(*Author's note: Upon re-reading this, it occurs to me that 99% of my stories involve the grocery store. This leads me to believe one (or all) of three things: A) I never go anywhere except the grocery store, which is why things always happen to me there, B) I really, REALLY need a life that involves more than trips to the grocery store, or C) I need to stop going to the grocery store.)
I went to the corner market yesterday to pick up a few essentials (read: Good n Plentys and Smart Water) and discovered that everyone else in Norwood had made the same decision at the exact same moment that I had. Perry's Big M is pretty small and it was literally clogged with Norwoodians all purchasing beer and ice for their long holiday weekend.
I grabbed my items and went to stand in line at the ONE CHECK STAND that was open. (Because only having one cashier on duty on a Saturday afternoon during the 4th of July weekend makes LOADS of sense, right?) I was lollygagging in line with around 15 other people, staring off into space because seriously? NO ONE TALKS TO ANYONE in the grocery store lines here. I've quit making an effort to be friendly because I'm a little uncomfortable with the title of Local Wierdo. (I've become the person that most people avoid standing next to because God only knows what will come out of my mouth. I mean, I might say something strange, like "hello" or "cilawwwwntro." When people avert their eyes as you're walking towards them, it's a sign that they kind of hope you don't notice them.) There are no National Enquirers to read the headlines on, no People magazines to thumb through and buy at the last minute... NOTHING.
So I'm standing there, holding my Good n Plentys in one hand and my big ass bottle of water in the other when suddenly, from the bowels of my ridiculously huge purse, come the words of Jack Black's "Fuck Her Gently."
Okay, back-story: Friday I was downloading music onto my phone when I came across this song. I love this song because it reminds me of some people that I love real hard and miss even more, and a few nights of boozing and karaoke (and also it cracks me up because honestly, what can be funnier than Jack Black giving advice on sexual matters in song form? NOTHING). So I downloaded it and set it as Dan's ringtone, with the intention of not telling him and having him call me when he came home so he could hear it. Funny, right? A virtual SCREAM, yes? HILARIOUS, I thought.
Unfortunately, I promptly forgot that I'd done that. In fact, I forgot to tell DAN I'd done that and never had him call me, etc.
Flash forward: I'm trapped in line at the Big M with my hands full and my enormous freaking purse belting out (and vibrating... what's a ring tone without added vibration?), "You don't always have to fuck her hard... *bzzz* *bzzzz* I guess some times that's not right to do..." *bzzzz* *bzzzz*
I shove my water bottle and my candy under my arm pits and start frantically pawing through my vibrating purse, trying to find my phone. I can hear it, (as can everyone else because of course I have the volume set on LOUD), BUT I CAN'T FIND IT. I can find receipts, lip gloss, my sunglasses, about $30 in change, the dog's leash, breath mints, Kleenex, tampons, scraps of paper, my business cards... BUT I CAN'T FIND MY FREAKING PHONE.
"I'm gonna fuck you softly... *bzzzzzz* *bzzzzz*
I'm gonna screw you gently, *bzzzzzz* *bzzzzzz*
I'm gonna hump you, sweetly... *bzzzzz* *bzzzzz*
I'm gonna ball you.. discreetly..." *bzzzzzz* *bzzzzzz*
Searching... searching... GAHHHHHHHH!!!!
My purse is like the Bermuda Triangle. Planes and ships go cruising in, never to be seen or heard from again. If you can't find something, I guarantee that's because somehow, some way, it fell into my purse. Amelia Freaking Earhart is probably in my purse, along with Jimmy Hoffa and the Treasure of the Sierra Madre. They are all lying at the bottom of my (really freaking awesome) Ed Hardy handbag, listening to my phone play X-rated lyrics.
Finally, finally it stops... and everyone around me shifts uncomfortably and continues to ignore me. I decide that the best thing for me to do is pretend that didn't just happen, or maybe it came out of someone else's purse or, you know, just die right here and now...
And then my phone alerts me that I have voice mail by stating, "Please check your pimp apparatus. Please check your pimp apparatus."
(Because yeah... I thought that was funny, too, when I downloaded it and set it as my message alert.)
Kill. Me. Now.