. Outta my way, donkey boy. I head to the opposite side of the theatre to avoid this Neanderthal and yes, there are such scenes if you appreciate rape and sodomy and that's what happens to the adult male child molester in this film. I hope that redneck in the stained hunting cap is cringing under his seat when the debasement happens. I read the book and it's a clever detective story where good more than conquers evil, it squelches the living bleeding shit out of it.
I have been nursing a cold all week and my supper is a steaming bowl of ramen noodles nestled against my congested chest. Everybody goes through a ramen noodle stage. I just never got past mine.
And I need bras again. I head toward The Minimizer counter, the brasserie that promises to skim off 1 3/4 inches off my overloaded chest and they only come in blah beige and Catholic girl white. They figure the women who want lesser cleavage can't be fun, oh those silly merchandisers.
Once the necessities are in my shopping bag I meander towards my favorite department, bathroom supplies. I am victim to a handful of genetically induced bowel syndromes and I spend a significant amount of time in that afore mentioned room so the decorations are important. I purr and caress shower curtains sporting teal hummingbirds and giant magenta peonies. There are matching soap dishes and my head is spinning with the possibilities.
Enough of this addiction and I head to the movie theatre. I am on a first name basis with the staff at said establishment and they know my order at the popcorn counter before I ask. Today's feature is The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and the redneck in front of me says to his buddy, I hope there are some good sex scenes, hee-uh, hee-uh. Outta my way, donkey boy. I head to the opposite side of the theatre to avoid this Neanderthal and yes, there are such scenes if you appreciate rape and sodomy and that's what happens to the adult male child molester in this film. I hope that redneck in the stained hunting cap is cringing under his seat when the debasement happens. I read the book and it's a clever detective story where good more than conquers evil, it squelches the living bleeding shit out of it.
I have been nursing a cold all week and my supper is a steaming bowl of ramen noodles nestled against my congested chest. Everybody goes through a ramen noodle stage. I just never got past mine.
2 comments:
During my last trek to the mall I walked thru JC Penny and spied the saleswoman, the one who looks like she must have been transported from the fifties, who must supply you with your bras. A measuring tape adorned her neck along with glasses on a chain. She was solemnly scrutinizing her merchandise. I thought of the post you wrote awhile back regarding your four hour bra buying experience and rapidly pulled a fast 360 before she could grab me and push me into then nearest dressing room, measuring tape and all.
I purchase underwear from Kohl's these days. Penney's has totally demoralized me and then the fact that ex-husband was employed there.
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