Mother: "Don't even pick one of those up. Comics aren't for girls."
Daughter: "But it's My Little Pony."
Mother: "Comics are for Boys. Put it down."
Son: "Emily likes My Little Pony comics, and she's a girl. Lumberjanes is for girls. Squirrel Girl is for--"
Mother: "Nathan. Enough. Comics are for boys. Emily shouldn't be reading them. You have five minutes to get a book."
They all walk around the store on their own for a minute or so.
Mother: "Nathan, you have four minutes to get a book."
Son: "Women don't get to tell men how long they have, it's annoying."
Mother: "I'm your mother, Nathan, I'll do what I want."
Son: "Women don't get to do what they want, that's what men do."
Mother: "That's not very nice, Nathan."
Son: "Well, that's what You sound like."
Mother: "You've got three minutes left, Nathan."
Daughter: "What's A Wrinkle In Time?"
Mother: "Put it down. You don't like comics."
And that's wen I turned into a Hammer brother and started throwing tools at a set of parents who shouldn't be allowed to raise children.
I know I didn't mention the dad. That's because he didn't say anything. But he was complicit in his silence. He gets hit with a hammer, too. Unless he shows me divorce papers and a custody settlement where the kids go to someone who isn't either of them
Usually, the dudes working the late night shift at CVS are the slowest Lethargarians you can imagine.
Tonight, there was only one woman behind the register but only four people in line. Things progressed at human speed until a very angry old lady threw her belongings down at an empty register and loudly sighed while the not old not white not ladies in front of her bought their completely reasonable amount of things to buy at a CVS at one am.
When it was her turn, she sighed as she picked up the belongings, threw them at the woman behind the register, and sighed yet again.
Beleaguered Retail Employee: "Do you have your CVS card?"
Rotten Old Lady: "YES, I Have My Card. Do you think I would go out at night with my card? It's why I come here. Lorde!"
Sadly, the pop superstar of 2013 failed to materialize.
BRE: "And would you like a bag for these?"
ROL: "I have BAGS. You can See my bags? Why would you even ask that? Goodness."
BRE announces the total for the purchase.
ROL: "Oh no. Oh No. Those are three for two dollars, and I'm not paying a penny more."
BRE:"Yes, ma'am. You have four of them."
ROL: "Well, I only need three. I don't know why I would even Have four."
BRE: "Ok. That'll be two dollars and eight cents."
ROL: "That's more like it."
Rotten Old Lady throws her things in her bag, looks around, lets out another operatic level sigh, and leaves, muttering to herself.
I put my can of Monster on the counter. "You know," I say, "if you're going to keep feeding old white ladies after midnight, you're going to get Gremlins."
BRE stares at me in what appears to be mute horror.
I have overstepped my social contract.
BRE cracks the fuck up. "Oh, Lorde, just don't get her wet. I can't have any more of Her tonight."
Me: "I don't think she's been wet in years."
BRE: "You're Crazy."
I, too, Inebriated Shirtless Dude Who, After I Informed Him That The Only Goodish Mexican Place In Harvard Square Was Closed For The Evening, Serenaded Me With An Overly Dramatically Flourished Version Of Smashmouth's "All-Star", was surprised to find myself handing you a ten dollar bill. I didn't know I *had* a ten dollar bill in my pocket. You just won the Pocket Lottery. May you find only the softest tacos with the freshest chicken on your journey forward through life.
An Occasional Loiterer came in, popped two books on the counter and said "I don't want these anymore."
I am so weary of some of the loiterers, that I jut assumed he was trying to return books because he had read them.
"So...you want to return them?"
He didn't make eye contact. "No. I just thought someone else might want them. I do not want money. I want someone else to be happy."
Well, FINE, maybe I'll just stop being pessimistic for the next hour. FINE.
"Getting a bad review is much worse than getting the plague because, at least with the plague, the person that gave it to you died." -- David Mitchell as William Shakespeare in Upstart Crow.
The eight hundred year old cat I inherited a few years ago has had a rough week, and has been, among other things, becoming more vocal. His voice is pretty small, and it often comes from the empty room in my apartment, which is unfurnished, and echoey.
Tonight, while I was trying to get some writing done, I heard a steady stream of yowling, and opened the door to find all cats either asleep or drinking water from their bowls.
I looked out the window and saw a woman with her baby and muttered "No one cares about your selfish problem, human child."
I said it just loud enough that the woman looked up at the window and made a face.