Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Tag: Convenience store

Day 1: Let’s Pretend

Welcome to my year-long post-a-day project, in which you help me pretend that I have to produce a column a day, like it or not. I predict that on some days, I won’t feel like writing, and will whine about it. On the other hand, I usually change my mind and do feel like it once I’ve actually started.

S.G.’S 1ST POST, 2/22/13: “What Are You Doing Here?”

In that post, I predicted that this blog would be self-centered, which indeed came to pass. I also expressed the hope that I’d attract more readers, which did not. However, my thanks to the unknown FanBaser who was so excited by this archive-excavation project that they went ahead and read the post in question before I’d done so myself.

But enough time travel for now…


The scabs on my hand and knee are mysteriously getting smaller. You know what that means–I am spreading SCAB DUST wherever I go. Yeah, eww.

The new Thornton’s is cavernous, and appears indestructible. The restroom is one of those annoyingly-futuristic ones where everything is no-hands. The toilet flushes as soon as you stand up, the sink tap turns itself on and off–never allotting enough water–and the paper towel dispenser requires you to wave your hands around like an incompetent wizard (sprinkling everything with Magic Scab Dust). (And was there an epidemic of bathroom sinks being left running in the past which cost businesses millions of dollars? Really?) Beside said towel dispenser is a sign saying, “IF YOU REQUIRE ASSISTANCE, USE THE  ASSISTANCE REQUEST DEVICE BELOW.” Which is a button. A button that you push. I’m going to start calling the zipper on my jacket a Garment Closure Device.

{This post is being repeatedly interrupted by a screaming cat who runs in, yowls, and runs out, spreading destruction throughout the house, from the sound of it.} {Turns out what I heard was the toilet paper being torn off the roll.} {At least nothing was on fire this time.}

I Lose My Faith In Humanity

OK, so Rom sent me to Walgreen’s to buy a broom. So I did.

It would not be reasonable to expect me to resist a “Magnum Chocolate Infinity” ice cream bar at Thornton’s, so I didn’t. I found a shady place to consume said item at the side of the building, next to the trash can. Then I noticed a more scenic spot under a tree, but I’d already committed myself to a course of action, and there was NO TURNING BACK.

As you might imagine, eating an ice cream novelty in this kind of heat is a hazardous proposition, and I ended up with chocolate all over my hands. I went to wash my hands inside the building (hoping they didn’t try to make me pay for the drink I was carrying a 2nd time), just got around the corner–not even near the door yet–and thought, Oh, forgot my broom. (Sounds like I ride one, doesn’t it?) Went back around the corner, and the broom was already gone. There had been a small silver car and a dark blue SUV parked on the side of the building, and both were gone now, so it could have been either one. Easy to say, “Look! A free broom!,” grab it, and leave out the side drive. So I’m out $14, and had to troop back to Walgreen’s and buy another broom, which I held in a deathlike grip until I got home. I told my sad story to the Walgreen’s clerk, so they wouldn’t wonder why I kept coming in there and buying brooms–dementia, perhaps? She tactfully refrained from mentioning that I had chocolate on my cheek, but I’d mentioned the ice cream bar, so at least she knew why that was–dementia, perhaps?

I am picturing the scene at the thief’s house–“Look! Got us a broom! We never could have afforded one! Now we can sweep the floor at last!” “You did good, honey.” (This is known as Lavish Sarcasm. I will give you a tutorial on it, if you give me $14.) (As I read recently, “Being good at sarcasm is like being good at torture. People notice it, but they don’t admire it.” Food for thought. I guess.)

Be Very Quiet

…shhhh….no one has been here since the 22nd. I myself haven’t been here for 2 weeks, although it seems like a lot longer. I guess blog time isn’t the same as time on the outside.


I have decided to self-identify as a writer. In spite of the fact that I only posted twice last month, and haven’t had anything published for money since 1995 (for a publication with a stated circulation of 200), and hadn’t had anything published before then since the early 80’s. Yes, I have been in government service since 1978. But I feel I have the brain of a writer, not to mention the wardrobe of one, so I expect everyone to refer to me as one from now on. {Disclaimer: I stole this idea from the Lucky Old Man, although his version of it is less charmless and peevish than this one.} 


My supervisor has recently reminded us that we can have one ridealong a year! But I would feel disloyal to Nick if I went with someone else, and aren’t you sorry you’re on third shift now, Nick? And that I’m not? More than one person has assured me that I would be ill-advised to go with him. Just look at him–lazing in the sun, rolling on his back, hoping the dazzling splendor of his snowy underparts will distract me from the wealth of claws and teeth he possesses.


First it was mascara designed to make you look like you’re wearing false lashes. But, because that wasn’t stupid enough, they have now come up with, I kid you not, mascara that creates a “sexy tangled look.” By which they mean, clumpy mascara. Yes, we’re now supposed to strive for that. Don’t take my word for it–go see it at CVS. They have an illustration and everything.


The convenience store at Claremont & Ray Becker now has fried chicken!

Time to pay a bill and go to bed.


No Excuse

Would you believe I made a birthday resolution to post more often, then failed to do so? You would? Oh.


In the Incident of Nick’s Cub, Rom said that, while he wasn’t exactly chasing said cub, he did advance toward him slowly while making the scary noise. Of course, Nick was stuck up a tree and knew nothing.

Speaking of which…


The other day, on the bus stop bench in front of White Oak Manor (more accurately referred to as Small Rosebush Manor), there was a large carton of fried chicken. I don’t mean someone forgot their 4-piece meal. I mean a moving-size packing box full. I don’t know if they forgot to bring it on the bus, if the driver said they couldn’t bring it on the bus, they stole it, whatever. But there it sat in the June heat, for who knows how long, and who knows how much longer it would have sat there. But I knew the right man–or whatever–for the job. I advised Nick of its existence in his beat. Yes, he ate it up, cardboard box and all, then fell asleep at the bus stop and had to be towed away on a flatbed truck. Well, we couldn’t just leave him there. People would be afraid to wait for the bus.


Speaking of municipal services–you know that sidewalk in front of your house? How about pulling the weeds that grow between the cracks? It’s interesting that people will stoutly maintain that the parking space in front of their house belongs to them (it doesn’t), but the sidewalk has weeds a yard tall because “that’s not my property.” You know, the city doesn’t have a crew that goes around pulling weeds out of sidewalks. You don’t pay enough taxes for that. (And just spraying them with poison and leaving the dead brown weeds lying there is NOT THE SOLUTION.)


–The Thornton’s card from Charles and his lovely wife J. provided me with fountain drinks and the occasional Roller Grill Item (I can recommend the franks and the bratwurst) for all of 3 weeks. That may not seem like a long time, but gives you some idea of the amount of soda I consume.

–The Walgreen’s card from my colleague 911SK provided me with a new Schick Quattro razor, Raspberry Rain shave gel, Olay Age-Defying body wash (yes, I went back to it–I am ever-defiant), and Romantic Rose deodorant–I am nothing if not romantic.

–The Olde Crowe still perches on the shelf above my computer. You know, I should start taking that thing with me wherever I go, and talking to it in public places.

Speaking of  beings I talk to, I currently have 2 cat scratches on my leg. One is from Glamour when she lost her balance jumping on my lap (on the way to Rom’s lap), and one is from Esmerelda reaching out and desperately trying to keep me from getting out of bed. Love is a battlefield.


Business As Unusual


–You want to report road rage, then say you followed the other driver to a parking lot and are now screaming at them.

–You need assistance because “A beagle charged me and is trying to bite my ankles.”

Speaking of potential ankle-biters, Service Cat Esmerelda was crying for me the other night. Oh, how cute, she’s got her catnip mouse, I thought. No, she had an actual mouse, mortally wounded but not yet dead. She wanted me to–bite its head off, I suppose. I taught her that the correct course of action is actually to contact Rom for disposal.


The better the ant baits you put down, the more colonies of ants you will attract as a result. We hope to wipe out all ants within a 3-mile radius.

OK, I just revealed we’re infested with mice and ants. Would it help if I added that Rom got bombed by a stink bug twice in 2 days?


I read an article in which a woman resolved to give up her bad habit of sarcasm. I suggested to Nick that this was a self-improvement program we might embark on together. “Absolutely not,” was his response. So it is Business as Usual, since we both have long claws and a great many teeth.

Speaking of such beasts, and their armaments and capabilities, Rom wants you to know that he did not actually chase Nick’s cub at The Birthday Party, but merely made a scary noise in his general direction. Of course, Nick was skulking in the outer darkness at that point, and will have to take our word for it.


–Put in ice.

–Add shot of additional flavoring. (World Leader additions–Do not add a bunch of shots of additional flavoring. And note to tween girls–No, you are not proving your edgy individuality by putting some of every flavor in your cup, but nice try.)

–Fill cup with the soft drink of your choice.

I’m glad they give us the correct sequence of these steps. Apparently I’d been doing it wrong.


The restroom at Thornton’s. Too bad they never play anything I want to hear.



Don’t Fear the Reaper     

I think everyone knows who this title was stolen from, but YOU CAN’T COPYRIGHT A TITLE!


I was sent out of the house so I wouldn’t get in the way of preparation. (All hail to Rom and D., who did everything.) Rom had planned to put those number candles on my cake (said cake being a pan of brownies, so dark that their batter looked like asphalt), but was thwarted because $ General was out of 0’s. (Or they figured people with “0” in their ages don’t want anyone to know their age.) I did find 0’s at Walgreen’s, but by then it was too late, and he had committed to candles which spelled out “Happy Birthday.”


The last time I’d been by My Shelter House, as I now think of it (hey, it was our polling place for many years, too), I disapprovingly noted the peeling paint, and hoped it would be spruced up in time. Apparently we were the first people to reserve it this year (hey, it’s not even Memorial Day yet!), because they called Rom and asked when we intended to get started (our rental fee entitled us to occupy it from noon until midnight, although Nick ordered us to be out by 11, so he wouldn’t have to deal with us professionally), so they’d know when to be done painting. So you can thank me for the beige paint with dark green trim.

I had been starting to think, “A party! What was I thinking?” and getting panicky, but I thought, You have several bottles of sedative on hand, so chill. “Only 3 bottles?” I asked Rom, checking the fridge once we got there. “I don’t want to see you after more than 3,” he responded grimly.

I was delighted to see some former co-workers I seldom get to see, as well as current Tolerable Co-Workers, as they are known, as well as my Numerous and Aggressive In-Laws, as they are properly called. I must mention the brilliant collection of cards,  including 911 references (how common are these among the ranks of greeting cards, really?), and one with actual Scratchy Glitter on the front, which, for some reason, although I loathe it, I feel compelled to touch every time I encounter it. Ew ew ew ew ew, as Eminem said about certain strange and disgusting sexual practices involving tubing.


Yes, there were some, even though I hadn’t asked for any. I didn’t refuse any either, though.

Today I used my gift card for Thornton’s. I figured it was the perfect excuse to try the dreaded Roller Grill Item, which actually turned out to be pretty good. Since there’s no place to sit down in Thornton’s, I took my Item and my drink and trundled across the street to Walgreen’s, where I had a little picnic on their bench under the awning, safe from both the blazing sun and the giant storm cloud, which for some reason were both in the sky simultaneously, and neither of which I wanted to be under.

I received gift cards for Walgreen’s! and for Barnes & Noble! and for Canton Inn! and will report back on what use I make of them, and, for that matter, how I manage to get to Canton Inn, which will probably be a story in itself.


I was solemnly presented with a creepily natural-looking crow, which has been handed down to several people celebrating significant birthdays. We proceeded to argue about whether it was taxidermy or not, and whether it had actually made a noise, or whether we’d just imagined it. I thought it should croak “Nevermore,” or, as one of Rom’s nieces once thought it was, “Quoth the Raven, ‘Never mind.'” Puts a whole different spin on the poem, doesn’t it? At any rate, the Old Crow now perches above this computer until I can figure out who else to bestow it on.


A couple people asked if the fabled Nick (one person actually called him that) was going to make an appearance. I was even asked if he was a real person or just a fictional character. The latter theory was gaining credence as a couple hours went by without him. After 2 1/2 bottles of apple ale, and a little too much food, I started thinking I might be about to be sick. I headed for the bathroom in case this happened, but luckily the crisis passed. And who should I see when I came back out, but the said beast himself, proudly carrying a 12-pack of ale, in case I needed more. He was duly inspected by the gathered FanBase. His lack of fire-breathing ability was deplored, but the length of his fangs and scaliness of tail were much admired, until all the attention made him slink back into the outer darkness, though not before grabbing a quantity of brownies.

While Nick was out of the room, Rom thought it would be fun to play with Nick’s younger cub, who had been gleefully running around up to that moment. So Rom charged at the cub while making a monster noise, causing the poor thing to flee in a panic, squealing in terror and flapping his tiny wings.


I include it here because we had it at such a polite volume that probably no one could hear it.

–Bruce Springsteen, “Darkness on the Edge of Town”–because I walk streets of fire, obviously!

–R.E.M., “Out of Time”–That’s me in the spotlight, that’s me in the driveway, losing my religion…

–the Doors, “L.A. Woman”–I had to include some Doors, and this one doesn’t have any songs that are 20 minutes long and involve screaming.

–Blue Oyster Cult, “Agents of Fortune”–this features “Don’t Fear the Reaper,” which Sister Elizabeth told me she considers my theme song. So I’ll just have to have it played whenever I walk into a room.

Cruel and Usual Punishment

People have asked me why Nick has an injured hind leg. Am I his keeper? (Most certainly not–my house lacks the necessary containment facilities.) Isn’t it interesting that he was also injured around this time about a year ago? And that he never seems to learn? (I’d be whistling casually at this point, except that I can’t whistle. Just one of the many skills I lack!) Anyway, in addition to his injury, which I may or may not have caused, he has been sentenced to house arrest in the basement (and is unable to climb the stairs, ha ha) for 4-6 weeks, or until his morale improves. Don’t worry–he has plenty of food and blankets, and his favorite Super Mario chew toy. And if the howling and wailing get too loud, his owner brings him butterscotch hot chocolate. This, like all fluids, must be administered with a baby bottle, because it’s hard to lap liquids out of a dish when you have a forked tongue.


I have it on semi-reliable authority that the convenience store nearest my house (Barker and Ray Becker) is being resurrected, with fried chicken to come! It was appropriate to learn this on the 22nd anniversary of moving into our house on the 9th. (Nick might object to being called a “semi-reliable source,” but he can’t catch me in his current condition.)


Someone who “doesn’t want drama” does not call 911 and say, “My husband is assaulting me verbally.”


Retraction & Correction

Nick, ever eager to correct me (although that cuts both ways), pointed out that the females acclaiming his cuteness were not teenage girls, as I assumed (an action to which I am prone, even though I know what happens when you do), but women in their forties, and therefore ineligible for stud service. I shall still refer to them as the Youth of America, though, because hey, they’re younger than I am. Speaking of which, texting him while I’m walking down Broadway–who could imagine that ending badly? Luckily, I managed not to crash into anything, or get crashed into by anything else. Which brings me to…


I stopped in to the Marathon at Broadway & Barker, obtaining a fountain drink which claimed to be “Fueling the American Spirit.” (including italics)–quite a tall order (though I suspect the American Spirit is actually fueled by beer). Then I availed myself of their cootie-infested restroom, with what I took to be gang-related drawings, and the sentiment “All You Need Is Captain Love.” For some reason, I suspect that is not the same as “love” in the generally-accepted sense.


There is a giant drawing of the male genitalia, in red, with the requisite spewing fluid, on the sidewalk at Barker & Edgewood. As the old Evansville slogan says, “Feel the Pride Come Alive!” No, really. (Play on words not intended, but not retracted, either.)



–Everybody watch Weird Al’s “Word Crimes” (brought to my attention courtesy of the ever-courteous Nick). Watch it as many times as it takes.


Last night, while shaving my legs with the aid of “Raspberry Rain” shave gel and an iridescent pink razor, it occurred to me–Don’t I really need My Little Pony to complete the experience?


Note to anyone inviting me to a pool party–allow plenty of advance notice for me to buy a bathing suit. Oh, yeah, and to learn to swim.

Something Twisted and Sinister

But first, Worst Product Launch Award goes to chocolate-flavored toothpaste. Hey, I use toothpaste because of chocolate.


(And, to those who don’t get the reference, may I just point out that Google is your friend.)

–I have truly terrible eyesight. I took my glasses off tonight, prior to pulling off my shirt, saw a flash of white behind the chair in the bedroom, and started talking affectionately to my black-and-white cat. Turns out I was talking to the table leg.

Someone was surprised to find out I like “Justified.” People seem to think I’m a schoolmarmish type who doesn’t drink or cuss. Actually, I dream to someday be drunk enough to do karaoke to “House of the Rising Sun.” It would be especially worthwhile because I’ve come up with alternate lyrics, to fit my own personal life story.


It occurs to me that my rendezvous with Nick & Sam & Hollie at Thornton’s the other day could be referred to as a meeting of the Sarcasm Club. However, it’s hard to look down on other people when your clubhouse is a convenience store.

I told Nick I didn’t think he would want me as a ridealong, considering my behavior in the squad car the other day. He assured me my struggles would soon subside. For some reason, I did not find this reassuring, but rather the reverse. Perhaps it was his use of the phrase “a state of frozen horror.”


A caller told me, “I can’t give you the license number if you won’t listen to me!” Please spare me your condescension, since I can’t get the information I need in the order I need it if you’re yelling a license number in my ear as soon as I answer the phone. And no, don’t speed up after the reckless driver so you can read it. And, having done so anyway, don’t add, “And I’ve got my kids in the car!” You’re part of the problem, kthnxbye.


Caught in a Panic

…brought to you by Redd’s Apple Ale, the preferred beverage of folks who just got hit in the head with a piece of fruit. Actually, I have Strawberry at the moment, but I don’t like it quite as well. I don’t often drink, but when I do, I usually post, so it seems like I do it a lot. Drink, I mean.

First off, welcome to Nick & Sam’s ridealong of last night, if you found your way here. I was told you were surprised to find I have a blog (why surprising? it’s not exactly dangerous, right? RIGHT?), and that you thought I was funny. I wouldn’t have thought I was, since I was mostly scolding Nick for dropping my money on the floor. OK, I guess seeing such a beast cowering before me was amusing. Point taken.


I remembered what I forgot to say last night, but luckily, Sam can add to it. We had a run involving a female who was picking up rocks thinking they were Xanax (Zanax? Does it matter, since it’s a made-up word anyway?). What I did not know was how this woman thought you dosed yourself with Xanax. Remember my “Place pill in mouth” instructions from last night? Well, this woman placed her supposed Xanax (which was actually rocks, you’ll remember) in–well, in what an old advertisement once referred to as “the most girl part of you.” (That may actually be the only girl part of me, but I digress.) She was also under the impression that they would explode if they fell out of her. Some people lead exciting lives.


I discovered, amongst the various dollar bills Nick pelted me with, one which had written on it, “I WANT F*CKED. LOVE, MICKAY” followed by a phone number, which I am grievously tempted to call. But I don’t f*ck anyone who can’t construct a simple sentence.


I try to avoid them. But today I encountered the comedy team of Nick & Sam at Thornton’s, along with the even-shorter-than-Sam Hollie S. In spite of fondling his taser longingly when I came in, Nick was surprisingly tame. He emptied all his pockets for my inspection, and even ate a beast treat FROM HOLLIE’S HAND, although he could not be prevented from eating spilled candy off the floor. He begged me to allow them to give me a ride home (I’m telling this story, Nick, and if you don’t like it, start your own blog), so I graciously accepted. Just as I was stepping into the car, they got a run–accident with injuries. I hastily pulled my leg back out of the car, congratulating myself on my narrow escape, and they started to speed off. But they didn’t get far before pulling back into the lot. “We got a disregard,” they explained. It sounded like a trap, but I got back in the car anyway. We pulled around the block, but it was rush hour, so whatta ya know, they got called again. Another accident with injuries. “%$#@!” I said, having forgotten my other vocabulary words. “Would you like to be let out?” Nick drawled. “Yes, I would.” I started scrabbling frantically for the door handle, forgetting that police cars don’t have door handles on the inside in back, because I’ve only been doing this job since, what, 1986. “You have to wait until Sam lets you out,” Nick explained, but, since I had not taken any Xanax, I was not good at accepting direction. But I was indeed released, and they sped off, sirens blazing. The End.



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