Calling for help.

So I'm at Wal Fart preparing for the snowstorm (which thanks to me being prepared will now be a tepid, light rain) and I get all my shit and nonsense that I deemed necessary. Grapes and fucking waffles. And I make my way around the empty store (cause, damn I was there at 8:57 am, son). And get on the fucking line. Of course I have about 30 things, so I can't get on the express. And they have 450 registers butt only one open. So I get on a line seven deep and everyone else has their fucking nonsense and grapes and waffles and the checker? OMG so slow. Beep, bag slow pause. beep...........bag. Tie the bag in a fucking knot.. (why? who cares) beep.....chatty chat.....bag.

And I am dying in my head. Wishing I wasn't so damn paranoid of the snow. I used to be a New Yorker for fuck's sake! I drove in everything. And standing there for 15 minutes and NO ONE is moving. Grrrrrowwwwlll. Then I had an evil idea. I pulled out my cell phone and used my browser to look for the store I was in's phone number. Then I dialed the fucking number.

And then I spoke to customer service and said in a polite voice, "Can you please look at your registers? I'm the seventh person in line and my frozen stuff is melting. Can you send either another checker or a mop to clean up my ice cream? Thanks."

They sent a checker! I felt like I was calling 911 from the back of a cop car.

Wal Mart

We are looking at ice and snow so I faced Wal-fart to stock up.

Okay, going to Wal Fart is like getting type cast in a horror movie you didn't know you auditioned for.
Though I did put back the slim jim can because of it. #subliminalworksforme


Are you ready? I'm about to blow your mind with some prescription strength stupidity.

So today is kind of a sucky day for my self esteem. I have a Marilyn Monroe pimple. (You know, where she had her sexy mole)

Whatever, that shit happens, but then I decide to curl my hair with hot rollers and leave them on too long so I look like Orphan Annie. Then I decide to wear the velour sweat suit my mom gave me. It is the height of retirement community chic. But where the fuck am I going to ever wear it beside fucking Wal-Mart. Plus, I will match the natives. Whatever. Drop girlchild off at school, head to the DeathStar.


Now, the combination of velour pants and Wal-Mart carts is fucking deadly. I became electric with no control over what and where I would crack out another lightening bolt. I was a backfiring super hero. So that not only sucks, tit hurts. So as gorgeous as I look this morning I wasn't exactly expecting some male attention. Butt alas, Static Electric woman is hardcore sexy for swarthy, small serial killers.


So, I'm walking down the frozen aisle swinging my rock hard, picnic table wide ass like I always do looking for chicken nuggets when an alarm goes off in my head.

"Danger asshole, pay attention" says my reptilian brain.


So I snap up my gaze and lock eyes with a small, intense adult man. Bundled in many layers. And we hold each other's attention. And he has got the "bringing sexy back" come hither stare down--or so he thinks. That extra long eye contact is a dangerous thing. And in order to pull it off, dudes have to convey, "Hello pretty lady."

This guy could only communicate, "If we were alone in my basement you would be wearing nothing but monkey fur and handcuffs while I masturbated vigorously to the Teletubbies."

I refused to look away, spurring him on I'm sure with my sexy pimple and my need to make sure he wasn't carrying any Taser guns.



Could you imagine? The velour mixed with the taser? It would have been like a nuclear bomb. Chicken nuggets would be strewn everywhere.
 So I guess I accidentally flirted with a manic. I'm betting he thought I wanted him to nail me against the Buffalo wings and make me beg like someone on a fixed budget with an expired coupon at the check out counter.

Chin Hair

Getting older is hilarious.

Seriously. I’m now 36 and things are not quite what they were billed as before I had kids. I have laments.

But right now I am focusing on facial/head hair as I age. The truth is, when I was younger I could give a dead rat’s ass about creams and wrinkle preventers. I didn’t understand why my mother took so long putting on her make-up or why her mirror was mounted in a magnifying glass.

I get it now. Dear Heavens. What I want to know is how women morphing into Abe Lincoln is considered a win in the evolution process.

We got rid of the gills and the webbed feet, awesome. We stood up straight, fine. We created fire. Great.

Why do we need long chin hairs? I’m assuming that these hairs had some sort of beneficial use because…survival of the fittest and all that.

But don’t ask me what function they performed for our middle aged ancestors.

Okay, fine. Now that I’m thinking about it, what could chin hairs do for us to enhance our primitive existence?

Scare attackers into thinking we were our bigger, burlier, male counterparts?

There’s that.

Assuming food was scarce, maybe our goatee would catch any morsels that fell out of our mouths so we didn’t miss a drop?

Weird, but possible.

Maybe they were handholds for our children so they didn’t get lost in the dark before flashlights existed? (I’m picturing those long ropes schools in the city sometimes use to keep track of kids when the class has a walking field trip.)

I actually like that idea.

But I think the only possible, solid reason our cave sisters would have had long, beard-like chin hairs was to be used as a holster.

Wait, follow me for a second.

The hair on my head is getting thinner and wimpier with every year that passes. So if I had one perfect stone sharpened into a blade, I would need to carry it. My beard could be braided and the stone would be safe.

There’s one flaw with that hypothesis. Or at least one constant that I’m assuming--that my foremothers were not wearing clothes because otherwise the beard holster would be insane. A lady would just tuck the knife into her pants or shirt or cavewoman bra.

So maybe the strongest, fiercest ladies ran around naked thus necessitating the beard.

I could totally get behind the idea that my ancestors were rampant, unapologetic nudists with chin beards that held their knives and children.

Not too close behind though, because they were naked and that gets creepy.

Another benefit!

I’m still going to be plucking my chin hairs but maybe I will be less angry with them if they have this, made-up, majestic, kick-ass heritage.