Suburban hell

OK, first of all I apologize, as I’ve just survived a week of Mondays and with the exception of one workday that ended at 5 p.m., the rest more than made up for it in the 7-8 p.m. land. That and there’s a toothache in progress, a migraine and oh yeah! allergies. Lots and lots of watery, runny eyes and sleep-inducing Benadryl that is counteracted by the caffeine in my headache pills. So I? Am Fucked Up.

Anyway, I’m supposed to be getting ready to go out tonight but I think I am going to owe a big ole retroactive apology because I want to go back to bed. And if dying is involved (at least for a few hours), I am all about it.

Speaking of the land of the living dead, I ventured out to Costco this morning.

OK, I have the “Business Member” card, which is supposed to mean that I can enter the warehouse one hour earlier than the unwashed masses, but alas, that’s now an urban myth. At least, on weekends it is. I got to the warehouse at 9:15 and the bitch didn’t open till 9:30. So I did what everyone else did — grabbed a cart and got in line.

As the line was wrapping around the building (!), I noticed people clogging up the driveway and those who weren’t standing in the road were standing six across in each lane just across the street. I could swear mouths were foaming in anticipation of the glorious opening of the doors. I swear, if I’d’a heard the word “Braaaiiiinsss!” just once, my happy ass woulda been outta there. And yes, I was more than just half-expecting it.

The really screwed up part was the fact that people were line-jumping. Yes, even though I was probably 20th in line, people who got there after me were jumping in front of me and, hell, even just parking their double-wide carts at the front of the line. I was too tired to be annoyed until the asshole behind me drove his cart up my butt and skinned my heels. Seriously, people, there’s enough bulk crap for all of us, thanks. You can even split the 100-pack of Clorox wipes with me!

I was telling my mom that you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to tell I’m single. I need a number of the products sold in the store, sure, but not 80 gallons of Tide or 300 dishwasher tablets. (The latter would require me actually unpacking a box and finding my fucking silverware!) But to look in my cart, you’ll see a case of AA batteries, a lifetime supply of Tampax, a bottle of Motrin, a bottle of Midol, a case of Tylenol Sinus, a trough o’chocolate and a four-pack o’Lean Cuisine (to counteract the chocolate, natch). Yup, clearly no man in sight!

I tried to lift the 40-pound thing of kitty litter, but I felt my wrists snap and I park far from my apartment, anyway, so I knew that would be an unsuccessful odyssey. Although, admittedly, my cats certainly shit in bulk so it would have paid to buy it. Forget renting a truck when you go shopping — I need to rent a big, strong man!

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