I Promise I Won't Punch You

Hello blog. Hello readers. [Echo...] What a lameass blogger I am! And I miss my blog. Funny, surreal, irritating, thought-provoking stuff is happening all the time (my neighbor alone provides enough material for a near-daily rant) that I want to report to you, my favorite four friends who come here to read my silly ramblings. And even more so recently, with the departure of my dear and funny friend Richy from my life - Richy, who listened to my rambling stories every day for the past few months, good man, and remembered them, and laughed even if they weren't all that funny and pretended to be interested even when they weren't all that interesting. So now I have nowhere to turn to ramble except for this little salty spot in the cyberuniverse. But despite working my ASS off here at the old jibby job, I can't seem to unbury myself from the constantly shifting (but never shrinking!) piles of work that surround me in my little cubicle of love, and STILL haven't gotten around to buying the wireless card to get the interweb at home. So the posts are few and far between these days, but bear with me - the future is WIIIIIDE open.



I don't even know what that means. Sorry. I heard a little Tom Petty on the classic-rock-radio in the copy room this morning and all day now I've been repeating lyrics in conversation as the songs roll through my brain. This is the danger of the copy room. You go in there to make one innocent copy and for three days you're singing Janie's Got a Gun without ever knowing what happened.



And then somehow you find that your life is so incredibly lame that you are taking a few minutes at work to write on your blog, and you're writing about work. Because you are trapped in a terrifying mirrored bubble where work looms omnipresent at all times, stretching into the vast horizon of your bleak, bleak future...



But that's depressing, huh?

What I really came here to write was the ONE interesting thing that happened to me this weekend. Yes, there was really only one noteworty moment in 48+ hours. Because Karan was on a kayak trip that nearly killed her and I don't have any other friends that I actually hang out with in this town. So this is a story about strangers. Go fucking figure.

Saturday I venture out to Lowe's for some paint for the kitchen, hinges for some doors, curtain brackets, etc. It was project weekend, because that's what I do when I have no life. This incredibly dorky, splotchy-faced, bright-eyed young fellow assisted me to the curtain bracket aisle and was really just overly sweet and helpful. When I go to checkout, his checkout line is the shortest, so I get in it. And promptly realize why no one was in that line, despite the two other open registers having lines spilling back into the power drill department. The man and woman in his line - she middle-aged and obese, he late-twenties and moderately attractive, both emanating an unmistakable white-trash aura, despite being clad and accessorized with all the trappings of middle-to-upper class American consumer culture. You know what I mean, yes? The hard-living types who have enough money to dress and purchase and live, superficially at least, like "the rest of us."

Ok, I officially feel like an asshole.

Except not that much, because THEY are the assholes of this story. Not quite mother-son, not quite romantic-duo, these two shared an intimacy, and apparently a fifth of whiskey or ten, that was PALPABLE in the checkout aisle at the home improvement warehouse. As I stand there assessing them, judging them, imagining the trajectories of their lives - for a good three to four minutes, mind you - I realize that all of their purchases have been rung and are in the bags, ready to go. All that remains is for them to PAY FOR THEM AND LEAVE. Which, I suspect due to the fact that they spent the morning, and perhaps the previous evening, drinking copious amounts of whiskey (the smell is the giveaway on this one), was exceedingly difficult for them to accomplish. She's rooting around in her purse for much too long looking for, I can only assume, her wallet. But no, she's actually looking for her phone.

The phone cannot pay for your PVC connectors honey. Get your fucking wallet out already.

This is what I want to say, but do not, because my mother raised me to be good and Catholic and demure and to hold all my rage inside and never ever ever ever let it out.

She pulls out the phone, opens it, looks through a few screens, says to her companion, "Did Tracy ever text you?" He shakes his head negatory. "That bitch needs to get on the horn already! I can't get anything done until she gets on the damn horn. GOD!" Then she starts to cackle. He's cackling. He's undoing and redoing his belt buckle for who the hell knows what reason. She pokes him in the arm, "Are you even listening to me? I don't even know why I ask, you never listen." They're both cracking up. Because apparently this is hilarious.

And the poor Lowe's guy just stands there, not having any idea what is going on or what, if anything, to do about it. He opts for my frequent favorite: the do-nothing-and-hope-things-don't-end-badly-option. He looks at me, I give a faint shrug and small smirk that says I feel for you buddy. And meanwhile the insanity rages on, unabated.

Suddenly, the lights come on.

"Hey, you better find your wallet in there so we can PAY for this stuff! Ha ha ha haaa!" He is not drunk enough that he cannot re-fasten his belt while doubled-over in laughter.

"Shit! I forgot what we were even doing! Haaaaa!!" She roots around in her purse.

And just when I think this little episode couldn't get any more entertaining - frankly I was not expecting much delight in my trip to Lowe's - the Universe, perhaps sensing my recent battle with a gripping personal malaise, offered up a little something to make my fucking day. And yes, I realize it may be a little sick that I take delight in these things, but I don't have a whole hell of a lot going on these days, so just give me this.

After another good minute of purse-rooting, she finds the wallet, and swipes the card. And swipes again. And swipes again. She is doing something wrong.

"Just swipe it one more time and if it doesn't go through I can type the number in," says geeky-sweet Lowe's guy. She goes to swipe. And the drunk guy PUNCHES the Lowe's guy! Right in the ribs that protect his fragile Lowe's-guy heart. And this was no sloppy-drunk-on-a-Saturday-morning little skin grazer. It was a full-on, BRUTAL hit that knocked Lowe's guy backwards at least a meter or more. I think it was probably meant to be playful (in the convoluted consciousness of drunk-man-on-a-Saturday-morning), but was executed with much more fervor than originally intended. If there ever was an original intention.

My mouth is hanging open, I'm sure. Lowe's guy's mouth is hanging open as he regains his posture and shakes it off. And drunk guy, pretty much immediately, says, "I'm sorry man. I don't even know why I did that! Ha!"

"Um-" Lowe's guy doesn't really know what to say. I mean, he's awkward enough to begin with, and shit like this just doesn't help.

"I have Tourette's."

"Oh-"

FUCK YOU!" Once again, executed with too much zeal, so now everyone in every aisle has whipped around to see. "Ha ha ha! No, not really man. I'm just kidding. Ha ha ha!"

At this point their transaction has been processed and Lowe's guy is handing them their bags of merch. Drunk Lady is laughing so hard she can't even really function, so Drunk Guy, who is still standing directly across the scanner from Lowe's guy, picks up the bags and yells, "FUCK YOU FUCKFACE!"

And as they walk toward the sliding doors, he turns back around to Lowe's Guy and says, "Gotcha!"

[Scene.]