Rite Aid Is No Walk in the Park

Just call me Survivorwoman because I accidentally eat hair sometimes. Not true! Here is something else not true: people “accidentally” eating spiders in their sleep.

PART I: Nature Calls

I went for a walk in the park on Monday afternoon! Twas all my own doing. It’s part of my staring-at-desktop-picture-does-not-count-as-fresh-air campaign. Photo documentation below. I did it all renegade-style too in that I just pulled over on a major scenic highway willynilly, and announced “I’m going to the park, dammit!”

And nobody answered because I was in the remotest part of the suburban DC jungle. No, but it was after work when I had a smidgeon of time, and it. was. still. most. spectacular. I almost fell down a steep incline of about 10 degrees, but other than that, the afternoon passed without incident.

Holy Sweet Columbus Day! The first sign of civilization in at least a quarter of a mile!

This is actually a postcard I picked up in the gift shop after my walk. PSYCH! I took it myself!! Impressed? ShuT uP!

Here was where I found myself.

This is where I acted out a monologue from the hit TV series “Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman”.

Part IIa: Nature Calls Again

Then I went to Rite Aid (not at the park, different undisclosed location), and had not one, but TWO incidents. Or at least witnessed them. Ok, I had one and witnessed one, but I talked it over with my lawyers, and they said I was allowed to recount both to an unassuming public since I was a witness in one and a victim in the other. Ethically curious enough now? Sheesh.

This sums it up about right.
photo courtesy of Flickr and The Consumerist

Well, first off I needed some tummy appeasement. So I go to the trail mix aisle because that’s where you find wholesome snacks; I’m not sure how many of you know that straight off the bat. I mean, snacks in the form of dried fruit, nuts, chocolate morsels, and the occasional random bolt.

Anyway, there was a man in the aisle cruising for his own hot snack action at the time. I shimmed past him, momentarily cutting off his line of vision, but I did it pretty quick muttering a fast courtesy under my breath, which he probably didn’t hear as I myself could not make out the exact wording.

But right as I cross him, he announces, “Excuse me!” quite loudly and with an attitude of gusto, and I sort of become sheepish as I really should have been the one to utter the dramatic line. Then shortly thereafter, he exits the aisle stage right.

I affirmatively and passively nod at all of these events, and as I am standing there, innocently perusing, my nose catches a whiff of the raunchiest wind ever passed. I’m talking fartropolis, population: stank; the case of the angry butt spasm v. the innocent do-gooder; who let the smogs out?, the new hit song topping the odor charts; a steaming bowl of egg dropping soup; fill in your own rotten analogy, etc. This was serious business, as in someone just did their business and hid it somewhere up in the trail mix of things.

It was so bad, I started to get a little dizzy. But not in a light-hearted, I’m-in-love way. More like in a who-farted, I’m-in-a-biohazardous-area-without-my-suit-on way.

Anyway, I put poo and poo together, and realized the guy’s “Excuse me” was in reference to his flatulence rather than my impertinence. I immediately exit stage left to take a literal breather. And I come back a few minutes later, and at this point, it’s escalated to a Code Purple (i.e., evacuate all life specimens) situation. I just grabbed a random selection and hightailed it to the registers.

Well, it was no ghost fart, that’s for sure.
photo courtesy of Flickr and banjo d

Moral of the story: Being rude is easily trumped by being crude (even if you try and cover for yourself by verbally pre-announcing it).

Part IIb: Nature Calls But Then Hangs Up When You Answer

(If you last recall, our brave heroine was making her way over to the cash registers…)

At the cash registers, I see this woman waiting in line lifting up this man’s shirt who’s in front of her and getting all up in the face of his pecs. I imagine some kind of couply incident is going on. WRONG ON ALL COUNTS! They are both strangers to each other. She was merely getting a good look at his body tats, of which he had an entire intricate collective suit made up of tribal symbols and other historical graffiti.

Then, as if to explain herself, she loudly exclaims, “Hey! Life is short! Bwahahahahahah!”

And the guy, who is totally game, goes, “Sure is.”

Then the woman at the cash register goes, “You are too much!” in regard to show-me-yer-tatties girl.

Then this random old lady comes along out of nowhere, just walking through the lines, not even respecting them, and she goes, “What’s going on?”

And Tatties girl goes, “Nothing! I was just admiring his tats! Bwahahahahah!”…the ultimate in guilty laughter. Closely followed by “I’m sorry if I offended you. My friends think I’m pretty bold. Bwahahahaha!” directed at the guy.

He says, “Not at all.” (Of course he says that! He’s basking in the glow of all these ladies, spanning all different ages and walks of life!)

Then the old lady gets all up in the guy’s personal space and knowledgeably comments, “You know I find most tattoos too busy. Yours aren’t too busy.”

The guy says, “Well, thank you. I appreciate you saying that.”

Then the lady behind the register says, “How did you pick them?”

And he says, “I actually studied cultures that are thousands of years old and have a history of tattooing in them. Because they know what is going to look good 40 years from now.”

Ok, I kind of see his point but I still threw up after hearing that. Couldn’t help it. Gut reaction.

Moral of the Story: People with several tattoos on their body will always have a story to back them up. They will always want to tell this story to anybody or anything with ears (including corn).

When this guy got his tattoos, he requested “Nothing too busy please!”
photo courtesy of Flickr and mikebaird

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