Egg-sactly!

Grocery shopping is usually one of my favorite pastimes. Let’s face it. I enjoy food. A lot. I also enjoy putting together delicious dishes with as little money as possible. It’s become a kind of a game for me. I spend the morning perusing the ads online and make a game plan as to which stores I am going to patronize and in what order. I know it’s sad, but it gives me a buzz. I love it.

This afternoon, my last stop was Publix. It’s one of my favorites because it’s clean, well lit, beautifully merchandized and the customer service is amazing. I also know when they get their shipments so I can snag the freshest produce and hit the amazing “buy one get one” sales before they’re sold out. Yes, I have put THAT much effort into this. Today however, Publix was a madhouse. It’s Thursday and I’m already aware of the sales, so I can’t fathom any reason for the crowd. I decide to brave it anyway. Apart from the masses of rude people, everything seems pretty normal, until I get to the dairy case.

I round the corner to pick out some eggs and the whole area is demolished. It looks like a midget has been river dancing on the shelves. There’s broken eggs on the floor and strewn over into the yoghurt cups. Almost all the cartons are open with smashed shells stuck to the inside. I’m so shocked that I muse out loud, “What the hell is up with the eggs?”

An adorable old woman in turquoise linen capris and matching blouse walks up beside me. I notice her white hair is wound into a perfect French twist as she reaches over and pats my arm as only little old ladies do.  I immediately feel bad for swearing in front of her but before I can apologize she croaks, “It’s Easter, dear.”

“That’s right, I forgot about that. What is wrong with people?”

The little old lady leans in close enough for me to smell the peppermint on her breath and points to the wreckage in front of her. “You said it, dear. They’re fucking animals. You’d think people will die if they don’t color their damn eggs.”

Pure joy. I love old people. 

Growin up Gangsta

The neighbor’s ridiculously loud music brought me to the porch. I just wanted to see which one was annoying me. Of course. It’s the “Can I getta…?” neighbor. As I glanced down the street and saw the kids with their pants riding stupidly low, yelling obscenities at each other over the roar of their skateboards it suddenly dawned on me. In 50 years we are going to have the most hilariously awesome old people ever.  They won’t have old people names like Harold and Ernest. They’ll be called Justin and Zach. With this in mind, I have created Carson.

The year is 2070 and Carson is 78 years old. He lives in a nursing home because his kids and grandchildren are scattered across the country in various prisons.  He can’t decide if the CNA’s at the nursing home are bitches or ho’s, so he just calls them all, “Shawty.” The only reason he agrees to take his medication in the morning is because it says “may cause drowsiness” on the bottle and he’s hoping he’ll eventually cop a buzz. He’s still quite proud of his tattoo that he believes is the Chinese character for “warrior” (the tattoo artist copied it off of Wikipedia and it actually means “strawberry”) and pulls the skin on his bicep taught to show it off to the ladies. Instead of fedoras he has a drawer full of do-rags and trucker hats and he can still deliver a convincing “for-shizzle” if he puts his teeth in. Although the home wouldn’t allow him to bring his 9mm, he compromises with a cap gun he tucks proudly in the small of his back. He and his buddies Marcus and Jake-dog have formed the South Wing Thugs and can be found chillaxing in their hallway keeping an eye on things. Arthritis prevents them from throwing gang signs so they’re hoping the intimidation factor alone will keep people out of their business. Carson is hoping to get a delivery of hard candy from the outside so he can make a little cheddar.