Bah * Humbug

This post will be like a Madlib. Whereever I put an asterisk, you put the appropriate participle of f**k. I would just write it, but then I'd have to admit to taking the low road. This way, I can keep in sight of the high road.

This untethered rant comes to you courtesy of the Giant grocery store around the corner from my house. I went there for flour and dutch process cocoa, so I can complete the Great Baking Project of 2008. Flour was easy to find, and I looked carefully on the baking aisle for the cocoa, but there was none to be found. I checked the coffee, tea and cocoa aisle, just in case someone had put the baking cocoa over there, but no * luck. In the meantime, at least 6 store employees walked past me, but none of them could stop to answer my question, because they were too * busy talking to each other. Instead of wasting my time further, I went to customer service to ask for the cocoa. This is a pretty common baking item, mind you, and is chemically different from natural cocoa, so I can't just substitute one for the other. I stood in line waiting for the lottery junkies to conclude their business, and ask the clerk for the cocoa. "What?" she says, dully. *, I think to myself. I repeated it louder and slower (instantly transforming myself into some * version of a * tourist without a grasp of the local lingo), and she repeated it after me. "Oh, that will be either in aisle 6 or aisle 10." Well, I know it's not in 6, because I just spent 5 minutes examining every * box of flavored chemical cake mix and * esoteric flour variety and didn't find it. So I wander over to aisle 10 to look for the * cocoa and lose my tenuous grip on my * mind because aisle 10 is the * INTERNATIONAL FOOD AISLE. Apparently, Little Miss Clerk assumed that "Dutch process" means * foreign, because she sent me to international food to look for it. Is this where she sends people looking for French Roast Coffee, German Potato Salad, or Hawaian Punch? This is what happens when the * grocery store hires * sullen people who can't take the time to look for an item in an index so that they can render something * approaching customer service. *. While I'm being sent all over the durned store looking for this basic baking supply, I've picked up 10 things I didn't come in for, so I can have eggnog and taboule while typing this, thus earning what will no doubt be a * epic attack of dyspepsia. Also took a detour to the produce section to find out that there are no cranberries. What kind of store in America doesn't have cranberries 3 days before Christmas? *. *. Seriously.

Books I Shall Write

1. The Truth About Pregnancy: a comparison of what obstetricians around the world tell women to do, and how (un)connected these commandments are to science. Nonfiction.

2. Non-alcoholic Cocktails: a recipe collection for non-alcoholic drinks, for those who want something to drink besides water, soda, or caffeinated drinks. Nonfiction.

3. How to Pump Breast Milk with Dignity: including a chapter on how to muffle the incredibly loud sound of a breastpump while at work. Fairy Tale.

Glass House Broken, Resident Fails to Notice

When I'm sick, I get stupid (handy excuse, really).

I was at the gas station yesterday, having coasted in on the last fumes. Was standing idly, waiting for full to happen when I noticed the price of $2.15/gallon. Whoa, why does the gas cost so much! (Incredible, when 3 months ago I would have been gloating over that low price) Turns out that I had started to pump high octane instead of regular. So I stopped and attempted to restart with the cheaper fuel. At this point I had a little song and dance with my debit card and the pump, with some apparent silicon confusion over my double purchase. I finally had to go inside and (gasp) speak to an attendant to get the pump turned on. Let's not dwell on how long it took me to identify the pump number, since I haven't had to look for one since 1998.

Came back out, resumed my idle stance waiting for the tank to fill. Noted that the woman in front of me was cleaning her windshield, but had taken the squeegee closest to MY car. "Geez," I thought, "that woman is dumb. Why didn't she just take the one closest to her?" So I decide that I should clean my windshield, and stroll over to get the squeegee closest to HER car. Very slow and deliberate movements, so she can understand the extra steps that she'll never get back into her life. Cleaned my windshield, but not fast enough, because she finished first, and put her squeegee back into the bucket closest to me! What a maroon! How could she fail to notice my elaborate and graceful kabuki meant entirely to educate her? What kind of person takes the extra steps to put the squeegee back into the wrong place? How on earth did she start this ridiculousness in the first place?

I can only imagine that when she got home, she confessed all to the first person she spoke to: "Some bitch tried to start something with me at the gas station, but I decided not to engage, because she was clearly out of her mind."

I'm Sick, and You Should Care

The title says it all really. If I weren't a total baby when I get sick, then I wouldn't be compelled to foist this information upon you, but that would be a different universe, with different constants (a little reference to the Anthropomorphic Universe, which theory totally annoys me).

Anywho, this stupid virus descended upon me at least a week ago, and had taken a leisurely migration from the back of my throat down to my upper chest. This means I am now wracked with coughing spasms several times a day, and continuously at night. What's amusing about this is that I am now coughing so much that I am also tossing up my food. That's right, these coughs come in color. That Devil Baby sure was surprised last night when she threw up on me and I promptly returned the favor. Bet that stops her excessive spitting up. Now she knows if she throws up, I'm going to give her something to throw up about. Or something like that.

So anyway, I dragged my very sorry butt into work today, and have been coughing all over the office. This has not helped my popularity, but has raised my spirits at the thought of all the people who may shortly be joining me in my misery. How sick am I? I'm so sick that I have on my desk a jar of Indian Ayurvedic medicine, provided by the research scientist who works next door. He explained that this medicine was concocted in Bangalore, and is based on the theory of the four humours. This one targets phlegm, with which I am currently well provided (you could say I'm quite phlegmatic, if you wanted to be a giant dork). Did I laugh at him for buying medicine based on philosophies that were obsolete 300 years ago? No! I thanked him humbly and fully plan to take this Bangalore-produced, phlegm-reducing compound.

At least my coughs will taste like spice, instead of 5 day old mashed potatoes.