Seriously. How did I GET all this shit? I have boxes and boxes and boxes of papers and research and filled up notepads and tapes of interviews and books and movies and clothes. There is going to be some serious culling of clothing, let me tell you. I don't even wear that many of my clothes.
I mean, yes, I love that cute, hot-pink halter top I bought four years ago, but let's face it, I'm never going to fit into it again as I went through a second, unexpected growth spurt in the, um, chestalogical region around that time. And if I get rid of that, then there's really no need for that leather skirt I have that fits me, but doesn't really go with anything else.
I work the night shift. I could easily come to work every single day in my old Zellers jeans with the ass pocket ripped out, my bright yellow dragon-boat t-shirt and doc martens and nobody would care. I mean, the only ones at work that late are the sports guys. And they aren't exactly clothes horses themselves.
I had to think very seriously about giving up my hemp bracelets and my dad's old leather watchband. I mean, I'm trying to put forth a professional image here. When you get to a certain age, you can't be running around with bright pink bangs dyed from a packet of Magical Malibu Punch Kool-aid. However, I'm not gonna bend and go out and buy a bunch of gabardine suits and cashmere/mohair sweaters. My wardrobe is pretty geek chic. Jeans, t-shirts, keds, the occasional sparkly t-shirt number, the leather watchband, baggy cargo jeans. I have skirts and slacks and sandals with heels and can look pretty when I want to, but I am, at heart, a t-shirt and jeans, chuck-taylor wearin' girl stuck in a cut-on-the-bias-material girl world.
I'm also going to have to go grocery shopping. I love grocery shopping. I like combing the aisles for deals on Sapporo soup and macaroni and cheese.
My secret dream is to be loosed on the set of Supermarket Sweep with an unlimited amount of cash and time. Because when I shop in a hurry, I end up buying things that I had no intention of getting when I hurried in looking for a McCain's rising crust pizza. I'll haul my loot home and unpack the bags and be like: "Fresca? Really? Huh. Okay. I mean, I know I went in for a box of chicken strips, but what the hell. I can eat ichiban for awhile. Again. At least I'll have this cool and refreshing glass of Fresca to wash it down with." Or sometimes, I'll get the notion that I'm secretly a gourmet. I'll buy, like, portobello mushrooms and spaghetti squash and have absolutely no idea how to prepare it. The squash will sit pretty for a day on my table and then begin to wilt and the mushrooms will be cut up and fried into a big, cheesy omellette which will be tasty, but in no way worth the large amount of money those shrooms cost. If I'm paying that kind of scratch for mushrooms, they better make me believe that I live in a yellow submarine for a day or something.
The supermarket is not made for a single girl. It was made for a mother of six. I mean you have a choice of gigantic, bohemiath carts or a little basket that you have to haul around. And the smaller boxes of things always cost more. A small bag of baby carrots costs more than a large bag of baby carrots. A giant bag of spinach leaves? $1.99. A small bag? $4.00. So you get the big bag and either develop pop-eye like forearms or forget about it until..."What is that stench?" And then you have to root around in your fridge until you come up with a bag of black liquid that's been stuffed behind the crisper lo these many moons until it couldn't even stand its own smell and caved in on itself in defeat.
Oh, you want a box of Shreddies? Well guess what? A regular box is $5.00. For cereal! Insane! So you think to yourself, Wheetabix it is. And then the girl at the checkout with a nose stud gives you the "Only old, english people eat Wheetabix" look and you're like "Yeah, whatever. Ring me through Twila-Jo. I'm sure you've got rug-rats to collect from their sub-standard daycare and Gott Cola to drink with the hubby while chuckling because them queers sure is funny when they make over the nice straight boys."
You know what else is fun? Being the super-market pirate. I used to do this with my mom when I was little. A sprig of grapes here, a handful of Voortman cookies or Trebor candies there. Mmmm...ill-gotten supermarket booty. And putting things in other people's carts! Sereptitiously of course. I like to pluck, say, a can of bamboo shoots from the Chinese cooking section and then walk around until I find an un-protected barge -er- shopping cart. Or maybe a bag of ginger root neatly tied with a twisty and placed gently in the cart of a frat-boy out shopping with his bretheren. Or maybe a box of taco fixings for the elderly gentleman who is perusing the sell-by dates on milk cartons. Just a little something to spice up their day. And mine. Okay, mostly mine. It's a fun game though. You should try it. I don't know what's funnier. When they just let the odd item go through without noticing, or when they kick up a fuss. "No, these are certainly not my 'ribbed for her pleasure' condoms!" Or they try to hide it among the tabloids and miniscule horoscope books. And you go up after them and stifle a giggle at the Preparation H creme box standing straight and tall next to J-Lo's paparazzi-mauled visage. Hooo!!! Shits and giggles for sure.
A visit to Mal-Wart is in order as well as I have no silverware and no garbage can and nothing to clean with, so a Swiffer will have to be purchased at some point. Remember the Swiffer's early commercials? With all the happy-go-lucky army chaps extolling the virtues of the waterless mop they used to clean their bunk house? It cheered me up and I miss it.
Oh, and the Chairman sends his regards. He's knows something is up because there's a proliferance of boxes to climb in and out of right now and I've retrieved his cat-carrier from the basement and he's been giving it the stink-eye ever since.
Pages: I'm re-reading Carl Hiassen's Sick Puppy. I still think it's his best. Tunes: Little Steven's Underground Garage online. Tube: Waiting impatiently to get moved in on time to see Sacha Trudeau's documentary "Imbedded in Iraq" on CTV. Treats: Jack's Chinese Food at the Club Caf�. Mmm....sweet and sour boneless pork and lemon chicken....guhhhhhh.
