Thursday, September 4, 2008

It’s like Miss America, only it’s not. . .

Oh, my lovelies! I haven't had much time for blogging –or working on poetry- because of a new manuscript that I'm fiddling with and the fact that I've not felt well. I hope you will forgive me and allow this little tale to tickle your fancies. . . So, I'm in Wal-Mart shopping (and this is not a plug for Wal-Mart – I do not enjoy Wal-Mart but, alas, it's the only place to shop at 2 AM; however, I may be coerced into removing the "I do not enjoy Wal-Mart" comment, should they happen to send me a check).
It's not a good day. First off, it's that time of the month and I'm irritable as all hell. I swear, I have been possessed by demons from the deepest, darkest regions of Tartarus.

Then, I run into these sneaky little bastards who, although they are between the ages of 18 and 35, act as though they're several years younger. Normally, I love the men folk. . .

. . . but I am possessed by the PMS demons, remember? So I have very little tolerance for their immature behavior. These ruffians are acting like squirrels hopped up on crack. Seriously, there are 4-year olds better behaved in the toy department.

After countless incidents running into them – and I do mean literally running into them because after the eighth or ninth time of being smacked against the wall as they chase each other through the aisles, I decided to start bowling over them; 50-points for every 1-boy knocked over; 200 if I take out 3 at a time –



I decide to try to lose them by going to the one place I know they won't go – the feminine hygiene section, where I can kill two birds with one stone and also purchase my soon-to-be-needed Kotex (who may also feel free to send me a check).


Now, let's backtrack a bit here. While I'm navigating through the retarded peons (formerly and continuously known as the little bastards), I keep running into two particular men who are on vacation and trying to grab some last needed items. I can't mention names, but one of them is an Irish poet who's interesting to talk to and the other's a tall, dark-eyed, black-headed Yankee with a cute rounded backside that I like on my men (and, for the record, I just have a thing with tall, dark-eyed/dark-headed men).

We shared some flirty smiles and laughed at the expense of the retarded little bastards as we passed each other in the aisles. Now, some of you (the men folk out there) may not be aware of where the feminine hygiene section is in Wal-Mart. I don't know that it's like this in every Wal-mart, but in ours, it's at the back of the health and beauty section. It runs along the back wall and just about every aisle in the health and beauty department is vertical to it. The kick-ass men (Irish Guy and Rounded Butt Man) are navigating through these aisles and I'm keeping my eye on them as I'm looking for my preferred brand of maxis because, yes, I am a pad gal – rape victim who had endometriosis lesions removed from cervix. Tampons don't fit well with all the scar tissue that doesn't want to stretch. I know, more information than you wanted, but there you have it.
This is where it gets weird. I am approached by this other dark-haired thirty-somethingish guy. We're gonna call him the Perverted Plumber – those of you with creative minds will get that nickname in a minute. I've seen him talking to Rounded Butt Man and suspect they may be related.

Perverted Plumber comes over and starts looking at the Tampax section (don't bother sending me a check - I don't use your product for reasons listed above).



At first, I think, Oh, what a darling little man, buying his wifey-pooh's menstrual products. But it gets worse. He's turns to me and says, "You should buy these." Yes, he's trying to sell me Tampax. I ask, "Are you a salesperson for the company?" He laughs, "No, but I hear these are great from my wife." Yeah, I bet she doesn't have scar tissue in her vah-jay-jay.

I politely decline but he just keeps pushing. I'm starting to think he may be a pervert. Plus, I'm possessed by PMS demons, remember? So, I go off on how we, as Americans, have a duty to prevent companies from taking their products into these under-developed countries in order to assimilate the cultures which have, for thousands of years, done without Tampax and how it is unethical for us to let these companies go in and get these people addicted to their products by offering free samples and basically turning these poor villagers into junkie consumers.

And he starts looking at me like I'm nuts. Dude, seriously. If you would've backed off the first time, that whole conversation would've never happened. Remember, I was possessed by PMS demons.


Irish Guy and Rounded Butt Man are watching and giggling when they think I'm not looking. So is this other Shaved-Headed Goatee Wearing Man (SHGWM, for future reference) and a guy who will soon become The Creep. I decide to toss my maxi pads into my cart and run, while the getting's good because the Perverted Plumber is seriously creeping me out. I'm starting to think that the local mental ward let all the patients out.

I return to my shopping, which means I run into Irish Guy and Rounded Butt Boy in the middle of every aisle. And I don't know how it began, but Rounded Butt Boy and I start flirting. I keep running into SHGWM and The Creep too. Now, SHGWM seems pretty cool – he's witty and cracking jokes that make me laugh so I could probably like him. But The Creep gets me at the end of an aisle and tries to feel me up so obviously, I hate him. And yes, because I'm possessed by PMS demons, I go off.
"Get your fuckin' hands off me you fuckin' sonovabastard!"

For some reason, men find it amusing when I cuss. Probably because I'm one of the few women who uses dirty words like they do.
The guys are rolling in the floor laughing. They find this funny as hell. And I'm starting to think all men belong in a mental ward.

Then, Rounded Butt Man gets me alone and tells me they've got a bet going on who can kiss the pretty gal without her getting pissed off. And I'm the pretty gal. I always find that funny, 'cause I don't go around thinking I'm pretty. I mean, honestly, how many of us actually wake up and spend all our time thinking that? But I'm flattered, because this is coming from Rounded Butt Man, so I give him a kick peck on the lips. I wanted more but I'm married so I practiced restraint.

All the men go nuts. SHGWM screams, "Bet's over boys. She kissed Rounded Butt Man!"

The Creep gets all pissed off, like he has any fucking right to be mad. *rolls eyes*

And all this attention embarrasses cute Rounded Butt Boy, who puts his head on my shoulder and says, "Oh my god, I can't believe you kissed me!"

Meanwhile, my hands are creeping towards that nice derriere, but I pull it together enough to ask, "Why not?"

"Because you're so pretty and I'm not."

Aw, baby. Come here, let me give that little tush a squeeze. I practice restraint and say, "Aw, honey. I like the way you look."

Which isn't a lie.

Then, he says it – this has got to be the best pick-up line ever and I want everyone to start using it in honor of Rounded Butt Man: "You're the prettiest girl in Wal-mart."

And I can't help myself. I start cracking up. Everyone's looking at me like I've gone insane. And, hell, who knows, I may have (gone insane) because I am possessed by PMS demons after all. I try to sing, through the laughter.

"There she," snickers, "is, Miss," doubled-over haha so I back-track a bit, "Miss Wal-Mart." Now I'm squatted on the floor. "There she is. . ."

The guys are still looking at me like I'm nuts and the retarded little bastards – of course, they're there with Rounded Butt Man and his team of Merry Men and somehow thought that acting stupid would turn me on; I'm not sure how that works but if someone knows, please fill me in - are all lined up in front of the aisle now with wide eyes.

So I collect myself as best I can and repeat the song, this time without the laughter.

"Instead of the Evening Gown Competition, I'm paraded around with retarded little jackasses," I pointed to the retarded little bastards, "and instead of getting a dozen roses, I get a dozen Tampax . . ." I point to the Perverted Plumber. By now, I'm laughing so hard that I can't finish my thought.

Fortunately, the smarter men (the ones not spoken of in negative context) picked up the joke and decided to join me in laughter. And I'm picturing all this in my head. Me, with a white sash that says, "Miss Wal-Mart" and a dozen Tampax in one hand while the other is issuing the Queen wave while I'm walking through the aisles.

Yeah, I know. Only in my world can life really be this insane. But hey, maybe it was just the PMS demons? Who knows, maybe they can possess men too (pheromones perhaps?) But there it is. For one night, I was Miss Wal-Mart.

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