Saturday, July 08, 2006
Let Me Say, Pepsi Generation...
While in Seattle, as previously mentioned, I had a chance to hang out with the Incredible Shrinking Sister on several occasions.
Turns out she's not so Shrinky-Dinky anymore, because her therapy appears to be working. This is a good thing, because the whole praying mantis thing she had going on before was more than a little disturbing. Kid is back to eating again, though she's on a diet that her therapist put her on that doesn't allow for the carbs. I took her out to lunch and observed her vacuum up an omelette that I probably couldn't even finish (and, y'all, seriously, I can pack it away if I have a mind to). So that's good. She's eating the foodstuffs and has a good job and a cute Filipino boyfriend that buys her Swedish fish without her prompting him to do so, so all is well for the Seattle Branch of My Mother's Daughters.
(Re: the Swedish fish, I told her, "Look, kid, you have a guy here that buys you your favorite candy without you even asking him to do it, and that is very, very rare, because guys, especially guys his age, don't generally pop off with the nice without some prompting and/or serious hint-dropping. So don't fuck it up with him, k? K.")
And I am back to being the Daughter What Sucks A Lot. But that's cool. I am most comfortable in that role. I was feeling very weird when I was the least-not-normal one for a while there.
It'll really shatter my worldview if she turns into a spree-killer or something, because really, how can I out not-normal a spree-killer? I ask you.
Anyway, so the first day we hung out, she dragged me down to Seattle's U District for some shopping.
We wandered around a thrift store for a little bit. The downstairs of this store is full of costumes and it was there that I spied a full-on Elvis jumpsuit, complete with really wide belt and tons of rhinestones. If I had had enough money, I would've immediately purchased it and mailed it to Skippy, because I know how that would help him in picking up the ladies. They also had some badass platform shoes with a plastic goldfish in the heel, which would've gone great with the Elvis suit and Skippy would never want for getting laid again. Curse my paltry bank account what won't let me outfit my friends in hot clothes that will get them laid! Curse it!
Though, to be fair, the goldfish shoes were obviously not authentic, because the goldfish was plastic. To make them REALLY hot, they'd have to actually be circa the 70s, with a REAL goldfish in the heel. If they were circa the 70s and had a real goldfish in there, the goldfish would probably now be a little rotted skellington of a goldfish and that's even HOTTER.
I can see it now.
Skippy, after dinner, leaning back in his chair, lighting a cigar, and propping his feet up in the dessert tray: So, sweetcheeks, wanna talk about Eddie Gein?
Sweetcheeks: Uhm...is that a rotten goldfish in the heel of your shoe?
Skippy: Why, yes. Yes, it is. I like to keep it old-school like that. That is just how I roll.
Sweetcheeks: Wow. That's really hot. Please perform anal sex on me immediately.
I'm sorry I wasn't able to buy you the outfit that would get you fucked a lot, Skippy. Next time I am out there, though, I am totally bringing enough money to do so.
But back to the subject at hand: shopping with my sister. We enter a "boutique" and go in different directions. We meet up in the middle of the store and, in unison, say, "Well, now I know where to shop if I ever decide to be a stripper."
Then we sort of stare at each other for a minute and, in unison, turn and walk out of the store.
Outside, she lights a cigarette. We stand there, chatting about nonsense. A man approaches us. A dirty man with a beard and a suitcase on wheels. I immediately began envisioning our wedding, because obviously, this is the man I am destined to marry - a dirty man, dragging around a Samsonite on wheels which is probably full of severed heads or maybe comic books.
"Can I buy a cigarette from you, please?" he says.
Dirty and POLITE, too! Swoon!
He holds out a quarter. I rummage around in my bag and come up with a stale cigarette and hand it to him. "Keep the money," I say.
My sister and I go back to chatting. The man is still standing there. We turn our backs to him and keep talking.
He sticks his hand between us, as if for a handshake. "I'm Frank and - "
"Oh, honey," I say, looking over my shoulder at him. "Me giving you a cigarette was NOT me giving you permission to speak to us. Run along."
He calls me a bitch and my sister giggles. So he calls her a bitch, too. I point out that he's still talking to us and that was not part of the agreement. He leaves.
Guess we won't be getting married after all.
Later, we are thirsty, so we go into the Jack in the Box for some life-saving Diet Coke. We wait in line behind a very tall black man.
"I gotta piss," announces my sister, ever the classy one, and goes off to find the bathroom. While she's walking through the dining area, a fat man says, "HELLO" loudly to her.
"Er, hi," she says as she leaves my field of vision. Seconds later, she is back at my side. "Bathroom is fucking locked."
"HELLO!" shouts the fat man. "WHY DIDN'T YOU GO INTO THE BATHROOM?"
"Ignore it," I say to her, because really, is it any of his business why she didn't go into the bathroom? Why is he worried about her bladder functions?
"HELLO!" the fat man says again.
"It's locked, okay?" my sister tells him. I hiss at her to shut up. The fat man falls silent.
We turn our focus back to waiting in line. The tall black man in front of me finishes his order and turns around. He catches sight of us.
"Woo," he whistles at me. "You're a pretty girl."
I blink at him.
"You sure are pretty. It's always nice when you see a pretty girl standing in the line at the Jack in the Box."
I blink some more. My sister snorts. He turns his attention to her. "You're pretty, too!"
"Thanks for noticing me, asshole," she says, offended.
"Well! Fiesty, too!" he says and wanders off.
Finally, no weird men are talking to us and we are able to order Diet Cokes. I get the cups and we go over to the pop dispensing machine.
And no Diet Coke comes out. NO DIET COKE COMES OUT. THE END IS NIGH.
I go back to the counter and tell the cashier boy that no Diet Coke comes out. He says that is because they are out of the Diet Coke and therefore there is none to come out. I demand a refund and we leave.
We are five steps out of the Jack in the Box when the door opens behind us. "HELLO!" shouts the fat man, leaning out of the doorway. "DID YOU GET TO USE THE BATHROOM YET?"
"OH FUCK OFF ABOUT THE BATHROOM ALREADY," my sister shouts back.
Ah, she makes me proud.
Apparently, nasty men saying things to me is not limited to my home turf. No matter where I go, nasty men will say things to me. This causes the hate.
Note to Nasty Men of the World: Do not say things to me, or my sister, or I will hate you. And my hate is pure and possessed of a razor-sharp edge that will cut you just like a hooker from southern Louisiana will cut you. It will.
And Jack in the Box now causes the hate, because I had to put up with nasty men saying stuff and still didn't get a Diet Coke out of the deal.
Jack in the Box, you are on notice. I don't care if you have a weird clownheaded thing for a mascot or are in the habit of making strange tacos and have burgers on sourdough bread. You're on notice.
That's them told.
link | posted by Zombie at 12:33 PM |
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