Tap that French Baguette

You see it in a quite a lot of movies. "Top Gun" comes to mind. There's a shot where Goose taps the gas gauge in a futile attempt to will the indicator to show there's more fuel (maybe it was Merlin). Occasionally, I'll notice that in movies. I don't know why I see that kind of stuff, but somehow I can pick up on it when it occurs. I suppose it's a device used by the director to emphasize just how dire the straits are for our heroes.

What I DON'T comprehend is the seemingly ubiquitous appearance of the French baguette in movies. You might not have noticed it before, but it's there. The pretty young woman on an adventure in a cobblestoned village, riding her bicycle, a French baguette resting comfortably in her basket. Why?

I've got it in my head to make a note of every movie I see the woefully uncredited French baguette appear in.

By the way, bonus points if there are carrots accompanying the baguette, with the green tops still attached, or whatever it is that's green and leafy. Both in a paper bag? Hat trick. Join in if you wish. Maybe we could turn it into the American Film Institute...AFI's Top 100 French Baguette movies. I'll start:

Blade: Trinity - Jessica Biel plays a vampire hunter undercover as a frumpy lady with a baby strapped to her chest. Nestled in her right arm? Hat trick.

**Dateline: 10/5/12 - Breakfast at Tiffany's. One in bag and later two in bag. Sweet.

Eat My Ennui

From an email to Trish:

Tuesday was the first Composition class and the instructor told us then that we'll need a composition journal (specifically) and a pen in a color ink other than black or blue, because we will be correcting each other's papers on occasion (I'm think I'm gonna get beat up after class when that time comes). Not only did she speak that out loud, but it's clearly written on our syllabus.

Today (Thursday) I was early because it's been snowing all night and I didn't want the Comp Professor to give me the hairy eyeball, so I got to school about 20 minutes early. She was not in the room, but popped in at one point before class, talking on her cell, and wrote on the board, "I will be 10 minutes late," and then left again. One young lady walks in with a weary sigh, starts unpacking her stuff and sits down. I'm quietly engaged in The Man in the Iron Mask on my iPhone (Stanza app....free books!) (that's where the sesquipedalian quote came from that I sent you earlier, but you probably knew that). She blurts out, "What time does this class start, anyway?" Mind you, this is the second class we've had, she has a schedule of her classes, AND it's on a PRINTED SHEET ON THE WALL OUTSIDE THE CLASSROOM. I answer without looking up "10:25" and she goes back to the sighing. I go back to the reading.

An acquaintance of hers enters the room and sits next to her. They are chatting and now I can't read this smarmily written book so I just start screwing around with the other apps on my phone. They go into great length about the instructor's request for a different color ink pen.

"I don't know why the woman wants different color inks. You'd think blue or black would be easier to read than these other colors."

"My mom's friend is an English teacher and she gets the composition journal but she didn't get the different color ink, either."

"I told my aunt, 'My Composition teacher is mean, and she wants us to call her Professor or Doctor.'"

"I think I might transfer out of this school to UWEC. They don't even start till the 18th and they get, like, a week off in a month and, like, another week off for Spring Break."

I myself don't quite understand why recent high school graduates are here. Globe is TWICE the cost per credit hour that UWEC is. I would think the only people I'd see here, which is pretty much a business school (with commercials...does this mean I'm in a cheesy school and no one will hire me with a degree from "Acme U"?), is people like me who are already in the workforce and need a faster and, therefore, more aggressive pace to get BACK into the workforce. Globe is 12 weeks on, 1 week off, through the entire year, so technically you could get a Bachelor's degree in three years at the most.

I'm a dick. I get that. But you can imagine how hard it was for me to keep my mouth shut. I didn't even want to explain to them the reason for the different color ink. AGAIN. It's like I'm into mental S&M. I'm LOVING just listening to the dumb, but TORTURED by not wanting to correct them, because I TOTALLY do. It's intoxicating, I tell you. But I'm keeping my mouth shut. I have this unreasonable, if not snotty, fear that I'm going to be found out as the "smart kid" in class and then everyone's gonna be making me cut open their GD frog, copy my notes, do their homework and then hang me by my drawers from a coat hook. All for my mad skillz, yo. Screw that. I'm here to get in, get an edumacation, and get out. With the exception of one guy in two of my classes, who, incidentally, sounds like Larry the Cable Guy (but is smarter and funnier than he lets on), I have NO faith in finding any other students in there I find intellectually stimulating or amusing enough to befriend. The Introduction to Software Development class though, shows promise. That's like hanging out in a garage with a bunch of dudes...if it was a computer room filled with stereotype geeks...good time. One of the conversations was between the instructor and a couple of students about one student's dog and peanut butter.

* * *

So the Composition Professor eventually arrives. She is apologizing profusely for the delay because, "I have cancer. I'm currently receiving chemo and radiation treatments and I was late because I needed to schedule surgery for next week." I look over at those two girls for the first time and now they're looking at me like they got caught. Sure I told you she sounded tough, but she's also looking for some measure of quality out of her students and it seems like I'm the only one in there who gets that. So far, she's the only instructor like that. Unfortunately, she also, like most of the instructors in there, has to cater to the weakest link. I actually kinda like her. She's an actual instructor. She has integrity, standards, expectations. I can respect that.

In my poor opinion, post-secondary education should only be something that people attend when they WANT to be there, not HAVE to. I think it makes a huge difference. Granted, lots of people want to be in college right after they graduate high school, but I figured it was because they wanted to escape their parents and behave badly. I realize that could be a generalization on my part...

Anyway, the Professor passes around the attendance sheet for us to sign. I'm the second-to-last person to sign the sheet and it has about 6 or 7 signatures in orange, green, pink... The Prof gets her sheet back and says, sincerely surprised, "Oh! Look at all the different colors! That's pretty!"

This college thing is gonna be SO fun mentally. Just not Algebra. :)

Buck Up Little Camper! We'll Tackle That Slope Together!

I, along with the one other employee at our print shop, was let go from a job that I enjoyed and a place that I loved to work on December 8. On December 9, I was in the admissions office of a local business school on my way to digging in for a bachelor's degree. Between that time and now, I've been forced out of my childlike, "fun" world and into the grown up world. And hey, it BLOWS out here.

So, in trying to find a part-time job, applying for student loans ("I just signed my financial life away and all I got was a lousy t-shirt" ....seriously, I got a t-shirt), ordering textbooks from all over the planet just to save myself 300 bucks down the road, and generally panicking about how to keep myself in the lifestyle to which I've become accustomed (oh iPhone, I heart you so, you expensive fucker), I'm finding it difficult to have a sense of humor about anything, really.

So as I sit here on the eve of my first class (algebra...I might as well get the crap I hate out of the way first), I am filling out an income adjustment form to apply for a Pell grant. I get to the second page that states, "Write a personal statement describing the circumstances leading to this request." There are sixteen blank lines and they encourage you to attach additional pages "as necessary."

I am imagining myself writing down all manner of tragedy...my dog took acid and hijacked a school bus full of penguins, to steal an example. Then something dark and evil crosses my mind. I put pen to paper and write, "I. Was. Laid. Off."

Nope. Still no sense of humor. However, the dark, sharp sarcasm seems to have stood the test of time. Honestly, I should think the last paycheck I received, dated the first week of December and the unemployment check dated the second week of December, should speak volumes.

Oh hey, thanks Obama. Swell job. Hmm, maybe I should add, "Check with Obama, he probably knows why."

I have my Tiki, I have my Tiki, I have my Tiki...

Do or do not. There is no try.

I'm struggling, desperately, after six months of nothing, to finish my post about my day at Road America...and am hung up like a cattle rustler. It's two in the morning, and while I sit here, staring at my laptop, waiting for something, ANYTHING, to help me out, this link pops up on a random page I'm looking at.

Thank you, Honda, for confirming my belief in the benefits of failure.

I wish you all the best in the new year, and hope your future is as bright as I'm determined to have mine be.

Resolution #1: Post more on my blog. Not for you. For me. Silly readers, did you think next year I'd let the world revolve around anything besides me again? Puh. Shaw.

And away we go!

It's that time of year again. I'm counting down the hours until my 2nd track day on Monday, July 13, this time at Road America in Elkhart Lake, WI. I've graciously received a vacation day to do something utterly stupid. Mostly Naked once told me that I would be incredibly wired before track day, and there would be multiple bathroom trips and no sleep. He's also Mostly Right. I didn't have any of those issues before Brainerd last year, though. I attribute it to ignorance and comfort. I knew Brainerd's track layout well enough even though I never rode on it, so I was comfortable and relaxed, and had NO idea what was coming. I walked away from Brainerd, tired and pleased, but I rode at my pace, didn't push myself and frankly, was kinda "meh." I was actually surprised at my reaction as were a couple of others. There was no adrenaline, no abnormal quantity of bathroom breaks, too much sleep.

This year, an entire month before this Monday, as soon as I saw turn 14 at Road America, up a hill to the start/finish, I felt a jello-y quiver in my gut. It got worse a few days after when I clicked the "Submit" button on the website to pay for the opportunity. Now it seems the last couple of weeks, there's nothing else I can think about. I realize most of the thoughts, again, are logistics (don't forget to bring the bike...OR the key), but there's a hyper, spazzy, mildly terrified inner child who's not thinking about anything, except for the riding itself.

Road America is an incredible visual for a track. It's 4 miles long with 14 turns, elevation changes, and long sweeping turns and straights. Brainerd, by comparison is 3.1 miles, 10 turns, flat and tight. Brainerd boasts AMA superbike races and NHRA drag races, but RA not only has AMA superbikes, they also host indy cars as well. In my mind, a race track that can also race open wheel, super-fast, race cars is intimidating indeed.

So I'm a wreck. Anyone who makes the mistake of talking to me these past few days ends up having to hear all about my impending track day, because it's all I can think about. Sometimes more than once (I'm so sorry, "Vern.").

Man, I can't even get this blog out clean. My brains are scrambled.

Last year I wrote up a will and once again, I present my bequests, updated to reflect new friends and new items.

* * *

I reiterate for this year's event:

In the incredibly unlikely (Mom, read that again. Incredibly unlikely.)...I, Kuj, being "all there" at the moment, do hereby blah blah blah.

To my Mother, I bequeath:

• My relaxing "f**k it" attitude. Some things are just not worth the energy. Your only daughter, your sunshine, your favorite child (yeah, I said it) doing a track day, for instance.
  
• Hammick #1, for the purposes of finding the above mentioned attitude.
  
• The three-season porch.
• Your weight in Leinie's Berry Weiss.
• A brand-spanking new Leinie's sweatshirt twice a year.

To my Father, I bequeath:

• An extra sturdy door hinge for the passenger side of the coupe. Because whoever takes my place next to you isn't going to remember to not throw the door open either.
• Two weeks in the Rat Rod mecca out West. Make it a month.
• A toy hauler (see above).
  
• The official title of "Ruffian" (as bestowed upon you by local author, Michael Perry).

To my Brother, I bequeath:

• A job working for Weird Al. He's probably exhausted himself trying to swap out lyrics.
• A bullhorn for your butt. The sound is funny, the smell is not. One hopes the afterlife excludes foul odors.
  
• My bike (again). I'm still picturing that nice end table.

To my cousin Heather, I bequeath:

• The funny.
• Douchebag radar.
• $1400 bucks. NOW can we drive the Ya-ha-ma into a lake?

To my cousin Beefcake, I bequeath:

• The re-gifted Dark Lord. Re-gifted.
• A custom-built Beamish can hat.
• A lifetime supply of grounded shoes.

To my Aunt Joy, I bequeath:

• Facebook.
• Facebook.
• Facebook.
• Somebody to read non-fiction to you.

To my best friend Trish, I bequeath:

• My brother. Take him on your next vacation. You can use the amusement.
• Shorter pants for your gorgeous.
• A pair of scissors. Rush the stage at the next Wilco concert. You can do it.

To my dear friend Billy, I bequeath:

• Somebody to say "Dork" to.
• That one t-shirt. Yes, I found it the other day. I still have it.
• My mp3 player.

To my dear friend Art, I bequeath:

• Someone to yell "ART!" across the room to you.
• One-line zingers to use on Ben.
• Dunt-dunt-dahs.

To my dear friend and riding buddy, Turd, I bequeath:

• All 78 Steam entries. Yes, I did say I have a problem.
• Even more appreciation for "beep."
• Lots of "Proud Daddy" moments.
• /fart
  

To my newest dear friend "Vern," I bequeath:

• As requested, my hair. You'll fit right in it...heck, you're already used to the cold wind on the back of your head whenever anyone walks by.
• Also, as requested, my vocabulary. Though the secret is to have a thesaurus handy, I somehow manage to store the good ones away in the brain, however infinitesimal it may be. Anyway, you're no slouch either. "Brother, can you spear a mime?" That kills me...
  
• A pipeline from Jefferson Street in Chippewa Falls to FtC, with a multi-tapper on your end of it, of course. And all the Beamish left in the fridge.
  
• The world's largest book of anagrams...oh never mind. You wrote it.
• Hammick #2. It'll feel great when the yard's done.
• Firefly and Serenity. Alex will stop giving you the crazy look, and you two will have lots to talk about.
• My sweet, sweet beach cruiser. Only if you promise to ride it in costume.
  
• Enough money to fix up the bus. Keep the Boop drapes. (Boop drapes...that made me laugh).
• $5K. Get a motorcycle. Start slow. You'll love it.

To my newest dear friend Jasonopotamus:

• A full-on poster of Gothapotamus.
• A full-on poster of I Am Junk.
• My memory of the 1983 White Sox. LaMar Hoyt, Greg "The Bull" Luzinski, Harold Baines, Tony LaRussa, Carleton Fisk. I'm sorry...that's all I know. Of baseball. In totality. Besides "Where's the beer guy?"
• Someone to punch you in the arm, so you don't have to.
• My M*A*S*H collection. And let that cut under your nose heal. :)

To my still incredibly gracious boss, I bequeath:

• A bottle of Skyy (for honoring me, of course).
• Someone who will entertain you with really stupid things...like printing blank transparencies. That always gets a laugh.
• Steel mesh gloves for handling lifts of paper and opening boxes.
• Your very own censoring bleep. I wish I had bothered to buy one...

To my neighbors across the street, I bequeath:

• A three-season porch on the back of your house.
• A rattle can to cover up those racing stripes (yes, I had neon lights under my car once. Shut up).
  
• A sixer of Milwaukee's Best.

To the Chippewa Valley Sportbike Club, I bequeath:

• It's your fault I got into this mess in the first place. Have my guilt. Have my mom's too. Hers is really good. :)

Remember people: Think Irish funeral!

Freud is Choking on His Big, Fat Hog

Brother only seems to have road rage when there's a car in his way. A few weekends ago, when we were on our way to watch vintage motorcycle races at Road America, a pokey driver finally moved over to the right lane when he was good and ready and my brother grumbled, "Fat lop of....look at him! Smokin' a big, fat hog!" Having not looked up from book two of the Twilight obsession, I burst into laughter and inquired, "WTF is a big, fat hog??" Apparently the man was smoking the biggest cigar Brother had ever seen. Another simply put phrase that had me cracking up and now I must use ad nauseum. Sorry. But the story below does tie in with Freud. You'll see. Though I don't get the whole cigar thing...

* * *

When we of the Kuj Tribe were much younger, there was a time when us siblings engaged in the truly Polish/German sport of bowling. Every Saturday morning, hanging out in a gloomy, smoke-filled bowling alley, participating in the kid's league. I sucked. I considered it a good day if I managed to keep at least one ball out of the gutter. Little did I know that once I was old enough to drink (in pub-lick, anyway), I wouldn't give a crap if I threw the ball behind me, because bowling had become an excellent excuse to spend time with favored friends and co-workers, and for swilling mass quantities of beer.

Of course, Brother was better at bowling than me. He of the plaques, trophies, patches. Naturally, when one of his birthdays approached, the decision was made to have a bowling birthday party. My mom hired a Superman to show up at the party with balloons for the b-day boy and to do party tricks. Oh, how much damage this would do.

This "Superman" was a short, skinny, hirsute guy with a gold chain and a porn/cop mustache. He wore a near-accurate version of Superman's red and blue costume, except that I'm fairly certain the real thing didn't have a padded suit. PADDED. Padded biceps, pecs, thighs. Mental damage enough, you say? Sure. Cheesy? Most heinously. He told jokes, made balloon animals, did a little prestidigitation. I hope that, at the time, he at least entertained my brother and his friends despite the blatant misrepresentation. Otherwise, if I run into him again, I WILL demand he pay my mother all the money she shelled out for his cheese. I figure I just have to stand over him and flex my Pilates-hardened thigh muscles.

* * *

Trish (you remember her....she used to blog too?) has been my best friend for so many years, she deserves some kind of award. Or maybe I do. I think we met in high school marching band, but the specifics escape me. Despite a handful of years apart, we reconnected a few years ago and, again, talk to each other in one format or another nearly every day. Before I moved away and her gorgeous husband stole her from me, WAAAAY back in the mid 90's, Trish had asked me to stand up in her wedding to said gorgeous husband. Now that I'm thinking about it, I'm the one who deserves the award. That dress. That's a whole other story.

I was invited along with the other bridesmaids to the requisite bridal shower and bachelorette party. I apparently have a gift for memory recall. I've been incredibly astounded, as proven through Facebook, by my ability to remember bits and pieces of events as far back as high school. Unfortunately, this is one particular event I just can't get rid of. I would've hoped it had disturbed me enough to repress. I'm not so lucky.

After opening her gifts, we were interrupted by a knock on the door and the cry of the hormone, "Ooo! The stripper's here!"

* * *

Male strippers. That has got to be the most disgusting form of entertainment known to woman. Now before you formulate and postulate about my er, orientation, please understand that I'm like any other red-blooded, all-American heterosexual woman. Me likey man. But I'm picky on the visual. Just as any man on the street will pull a Pavlov when a hot woman walks by, I also like to observe male hotness in its most natural state: mowing my lawn. Okay, mowing any lawn. Okay, really, doing anything the Brawny paper towel man would do. But, specifically, manfully. Not outfitted in a bow tie and cuffs, women's thong underpants and...jiggling.

The image of the male reproductive anatomy, in my poor opinion, does not inspire grand, sweeping anthems of brass and bugle. It does not shout out in a growly, "Yeeeesss!" It's more of a "wah, wah." Yes, I realize this could be construed as mean, but the specific equipment is utterly and completely functional. There are far more important parts of the male gender that kick-start the furnace, if you know what I'm saying. I realize the human body is never perfect, but even on the scariest looking human being, there's something of incredible visual quality (my eyes, thanks for asking). Sure, his eyes might be hopelessly smoldering. It might be the small of the back. Maybe it's the ab muscles. It could be the graceful arc of a deltoid. It's possibly the broad muscular span across the scapulas. It's definitely that little indentation between the pelvis and gut muscles. Whew.

This? As Alanis Morrisette (the rotten bitch) once sang, "You are a slice of God on a platter..."

I could stare for days. Is he a deep thinker? I don't care. Does he love puppies? Big whup. I prefer my eye candy still...posed, not doing the electric slide with Grandma on stage. Stand still Chippendales, and I will perv out.

So you see where I stand on the whole stripper thing. If your purpose in life is to entertain women while barely dressed, it's far classier to me to just hand out pictures of yourself, than to parade around on stage with Fabio hair (gech) and s-pulse your meat and two veg at my face.

* * *

Hue and Cry. "The stripper's here!" Ugh. I see through the throng of ladies, a polyester cop uniform. "Hello ladies. I hear there's a bachelorette here who's been naughty..." Ugh again. A flash of a plastic badge (I'm welling up right now at the horror). The crowd of women makes way for the focus of our attention....and it's the FREAKIN SUPERMAN GUY!

I'll pause here for the collective outburst....

Seriously. The very same short, skinny, hairy guy (with the gold chain still). As a stripper cop. I remember wishing I could fart wings and fly. I shrink into my chair hoping against hope that, as he sets down his boom box and "Party All The Time" (who cares what song it was, really) blares from the twin speakers, I can will myself to be one with the powder-coated steel and vinyl.

This probably wouldn't be such a big deal if he was just a craptastical stripper, I understand this. As it was, he really was bad. Easily torn off pants and shirt (which is good, because as skinny as he was, I doubt he'd get through a real button), boxers, bikini, thong (really? Three pairs of underwear isn't overkill?). Climb up on a chair and shake his junk two inches from Trish's face (take that, alleged BEST FRIEND! Put me in this multi-color, poofy, organza-coated dress, will you? Karma! AVENGE ME!).

And yet, he still never got completely naked. The hair suit stayed on for some reason.

One wonders if this is the first thing one should share with a therapist upon first session.

Witness to the Incredulous

I hate grocery shopping. Hate it hate it hate it. I just posted up in Facebook that I hate grocery shopping so much, I've been using my brother's toothpaste for the past week. I had finally given up the fight and went today, because I was out of lemons.

* * *

Less than quick story...weird but true. Last March, after returning to Chicago from Tampa with Trish and her family, we are all trussed up in a mini-van taxi being driven by a big man. I had to cram into the front passenger seat, knees digging into the dashboard, nose seemingly inches from the windshield. I love Trish and her family as my own, but I was exhausted from the parental test-driving I did over the week with her two boys. I tried to send my astral body out to a remote island until we arrived at my car's location and I could RUN AWAY. So I was fairly silent in the taxi.

The driver started to tell me a story...and you know how this is if you don't want to talk to anyone...but he reminded so much of Bernie Mac and his spiel in "Ocean's Eleven" at the car dealer that I couldn't be mean. So I listened to him ramble on and then eventually realized he was talking about my then bad bout of acne. Man, I'm 37 years old and more than once I thought about donating my facial oil to a fast food joint or a biodiesel plant. Grease-ee. Why on the GREEN EARTH is this stranger talking about my bad skin?? He was kind though, and pointed out that he had once been a puppet of the McJob himself, suffered the same facial fate, and someone passed on the virtue of lemon juice. No shit. Wash your face, squeeze some lemon juice into your hand (from actual lemons presumably...I'd imagine the concentrated bottled stuff might be too harsh), splash it on. I did thank him for the advice and, after all the money spent on one stupid product or another that never worked, it seemed so ridiculously simple, I was game.

So, March, April, May, June. I've been using lemon juice on my face every day for all that time. Totally cleared up. No more angry red things. No more grease. Even with that monthly eruption issue, only a couple dared surface. Awesome. Thank you, dear, dear Bernie Mac-lookin' driver man. I owe you big.

* * *

Back to the grocery shopping. Out of lemons. Now you know why. After stopping at the local gourmet beer and coffee joint in town, and cleaning them out of Beamish, I sped over to the grocery store. I can't boil down my hatred for shopping into one reason. It might be that I'm weak and lazy, and sometimes come home with $200 worth of frozen, microwaveable food (and ice cream). It might be that I think I'm just a little agoraphobic. I remember one Christmas season having to leave a shopping mall because I was going to lose it. Now, I prefer to shop online as much as possible for the Christmas holiday and only go to the mall if I have no other choice. I WILL not go anywhere near the mall within a week of Thanksgiving, Christmas or New Year's.

I also equate grocery shopping with some of the worst drivers I've ever seen. I am not without my own errors in judgment, but there's people who drive on the "wrong" side of the aisle, who park their cart in the middle, blocking the whole aisle instead of "pulling over", who plug up the only "hole" in the flow of traffic, and God help me, three people who WERE STANDING DIRECTLY IN THE DOORWAY OF THE ENTRANCE CHATTING. Amazing how I can appear to be so laid back most of the time, isn't it? Which is WHY I avoid the grocery store, right?

I've wandered back and forth throughout the store picking up my necessities...seriously, why are the Hershey's bars in the candy aisle, the graham crackers in the cracker aisle and the marshmallows in the baking aisle? If I had my way, grocery stores would have a s'mores aisle. Damn it, I passed the lemons.

I'm rounding the home stretch past the ice cream and through the bakery section when I notice a slim, solo, blond woman seizing a baguette of French bread. Snarky Me pops to the surface to mumble, "Oh God, how movie of her. Now all we need is to see carrots with the tops still attached poking out of her crisply creased paper bag."

I wheel my crap over to the checkout lanes. Gotta get out, gotta get out. I queue up behind one other woman and start unloading my cart. The pleasant woman behind the counter steps out and places a large sign directly behind my groceries that her lane is closed. LARGE sign. About a foot across and half a foot tall. CLOSED. She smiles at me and says, "After you, of course." I reply, "Thank you. I was worried for a minute there you were going to wait until I unloaded my cart to tell me you were closed." We exchange smiles and I continue to dump my junk on the belt. Now it's my turn. She mentions something to me like, "It's funny. You should see how many people actually move AROUND that sign to put their groceries down." I sort of chuckle and start loading up my groceries into the bags as she rings the rest up (it's a YOU bag aisle...fitting, I believe, as I AM a bag).

My face is two feet from the floor as I'm picking up the case of pop from the bottom rack of my cart when I see two feet appear behind it. I stand up and Movie Baguette lady has perched her little single-people's basket on the belt behind my stuff. AROUND the CLOSED sign. That's when I look at the pleasant woman behind the counter...beaming at me through her cute, square rimmed glasses. I bust out laughing as she says, "See? And you didn't believe me." As I'm still packing my groceries into the bags, laughing hysterically and now, welling up with tears and snot, Pleasant Woman continues to make conversation with me...probably trying to keep herself composed while all around her are losing or have lost their head. "Ooo, you're making s'mores? Hunting, camping, fishing?" I blurt out "Camping!" as I gleek on my loaf of bread and carton of ice cream. The laughter subsides...I can't look at Movie Baguette lady, I keep losing it as it is. Then more laughter. "Oh that's awesome. Thanks so much for planning that laugh for me." Pleasant Woman says, "Oh, no problem at all. Camping, huh?" "Yes," I struggle to breathe. "Brother. Brother's girlfriend, me. Vintage. Motorcycle. Racing." Pleasant Woman to me, as I bust out again, "Sweet! Well you have a nice night." Me: "Oh God. THANK YOU! I hope your job ends SOMETIME today." As we laugh again, and I push my cart of shit out the door...looking like I just popped onion peels under my eyelids.

Movie Baguette lady? Utterly, completely, oblivious.

Okay, so it was probably more funny in person that it is on blog. But I was there...ergo, funny. Have a lovely! Try not to stab anyone at Wal-Mart with a pool noodle!


Also...there's this.


That's right, a new fragrance for your armpits! Take your pits away to a Tropical Paradise! Rent 'em a hammock! Buy 'em a daiquiri, one each! Let's go, Pits! Bora Bora!