Wednesday, August 19, 2015

Quince anos o noventa? Yo no hablo espanol.

I didn't want to get up yesterday. The cough that has kept me up for two nights in a row (also: why does the cough ONLY HAPPEN AT NIGHT??) had forced me to abandon my warm, comfy, cozy bed, and my fan (a BIG DEAL) for fear of waking my slumbering groom, who, as it turns out, was sleeping so soundly he never once heard me coughing. Which makes me feel real positive about him knowing if something were to actually go wrong in the night. Anyways, I was grouchy about having to get up for Jack's haircut, but life goes on regardless of one's sleepless, dismal night.

Something seemed off when we arrived. My main clue was the locked door and darkened lights. Despite my personality being one of total irritation at the thought or mention of wasting time, we waited for what seemed like a reasonable amount of time before I called my sweet friend, who is one of the best hairdressers around. 

Straight to voice mail. Odd.

When she didn't answer any of my texts, I, slightly curious and also really hoping nothing was wrong, finally texted her husband, who shot back a "phones off" and then a "mexico" in short succession. 

Ah. If I'm putting those texts together the way I think I should, then sin corte de pelo de hoy.

That night I made myself go to Wal-Mart, because I had a return. When are there ever people NOT in the Wal-Mart return line is what I'd like to know. The customer service rep pointed to the date. "You bought these on July 31" (I know) "and I'm being lenient with you because it's been over 15 days, but I went ahead and returned them." The "them" being two lazy susans I didn't need. I looked at him, then scanned the receipt for the return policy, then looked back at him. "Fifteen days? I only have fifteen days to return things?" This is news to me. "Yes," he explained. Patiently. "Some things are 90 days, like TVs and stuff. Everything else is fifteen days." Except on the big WALMART RETURN POLICY board behind the customer service counter? That guy says 90 DAYS. NINETY. Obviously I didn't argue with him. I got my lazy susans returned. But fifteen days? I AM SO CONFUSED BY THIS.

Today I forced myself to go to the grocery, even though the grocery and I sometimes don't get along, and I have to complain about it to my friends. (Today it was the temperature. And the forgotten coupons.) It didn't get exciting until I got to the deli counter, which is typically my last stop, where I usually sit in silence and stare into space or look through my coupon book (insert irritation over forgotten book). I had chosen space when the girl behind the counter asked me how I was doing. Real good, I answered her. How you? 

And in the span of 3 minutes and 42 seconds, I learned that this poor girl had recently had surgery (July 1), her mom had moved away (July 2), and she had not a soul to care for her daughter. "Been a rough couple of months," she sighed. "And so because I had no one to care for my daughter, she had to go into foster care, and I don't know if I'm going to get her back." It took a minute for my brain to process this information. "How old is your daughter?" I asked. I'm gravely concerned for this little girl, stuck in foster care with no one to reunite her with her mom. "Fifteen," she said. "I get to see her today." And she handed me my Honey Roasted Turkey breast and bid me a nice day.  I walked away confused, because I felt like I had missed the whole middle of that story. 

Apparently I look like I have a sympathetic ear. Not to be outdone by the deli ladies, the girl at the checkout, although she did not begin by asking my how I was doing (and anyways I would have told her "real good, you?") did capture my curiosity when she abruptly said "guys just don't get it", because I had once again been staring into space, thinking about the things I bought that I could have saved money on, but of course. COUPONS. I shook myself awake and stared at her as she gave me that look that says "they just don't get it, do they" except I didn't know what guys didn't get it and what exactly they weren't getting. She tossed her head back at her fellow checkout mates in the lanes behind her to indicate that it was, in fact, those guys that didn't get anything. (But I think she might have also meant all XY chromosome-carrying people.)

"All you have to do when you get a gunshot wound," she explained, "is take a tampon--the lights, not the supers" (noted) "and insert it into the wound to stop the bleeding."

Oh. Okay. Did I miss something? Why are we talking about gunshot wounds and tampons? I thought we were talking about guys and how they don't get things?

 "Oh!" I said brightly. "I suppose I'm just not that well-versed in gunshot wounds. And such." 

"Neither am I," she mused. "But that's what they say. It also works for deep cuts, you know, stuff like that, you just inject a tampon in there" and made a motion like injecting a syringe into her arm "and it closes up that wound and clots up the blood. Makes sense." 

Does it? DOES IT? Then she made a comment about guys needing girls around and proceeded to finish bagging my groceries, handing me my receipt and a coupon (doh!) and waving goodbye, while I helped the bagger boy who couldn't get my bag open. 

These things must always be processed via text with my friend, who,after she said "huh??" because she didn't get it either, wrote back "it is my fervent hope that neither you, nor I, nor anyone we know need to put that tidbit of info into practice". 


People are strange.
{jim morrison}

No comments:

Post a Comment