Onion Boy and his Hot Dog

My first minimum wage job at the age of fifteen was  working the late shift  at a small town convenience store .  On the night shift one of my duties was to clean the dreaded hot dog machine. I would take the hot dogs out that had been sitting there for fifteen hours, drain the water,  try not to gag, and  then clean it.

I can still smell the putrid aroma of rotting hot dogs floundering on the edge of hell. It was disgusting.

 

Another part of that job was dealing with a wide array of customers renting and returning videos. My favorite customers were the ones who would attempt to rent a video while they had a  fifty dollar late fee for not returning the latest porn video on time.  Usually, they would blush,  give you a good  reason for it being late , and with  a “one time only” warning  I would waive the fee.

However, there was always the exception to that  rule with  the one belligerent jerk that insisted on berating you, calling you names, and then wait for you to remove the late fee.

It would never happen – I would get the very scary manager and she would tell him off.

Problem  solved! He would storm out of the store flabbergasted that: 1) He was out of line for verbal abuse 2) Expected to pay the late fee 3) And now looked like a complete asshole in front of everyone at the store.

So when I go to my local convenience store for odds and ends I remember being swamped at the cash, dealing with a wide array of people in the public, and all of the dirty jobs of keeping the store clean while working for very low wages.

Just the other day I felt lucky and popped into the local convenience store to purchase a lotto ticket.  I waited my turn in line as the clerk worked to serve each customer. It is when I heard one angry gentleman yell across the store, “Onions! Where are the onions?”

The clerk politely smiled “I will be with you in a minute.”

“There are no onions for my hot dog!”

“Just one minute, Sir!”

He huffed! He stomped! And he huffed some more! I was waiting for him to blow the store down.

As I watched his silly gesturing and anger I thought only one thing  - you sir are a huge asshole!

This  lovely clerk working by herself did not deserve to be bullied into rushing to the rescue with onions.   What I wished for this clerk was that her manager was standing close by to usher onion boy out the door.  No one deserves to be treated like a doormat over the simple case of missing onions.

So as I watched onion boy hold his hot dog all I could think of was the putrid smell and how long that hot dog had been sitting in the machine. I imagined the pain he would feel in his  stomach and  the sudden rush to go to the washroom countless times that night. One can only hope his stomach is weak!

If he had only been polite maybe someone would have warned him not to eat the hot dog.

The Horror of Shopping for the One Piece Bathing Suit

If you were to peek into my swimwear drawer you would see an array of colors in bikini and tankini styles for fun in the sun. The one piece that is missing is the dreaded Speedo bathing suit.  It’s not that I have not tried to purchase that perfect one piece but fate has it that all swimwear companies are against me!

 

I believe there is a swimwear conspiracy were long-waisted curvy women are doomed never to have the leisure of finding that perfect one-piece for their active lifestyle. I say this as I have gotten back into swimming my tankini’s just are meant for more fun in the sun and not swimming laps. Everything moves and I am constantly readjusting my top in the middle or at the end of each lap.

The worst part is there is someone always looking from above at all of us lane swimmers which means I have innocently flashed a lurking bystander watching from above while attempt to do my back stroke.

I dream of a one piece that goes above my chest line! The effort of struggling into the contraption is almost as bad as SPANX except once pulling the bathing suit on I would make Pamela Anderson blush because it barely covers my nipples.

So if Speedo, Nike, TYR, or any other swimwear company is listening I want you to think of me in my plight in finding the perfect one piece bathing suit. It just has to cover my breasts and keep the girls in place for one hour of swimming three times a week. If you create this miracle suit I will forever be in your debt and will an add an extra day of swimming to my routine just for you!

I Have Been Held Hostage by FedEx

It is day two as I sit and wait for a parcel to arrive.

matter of time

The condition is scarce. I have not left the house.

I have not showered.

And I was brazen by taking a chance to bake blueberry muffins. I am hoping the scent of cinnamon and blueberries will lure the FedEx driver to my house and deliver the parcel within a reasonable time.

It was only yesterday I sat and waited, doing laundry, taking care of my to do-list,  only to trace the tracking number on my computer that evening to discover they were at my house at exactly 2pm.

I was in my house at 2pm! I will tell you this! There was no knock or note on the door and there was no ringing of doorbell!

I quietly wait and lurk through the back pages of McSweeney’s.

I am getting nervous , twitchy, and wonder if I leave the comfort of my main floor – will  he appear, sneak on the deck, and run-off again with the package.  I wonder what is this FedEx drivers game?

I contacted their customer service and explained my plight. Her only advice to me was “to leave a note on the door for them to knock or ring the doorbell.” If the FedEx man does not already have the commonsense to do any of that – I wonder is he playing with full deck?

Only time will tell as I sink into the stinky abyss of my stringy hair and day old yoga pants.  I wait as time marches on. I wait for that one hope of  a knock on that door, a friendly smile asking for a signature, and the freedom to go about my day.

Please keep me you in your thoughts my deodorant is beginning to fade and the odor. Oh! The horror of the insidious odor!

Once there was a Bear and Elton John Enters the Room

Sometimes music  can be the inspiration needed to keep me writing at my desk. However, I have to be careful about my musical selection because my mind wanders to the beat of certain songs. All of a sudden that song  can become the  front and center  story smacking me right in the face.lurking bear

I discovered this as I was working on my almost bear encounter and I turned on Elton John for a little background music. I started  to write about the woman attempting not to frighten my children, whispering, and pointing up the road “Bear!”

I exclaim, “What!? Bear!” which of course frightens my children.

And then Sad Song comes on! Of course I take two minutes to sing  it into my  coffee mug. I then muse over the last time I sang this song with friends in the middle of a pub over fifteen years ago.

Now I then try to focus back on the men emerging from the woods excited over the bear.

“You can go see the grizzly right there! She is right there!”

“Ummm. No thanks.”

I clutch bear spray the bear spray can tighter,  attempting to walk back to my trailer , keeping the kids calm, without running into a bear.  The bear you know is being contained by park rangers but still it’s a bear close by in the bushes.

I then begin to write about the anxiety of the bear and then I Don’t Want to Go On with You Like That starts playing which reminds me of that one guy I dated and badly danced with to this song in a smelly bar after  sharing our second  or third grog. It is inevitable to discover years later that he was gay and that this song meant so much more to him than I could have ever imagined.

So I then go back to the bear, the thoughts running through my head, about what if we had stayed on the trail, and had run into the bear.  Of course, I have to note the British couple that we run into along the way who think “It would be charming to see a grizzly bear.”It is obvious they never watched Grizzly Adams or Legends of the Fall or read what to do if you see a bear which is posted all over the God Damn national park. So then Nikita comes on and it’s not my favorite so I skip it!

Obviously, it  goes straight to I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues which takes me back to India alone in the apartment missing my future husband who was in the final stages of finishing his engineering degree. I may have played this song, over, and over again. But don’t tell him that because I don’t want it to go to his head.

I then snap back to the bear, we make it back to the trailer,  only to discover my husband  snoring the afternoon away,  obviously not concerned about his family. I tell him excitedly about the bear, he grumbles something illegible, and rolls over to go back to sleep.

Only in the final moments of attempting to finish this blog post This Train Don’t Stop Here Anymore magically plays and I am left with a sigh. I think about everything else and I belt it out. Oh! And there was a bear. But this is what happens when I try to write and listen to Elton John at the same time.