Gimmeoxygen's Blog

January 21, 2010

The Squeal in Aisle Three

Filed under: Uncategorized — Ruby Dabling @ 4:48 pm
Tags: , , , ,

Yesterday, while I was grocery shopping, I sauntered down aisle three in search of honey not knowing the drama that would ensue from this act.  The honey I wanted wasn’t stocked.  There were two lonely bottles waaaaay at the back of the shelf, so I stuck my trusting, little paw in to claim one, and – when I did – a SPIDER ran over my hand, up my arm and into the sleeve of my coat.

I squealed.  I shrieked.  I was so busy screaming, “Oh!  Oh!  Oh!” while shaking my arm, peeling my coat off, and leaping up and down doing the Eek!  It’s a Spider! dance that I didn’t realize what was happening in front of me.

I don’t know what kind of a noise I made when the spider assaulted me.  It was shrill, and it was loud.  It was, in fact, startling enough to cause the woman in front of me to drop, and shatter, the jar of blueberry preserves she’d been holding.  A large chunk of the glass bounced up, and embedded itself deep into the calf of her leg.  She was shrieking and bleeding, I was shrieking and dancing…everyone else was, of course, staring.

Lady, I am sorry that you were hurt.  It’s obvious you needed a suture or two, and I feel terrible about that.  I wish I could have apologized on the spot, but, you see, it wasn’t my fault – you’ve got to blame the spider that attacked me.  I would have been more attentive to your distress, but I was preoccupied because I didn’t know where the spider went.  I wanted to strip down on the spot.  I was sure that it was, still, in my clothes.  This is why I was slapping myself and Oh, God!ing instead of paying attention to the small river of blood that was running down your leg into your gray suede pumps.  My fear of those eight-legged terrorists is greater than the need to observe social graces.  Besides, you were the one the store manager trundled off to be fussed-over and taken care of.  I was the one left to look like the neurotic geek I am – still slapping, still jiggling, still convinced I had a fat, juicy brown recluse lurking in my clothing (I live in fear of the brown recluse as  it is so common out here, and so many people I know have been bitten by the nasty, venomous things).

I, then, behaved in the mature manner one would expect of me.  I abandoned my cart, ran to my car, drove home like a bat out of hell, stripped my clothing off, and jumped into the shower…all the while Oh, God!ing like the maniac that I am.

Yeah, I’m a warrior, all right…  As long as we aren’t talking about spiders, I will kick ass.

Now, I have to go to the grocery store – I think I’ll go to a different one today where I’m not quite so fresh in the memory of any of the staff who saw me – and I will do my best to maintain a low profile…….

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December 1, 2009

Please Pass the Xanax, pt. II

Filed under: The People From Planet Polyester — Ruby Dabling @ 4:45 pm
Tags: , , , , ,

To continue with my vacation with the People from Planet Polyester, here are more of the notes I took while being held hostage for Thanksgiving.

* * *

We went shopping all day!  What fun!

At six in the morning, one of the smallish inhabitants of the planet woke me up.  Do you want to wake up quickly?  Well, try waking – no clue where you are – with a midget wearing a snot-and-oatmeal facial two inches from your face.  The midget is poking you (again with the poking) in the chest, and snuffling.  I can almost guarantee that you will pop out of bed so fast you give yourself jet lag.

“Auntie Boo sez you gotta get up NOW.”  The midget tried to pet BuKi, but she scrambled deeper under the covers.  I’ve raised one smart dog.

“Auntie Boo is mad as a March hare, and should…”  I stopped.  The smallish one might be wired.  “Tell her I’m coming right down, okay, sweetie?”

And, so, I was told that, like it or not, we were going shopping in NYC today.  You better believe I took two xanax today to prepare.

I’d forgotten a few things.

I’d forgotten that I like the station at Hoboken even though it is dirty and noisy.  I’d forgotten how scary the subways in NYC are.  I’d forgotten that you never, EVER light a cigarette on the street unless you want to be surrounded by two dozen people with their hand out chanting, “Hey, can you spare a smoke?”  I have a few – 3 t0 5 – cigarettes a day (hush it – I like to smoke, dammit!), but I threw my pack at one of them, and fled.

I’d forgotten how very bad NYC cabs smell, and that – by transference – will YOU if you spend any time in them at all.  I’d forgotten that most cabbies hate you, have always hated you, and will hate you even more if you say something stupid like, “Oh, Jesus!  Are we near Harlem?  You’ve got the doors locked, don’t you?” as my Aunt Boo did.  (Boo lives with the certainty that every black male alive exists for no other reason than to rip the girdle off her aging, flabby thighs and rape her.  Oh, I suppose everyone can dream, though, can’t they!).

I’d forgotten that making eye contact with the man yelling, “Hey!  Hey, mami!  Ya wanna ride my salami?” will only encourage him to grab his crotch, and make the O Face.  This happened – with creative variations – throughout the day.

And I’d forgotten that I can’t go anywhere with these people without wanting to find a nice, quiet bathroom where I can eat a handful of barbituates before opening a few of my major arteries…but NYC bathrooms are even more frightening than the subways.

* * *

Thank god something good happened!

The only person I love arrived.  My cousin, Abbie.  Like me, she fled the nest as soon as it was financially feasible (only she went north to Vermont where she lives with her wonderfully peculiar lover, Jack).  As soon as she came in the door, I wanted to squeal and launch myself at her like a child.  Even better, she has to share the guest room with me.

As soon as we could, we snuck out to behind the garage to share a blunt and commiserate.  She asked me how bad it’s been, and I said it’s a new circle in Dantes’ Hell.  I told her how, the night before, I’d bent over in front of Uncle Pink to help a little one who’d fallen on her diapered butt, and he’d grabbed me and pantomimes sodomizing me while yelling, “Tell Santa what you want for Christmas, baby!” (I defy any of you to keep even a shred of dignity when your uncle is dry-humping you in front of everyone.)  She shuddered.  “He did the same thing to me a few years ago.  Jack calls him ‘Uncle Kinky’.  You should have whacked him over the head like I did.”

I’m so glad she’s here.

* * *

Giving BuKi her insulin is a spectator event.  As soon as I get the vial of insulin out of the ‘fridge, someone will announce it so that everyone crowds around to watch.  BuKi might be blind, but her instinct for self-preservation is spot-on, and she began to tremble so badly I had to support her with one hand while injecting her with the other.  The only thing I said was to the midget.  “Watch carefully.  You’re going to need this skill by the time you’re in sixth grade, and the nice man beside the playground wants to be your bestest friend.”  This earned me a dirty look from her mother, Gwen, as I’d forgotten she recently left rehab for a meth addiction.  My bad…

* * *

Three more days.  It will be easier with Abbie here.  She knows how to handle the natives better than I do.  When they began their poking, pinching, patting and pawing, she snapped, “Quit fucking touching me, dammit.”   This seems to be a magical incantation they respond to.  I’ll have to remember it.

* * *

(I’m sure you think I’m making it sound worse than what it was, but I don’t even get close to describing these people.  This is a hint:  Two of them were on the Jerry Springer Show, and they show the video each year because they are PROUD of it.  I refuse to tell you what episode it was.)

 

 

 

 

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