Thursday, June 23, 2005
Yellow Mustard Girl vs. Drunk Old Men
Picture this scene:
Me, sleep deprived and grumpy, standing in the Express line at Ralph's, sucking down a small half-caf iced coffee, trying not to pass out and face plant into the stand of trashy magazines.
In front of me, a scruffy looking old guy clutches his 18 pack of Budweiser. Its 10AM.
Behind me, a scruffy looking old guy puts a Star magazine and a bottle of Captain Morgans on the conveyor belt. Again, its 10 AM.
Whatever. Drunk old men can do whatever they please. Just move along so I can pay for my cottage cheese and gum and go home. But no. It can never be that simple. Because for some reason, I emit a scent...a smell, a pheromone, an aroma if you will, that attracts every weird, perverted crotchety old man within a 10 mile radius. They hobble over to me, velcro shoes scuffling along, Skor canister bulging from their front pocket. They stick their stubbly, wrinkled faces about 2 inches from mine and let loose a mumbley string of sentences. Sometimes they're trying to give me advice. Sometimes, they're making a lewd joke. Sometimes, their meds are acting up and they think I'm actually a giant talking corn dog, and they begin nibbling on my arm (which luckily causes no pain since they're using their drool covered gums).
So of course, I should have expected that Mr. Budweiser would say something to me. I watch it happen in slow motion. The creaking of his enormous bald head, as he slowly turns towards me. The smell of stale bacon on his breath wafts from his mouth. I frantically try to look engrossed in the display of miniature toiletries at the checkout..."Oh look! A tiny bottle of Static Guard!! I SOO need one of these!!"
But it’s too late. We lock eyes. I'm pulled into his Old Man tractor beam. I fake a pleasant smile.
He leers at me for a long second, and then pokes my container of low-fat cottage cheese.
"You know, the real stuff tastes so much better."
And then he laughs for a good minute. Because the ridiculous VALIDITY of this statement is almost too much to bear. I cough out a polite, "Haaa."
Thanks so much mister. All this time I thought low-fat cottage cheese was the TASTIEST of the dairy curd products. But I'm only a foolish girl. I've been too shy...too sheltered to wonder if there was a world beyond lower-fat dairy products. But now I know. Thanks to you. Please, regale me with your wise stories of how full-fat cottage cheese saved your life during World War II.
Before the man has a chance to say anything else, the cashier informs him that his Budweiser is not $8.99, as he had thought. He is heartbroken, and wanders off to find something cheaper. The cashier begins to ring me up. I'm so close to freedom...the lady asks me if I have a Club card. Oh no!! I don't!! What am I going to do?? In my panic, I turn to the other old man next to me. Damn!!! Eye contact again!! I cringe as he leans towards me...my hand clutches the tub of cottage cheese, ready to bonk him on the head if he opens his mouth...
Instead, he places his Ralph's club card on the check out counter. The lady swipes it, and I get $2.oo off my total. Maybe the man was too drunk to actually speak. Maybe he was a mute. Maybe he was having a seizure and accidentally tossed the club card at me. It doesn't matter.
Today, I realized...not all old men are smelly, strange, semi-perverted purveyors of useless observations. Some...just some...are smelly strange semi-perverted Ralphs club card carrying purveyors of useless observations.
And I thank God for that.
Me, sleep deprived and grumpy, standing in the Express line at Ralph's, sucking down a small half-caf iced coffee, trying not to pass out and face plant into the stand of trashy magazines.
In front of me, a scruffy looking old guy clutches his 18 pack of Budweiser. Its 10AM.
Behind me, a scruffy looking old guy puts a Star magazine and a bottle of Captain Morgans on the conveyor belt. Again, its 10 AM.
Whatever. Drunk old men can do whatever they please. Just move along so I can pay for my cottage cheese and gum and go home. But no. It can never be that simple. Because for some reason, I emit a scent...a smell, a pheromone, an aroma if you will, that attracts every weird, perverted crotchety old man within a 10 mile radius. They hobble over to me, velcro shoes scuffling along, Skor canister bulging from their front pocket. They stick their stubbly, wrinkled faces about 2 inches from mine and let loose a mumbley string of sentences. Sometimes they're trying to give me advice. Sometimes, they're making a lewd joke. Sometimes, their meds are acting up and they think I'm actually a giant talking corn dog, and they begin nibbling on my arm (which luckily causes no pain since they're using their drool covered gums).
So of course, I should have expected that Mr. Budweiser would say something to me. I watch it happen in slow motion. The creaking of his enormous bald head, as he slowly turns towards me. The smell of stale bacon on his breath wafts from his mouth. I frantically try to look engrossed in the display of miniature toiletries at the checkout..."Oh look! A tiny bottle of Static Guard!! I SOO need one of these!!"
But it’s too late. We lock eyes. I'm pulled into his Old Man tractor beam. I fake a pleasant smile.
He leers at me for a long second, and then pokes my container of low-fat cottage cheese.
"You know, the real stuff tastes so much better."
And then he laughs for a good minute. Because the ridiculous VALIDITY of this statement is almost too much to bear. I cough out a polite, "Haaa."
Thanks so much mister. All this time I thought low-fat cottage cheese was the TASTIEST of the dairy curd products. But I'm only a foolish girl. I've been too shy...too sheltered to wonder if there was a world beyond lower-fat dairy products. But now I know. Thanks to you. Please, regale me with your wise stories of how full-fat cottage cheese saved your life during World War II.
Before the man has a chance to say anything else, the cashier informs him that his Budweiser is not $8.99, as he had thought. He is heartbroken, and wanders off to find something cheaper. The cashier begins to ring me up. I'm so close to freedom...the lady asks me if I have a Club card. Oh no!! I don't!! What am I going to do?? In my panic, I turn to the other old man next to me. Damn!!! Eye contact again!! I cringe as he leans towards me...my hand clutches the tub of cottage cheese, ready to bonk him on the head if he opens his mouth...
Instead, he places his Ralph's club card on the check out counter. The lady swipes it, and I get $2.oo off my total. Maybe the man was too drunk to actually speak. Maybe he was a mute. Maybe he was having a seizure and accidentally tossed the club card at me. It doesn't matter.
Today, I realized...not all old men are smelly, strange, semi-perverted purveyors of useless observations. Some...just some...are smelly strange semi-perverted Ralphs club card carrying purveyors of useless observations.
And I thank God for that.
# posted by yellow_mustard_girl : 4:05 PM
