Hail Mary, full of gravy...
Some quick confessions:
:: In the grocery store parking lot, I addressed the cart-wrangler as "sweetie" when she offered to take my empty cart for me. "Thanks, sweetie," I said. I can't quite put my finger on the kind of person that uses such terminology in everyday situations, but the nuances are insincere. Dense, even.
I've noticed that people here refer to grocery carts as "wagons." I've heard them called "buggies" at best, but never wagons. And I was once a wrangler myself, at Kroger. What a strenuous job that was. At all hours of the night, I was responsible for roaming the dark parking lot in Antioch looking for renegade carts. Wagons, if you will.
:: I've been flossing. I find it slightly soothes the part of me that would be happy to spend hours each night in front of the mirror, picking the daylights out of my skin. I floss and hope for chunks of decaying food to appear on the waxy string. Apparently, I've got leftover teenage angst. Or maybe it's just the beginning of a surplus of adult angst, which will eventually give way to geriatric angst. Or maybe I was a bumblebee in my former life.
:: Maevis is rubbing her wet nose on my heel right now and I like it. When she stops, I'll feel sad.
Thanks for stopping by.
:: In the grocery store parking lot, I addressed the cart-wrangler as "sweetie" when she offered to take my empty cart for me. "Thanks, sweetie," I said. I can't quite put my finger on the kind of person that uses such terminology in everyday situations, but the nuances are insincere. Dense, even.
I've noticed that people here refer to grocery carts as "wagons." I've heard them called "buggies" at best, but never wagons. And I was once a wrangler myself, at Kroger. What a strenuous job that was. At all hours of the night, I was responsible for roaming the dark parking lot in Antioch looking for renegade carts. Wagons, if you will.
:: I've been flossing. I find it slightly soothes the part of me that would be happy to spend hours each night in front of the mirror, picking the daylights out of my skin. I floss and hope for chunks of decaying food to appear on the waxy string. Apparently, I've got leftover teenage angst. Or maybe it's just the beginning of a surplus of adult angst, which will eventually give way to geriatric angst. Or maybe I was a bumblebee in my former life.
:: Maevis is rubbing her wet nose on my heel right now and I like it. When she stops, I'll feel sad.
Thanks for stopping by.
3 Comments:
Wagons? Those yanks are nutty.
Flossing quells the need to pick pores, you say? Then floss I must. Because I'm thinking hypnosis is the only other way to stop this behavior. It's madness. When I was 14 I could get away with it because my skin was resilient and invinceable. Now, it fights back using a little weapon we call ugly.
I called someone "hon" once. It felt dirty.
I floss whenever I'm stuck in traffic. I feel it soothes my nerve-raddled mind. Plus, I get a kick out of seeing the loose particles fall from my crevices.
I've recently gotten back into flossing. It's nice. I feel like a better person because of it.
Post a Comment
<< Home