A SORT OF HOMECOMING
Well, again it's been a while since I've written here, and once again I'm going to claim travel as an excuse. This time it was for pleasure, a great two-week jaunt to Ireland and France, vignettes from which I'll describe in more detail later.
First, I want to relate the wonderful homecoming we received upon our triumphant return (not the least of which was the in-depth, 10 o'clock news story about -- and this shocked and amazed us after being off the media grid for a fortnight -- the dangers of microwave ovens. Apparently they can get things, like water, "very, very hot," in the words of the reporter. That's the kind of pressure cooker, tell-it-like-it-is journalism you don't get in those wimpy European countries).
But as always, I digress. Returning to an empty house, we naturally had to make a trip to the Bizarro ----way down the street. Sally lost the paper-rock-scissors game, so she was treated to the following odd vignette while standing in line at the checkout late on Saturday night (as a rule, the only time when the clientele manages to outweird the store itself).
"Ow! Ouch!" the guy standing in line behind her suddenly said, flailing wildly for no apparent reason.
"Yikes," Sally replied. "Are you going to make it?"
"AAAH! SPASM!" came the reply.
Sniff... God bless America.
Thursday, July 12, 2001
XTREME JUNK MAIL
So when I get home from work, there's this strange box waiting from me, with the name of a certain Xtreme sport utility vehicle I may or may not drive (but don't worry, it's electric).
I'm not expecting anything in the mail like, say, another SUV, so I'm immediately suspicious. What could it possibly be? A random piece of car innard, with a note scotch taped to it reading, "Sorry, but Earl and me forgot to put this in your car at the plant in Smyrna. Just stick it between the solenoid and the chrome muffler ball bearings?"
No, it was worse. I open the box to find a decidedly extreme looking square of cloth, emblazoned with the logo of the electric, earth-friendly vehicle in question. Fortunately, there was a tag attached pointing out that it could be used as a bandana "in emergency situations." The helpful marketing survey that came with it then asked if I was a member of an owners club.
Yeah, I go to the local Y every Monday night and swap tales with my fellow rough-and-tumble club members about my xtreme commuting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Beltway. Sometimes I even exaggerate a bit when I tell the story about the time I almost put the truck in 4WD on an off-ramp during a light drizzle. And best of all, now I have something to wear when I bring the SUV into Jiffy Lube for its xtreme oil change.
Tuesday, July 10, 2001
OCD AT THE GROCERY
Okay, so it's been a while since I've shared any tales about the Bizarro ----way down the street. Believe it or not, since the not-so-massive construction project a while back, things seemed to improve. At least a little, and at least for a while. We even saw some young turk of a manager wandering around, apparently eager to earn his wings, or golden grocery cart, or whatever, by cleaning up the joint.
But, of course, it could only last so long. The produce has started looking questionable again of late. With the onset of hot weather, the air conditioning doesn’t seem to work (though it cuts on with a shriek that could wake the dead all the way back to East Baltimore). And the aforementioned young turk has since disappeared, idealistic dreams of a career in grocery management dashed like so many rotten cantaloupes prematurely ripened by the broken air conditioner.
Still, hope springs eternal, even in the face of such painful metaphors. Plus, I’ve noticed a few bright-eyed new employees that have yet to be crushed by the ----way machine. Of course, at least one of the new guys looks like he’ll fit into the whole milieu quite nicely.
You see, every time he finishes scanning up a customer's purchases, he produces a filthy paper towel from his little store-issue apron and gives the scanner a good wipedown--a really good wipedown. Then he stares at the dirty paper towel for a long, long moment, as though it contains the mysteries to life itself (or maybe it was his resume, to offer up another incredibly painful metaphor) before stuffing it back in his apron and devoting his full attention to the next customer.
Granted, sometimes those scanners need to be wiped down, especially after someone comes through with a leaky jug of milk or seven. But this guy does it every freaking time, even if the only thing the happy patron has is a box of Chiclets. Which happens a lot, since in the infinite wisdom of store management, he works the freaking express lane.
Just remember -- you can’t spell “grocery/deli” without OCD.
Okay, so it's been a while since I've shared any tales about the Bizarro ----way down the street. Believe it or not, since the not-so-massive construction project a while back, things seemed to improve. At least a little, and at least for a while. We even saw some young turk of a manager wandering around, apparently eager to earn his wings, or golden grocery cart, or whatever, by cleaning up the joint.
But, of course, it could only last so long. The produce has started looking questionable again of late. With the onset of hot weather, the air conditioning doesn’t seem to work (though it cuts on with a shriek that could wake the dead all the way back to East Baltimore). And the aforementioned young turk has since disappeared, idealistic dreams of a career in grocery management dashed like so many rotten cantaloupes prematurely ripened by the broken air conditioner.
Still, hope springs eternal, even in the face of such painful metaphors. Plus, I’ve noticed a few bright-eyed new employees that have yet to be crushed by the ----way machine. Of course, at least one of the new guys looks like he’ll fit into the whole milieu quite nicely.
You see, every time he finishes scanning up a customer's purchases, he produces a filthy paper towel from his little store-issue apron and gives the scanner a good wipedown--a really good wipedown. Then he stares at the dirty paper towel for a long, long moment, as though it contains the mysteries to life itself (or maybe it was his resume, to offer up another incredibly painful metaphor) before stuffing it back in his apron and devoting his full attention to the next customer.
Granted, sometimes those scanners need to be wiped down, especially after someone comes through with a leaky jug of milk or seven. But this guy does it every freaking time, even if the only thing the happy patron has is a box of Chiclets. Which happens a lot, since in the infinite wisdom of store management, he works the freaking express lane.
Just remember -- you can’t spell “grocery/deli” without OCD.
Thursday, July 05, 2001
OH, PLEASE.
I know the fact that I'm not this cartoon's biggest fan is well documented, but really:
Tell me he's not just phoning them in these days...
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