Archive for February, 2017

When A Portal Isn’t A Patio; Patience Is A Four-letter Word

Wednesday, February 8th, 2017

So. The dogs and I have now been back to Texas for three months, and we’re finally settled in. Our little Texas ranch-style abode required little for us to successfully, comfortably live, save and except, for the addition of a cover for the back patio and a new fence, and notice that rather than call it a “portal”, it’s a “patio”. The grammartizations of logistical differences between New Mexico and here to Texas can be important. The cover is to provide protection from the hot Texas sun—not Santa Fe’s cold—and also to provide shelter from the rain so the Squirt isn’t required to get her dainty feet wet when she goes outside to do her business.

“Shove it up your ass, shithead, I’m not getting my feet wet,” she told me the first time it rained after moving in. “You start crapping in the shower and I’ll consider it.”

As a compromise, I’ve let her use the covered front porch as her outhouse. Since I park in back and don’t use the front door for anything else, we’ve had the side benefit of not having any salesmen or religious nuts buggerating me. There’s maybe a dozen various churches surrounding our neighborhood, so my street is prime hunting ground for new parishioners.

And that reminds me of this apartment I rented this one time back to college—the one I got just before Streaker jones and I got the house over on 45th Street. It was half of a one-car garage. Seriously. You’d open the front door that swung into the left wall where a single clothes rod hung to serve as closet. The single bed was immediately on the right. The rest of the space was filled with a modular steel kitchenette featuring sink, two-burner stove, tiny oven and storage space, all-in-one, which sat opposite with a ship’s style head.

The bathroom consisted of a rotted green shower head that sprayed directly down onto the commode, and a too-small drain in the floor that constantly backed up. What makes this story germane to the ramblings herein is the simple fact that this apartment was so narrow I could shit, shower, shave and cook breakfast without ever lifting my ass off the toilet.

Which reminds me. I was over to the Kroger yesterday morning to do some shopping. It was a nice day and the store wasn’t crowded at all. The wide aisles were freshly polished and brightly lit. Since I always start grocery shopping from right-to-left, in this particular store I began in the deli section in right-front with the fresh seafood and meat in the back. I selected my just-baked sandwich roll, some Swiss cheese and a whole chicken in near-record time, buzzing through the area without impediments. As this store is oddly arranged, I had to pass around the wine and beer section at the back of the next three aisles to get to the veggies, which are located at the front of the store, but not back-to-front. Or front-to-back.

I needed some asparagus, tomatoes, lettuce and limes. This store is new to me and I stopped to survey so as to best utilize my time. There were maybe a dozen shoppers in produce and they were all clustered in front of the organic lettuce and asparagus, save—and likewise except—for this one gigantic woman who had obviously read “Kroger” and seen “Walmart”. The woman was maybe 5’6” in height and was absolutely that wide. She had two kids in tow—one in-basket and the other was tethered to the dirty, twisted tail of her “Make America Great Again” tee shirt.

OK, while all I could read from the tee shirt was, “Ma/mer/aGr/in,” as the red cotton fabric folded in-and-out of her folds, mayhaps I jumped the gun as to her political leanings. The four of them—woman, kids and basket—somehow managed to take up the full aisle in front of the citrus on the one side, and the organic cherry tomatoes I buy this time of year on the other.

Because I’m practicing the fine art of Patience for the improvement of my poker game, I stood, silently, awaiting an opening. After five minutes the large woman moved on, without choosing a single thing. I commented silently to myself about that one, and moved behind her for my tomatoes, required to squint my eyes at the smell of moldy arm pits and shitty diapers. After inspecting each of the thirty-one clear plastic tomato pints, I managed to not find one suitable. So, I spent a couple minutes mixing-and-matching from six buckets, and did manage to make myself happy.

Having completed tomato hunting, I turned back towards the lettuce and asparagus only to find the Walmart woman entourage filling that space like too much silicone caulk oozing in blobs and blurbs the way it does when you seal the tile surround on your bathtub. I took a deep breath (from twenty feet away), asked myself if I really needed lettuce and asparagus, decided I did, and then made another decision to shop elsewhere first, then return to produce. There are times when retreat is a viable option.

I headed back through the booze area to find a quite attractive lady setting up a wine tasting. Never one to let an attractive lady go un-shopped, I stopped to see what was up.

“It’s a wine tasting, silly. Like the sign says.”

After sampling a snifter of her six choices, I bought one of each. Some women appreciate a man’s fine taste, and my hopes were that this was one of said. Moving on without a scheduled date, I decided to get some Thai noodles. I found the right aisle, turned my basket into it, and ran smack dab into Walmart Woman’s cart. It was parked cross-wise in front of the Thai noodles, with Fat Ass and Snot Nose filling the remaining aisle space.

When I attempted to get by and my cart lightly tapped hers again, she whirled to face me, and with this incredible sneer, she yelled at me, she almost shouted, “What are you doing? Can’t you see there’s a baby in that basket?”

I started to tell her exactly what I was seeing, instead said, “Sorry, ma’am,” turned and headed back to veggies. I got my remaining vegetables and decided against Thai noodles and chose to have pasta for dinner. Pasta requires the proper pre-cooked tomatoes this off season, so I headed that way for a glass-jarred, two-cups of tomatoes.

As karma would have it in for me, Whale Bitch and the Spawn of Orca were blocking the full width of bottled tomatoes aisle. “Oh for Christ sakes,” I murmured, “does this woman have no concern for other shoppers?” Then I said to the lady, and no, I didn’t quite shout it, “Walmart is down the block, asswipe!”

I’ve never before been asked to leave a Kroger, and luckily it was a temporary ban, so I guess I’m making progress with my patience. My ADD usually takes up all the patience I’ve got.

So, Fuck Walmart and some Walmart Shoppers!