First of all... I regret to say that I went yesterday to Superstore, and I completely forgot about my plan to end world hunger one can of soup at a time. I remembered when I walked out the door and saw the Food Bank donation box. At first I was really upset. But I thought, that's OK. The seed has been planted. And in some ways, the seed is better than the tree.
Whatever that means.
Ok. Next time. For sure. For shizzle, and you know I'm serious when I break out the shizzle.
Second of all, I tried the Maple Brown Syrup oatmeal. Not very good.
So- sping has sprung. Finally. And we made our annual trek to the local Wal Mart in search of rubber boots. I waited patiently in line. And it happens to me every time. I get stuck either behind or in front of beside some kind of borderline neurotic person who may or not be on medications that they may or may not have forgotten to take.
The guy behind me was thirties, tall and lean. A slightly disheveled appearance. Eyes that seemed skittish, darting furtively around. Hyped up on coffee? Or something worse?? I couldn't be sure. And did he talk. On and on and on.... I heard it all. Troubles with his ex (possible stalker), his busy work shedule (trucker), his battle with the bottle (sober now two weeks), the loss of his lifelong friend and pal, Petey (budgie) who lived a very full life which was apparently, only one year shy of a Guiness World Record for Oldest Budgie, to which I wince and groan and reply "aw, shoot." Because what can I say? What can I do.
This is stuff that you can't even make up.
I have a long history of meetings with whack jobs. Here are some snippets of conversations I've been party to, usually unwillingly:
"See these callouses?? Know where I got them all? Working out. In prison." From the gentleman I was sitting next to on the bus one day.
"They had rocky road fudge at the Ex last summer. Did you ever try out?" From the grocery bagger at Safeway.
"I told my doctor that I thought I might be getting hemorrhoids, so she looked and she said "girl you're way past getting them and into "gottem"" From a woman at dance lessons.
"I had my first babysitting job... oh, God...nineteen...fifty one? Or fifty two?? Back then they didn't have none of the fancy stuff. Cloth diapers and I walked around with diaper pins stuck all up in my hair, because of the static electricity." From and elderly man at the library. Don't ask me about the pins and the electricity. I don't understand.
"My daughter has a baby about that age. Cute, but Indian. It's a foster kid. My daughter doesn't mind, though. Well, she can't have babies of her own, I guess, so she wanted to get foster kids. Well, she thought she could some older ones, but that's all they give her for now, these babies, Indian babies." (from a lady in the laundry soap aisle at Wal Mart)
And even though this doesn't constitute a conversation, I always remember the time at work when a coworker of mine brought a hot dog for lunch. She had it all wrapped up in tin foil, and then she unpeeled it and dipped it in mustard and ketchup that she had in little tupperware containers.
That was just plain weird.
What my face must have looked like as I watched her eat that. Even now when I think about it I screw up my face.
She used to end conversations with "I'm a big believer in the whole thing with Mohommed and the mountain." I would nod along, though of course, what do I know about Mohommed and the mountain?
Anyways, that is all for now. I must be going.