Drug Store Bitches

I have a problem.

A problem with my local drug store.

Well actually, a problem with the bitches that work there.

The drug-store-bitches judge me…like all the time.

I never noticed this before, but lately I’ve been taking stock of my existence, and I’m a lot more aware of my surroundings.

When it comes to my local store, I visit there very often.  Sometimes it’s for “period supplies”, sometimes it’s for personal lubricant, and sometimes it’s for prescription fungal-cream (the “area of treatment” will not be divulged).  With the added pressure of being single, my drug store visits spike even higher, since I run out of mascara, “elephant-fat-lip-plumper” and chocolate like once a week.

So with my valued business, you’d think that I’d be treated like a queen.

Yeah, you’d think, but reality tells a different story…

Example A

I’ve been starving myself of sleep for ages.  I don’t mean to, but the commute to work is long, and there’s too much to do in a week-night, so sleep has become a luxury.  Less sleep means more haggardness, but recently I saw an ad for some excellent eye-cream (it wasn’t a wrinkle cream, but instead a “dark-circle/puffy-eye” reducer).  The commercial made some excellent claims, so I rushed to the store to pick up a bottle…

…As I stood in line imagining a life without puffy eye-sacs, the drug-store bitch cashier said hello.  Instead of simply scanning my precious cream, she looked it over long and hard…She then stared DIRECTLY at my puffy eye-sacs, with an eyebrow raised to high-heaven. 

What the hell was that about!?!?!?  It was like she was saying “good luck with that” (sarcastically), through the booming voice of her judging stare.

BITCH!

Example B: 

It was gray and gloomy outside.  To top it all off I’d had a terrible day at work, so I needed to indulge in some calories.  Hence, I  swung by the local drug-store, and grabbed me a bag of those chocolate-peanut-caramel-nougat-cluster thingys.  As I stood in line envisioning my tongue’s orgasmic-eruption, the drug-store bitch cashier said hello.  She scanned the bag of chocolate and looked me up-and-down (with disdain).  She followed that stare with the one where she thinks that I’m a re-incarnation of a sweaty fat kid.

BITCH!

This time I was steaming mad, so I thought about jumping over the counter and ripping out her uterus with my bare left hand (I’m a south-paw so my lefty is ”the claw”), but in the end I lost my balls and retreated to the car, where I ate half the bag of clusters (in approximately 1.5 minutes)…

***

Those certainly aren’t the only examples of drug-store-bitchery, but they’re plenty bad enough for my fragile self-esteem.  I mean I know I shouldn’t care what some stranger thinks about my life and the products in it, but somehow…I do.

And why is it always the girls with the judging-eyes?  Like when it comes to  effeminate male cashiers, I NEVER have a problem.  But with chicks, it’s all about the mental warfare.  It’s not even restricted to drug-store-abuse, “angry chicks hating chicks” are an epidemic.  I have no idea why it happens, but 80% of my friends are dudes, so go figure that one out…

Well anyway I’m not about to sit here and solve the age-old problem of “chick-animosity” and cat-fights, but I will definitely request that the drug-store-bitches wear shades from now on at work, so I don’t have to look at their ”judging” eyes.  If not that, then maybe they can just put a bag on their head, so I don’t have to see them at all (and really, why not a bag? ’cause they sure as hell ain’t pretty (meow...))

 

 

My Arranged Marriage: Progress Report

As you may recall, I recently decided to get married (in that classy “arranged” kinda way). 

I was hoping to be engaged by December 1st, sooo…wtf?

Well I got a bunch of hits on my profile, so it wasn’t that.

 Oh, and in case you were wondering…

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Profile for SpicyCakes41:

Height: tall (but not so tall that it’s emasculating)

Weight: like a Bollywood actress

Face: like a Bollywood actress

Skills: laundry-with-a-smile, shoe-polishing, making tandoori chicken, mending husband’s shirts, speaking softly, etc.

Extras: warm and welcoming uterus; good for 5+ babies…

—————————————————-

So again, wtf?

Perhaps it was the strength of my physical/domestic assets…was it a little too much for the fellas???

I couldn’t figure it out, and I was almost inclined to shut-down PLAN: Arranged Marriage.

But then I found it:

-My saving grace

It came in the form of this story, where an Indian man got married to a grade-A bitch (of the canine variety). 

That’s right, decked out in an orange sari, this bitch’s dream came true (i.e. the dream of “human dong”).

Before it became official, the family reviewed the bitch, as is custom in Indian culture (Is she a virgin? Is she carrying fleas? Is she likely to stray? etc…).

Once she received the stamp of approval, the couple exchanged vows, surrounded by family and friends:

I KNOW, doesn’t that picture leave you speechless? 

“Arranged Marriage transcends species“, what a concept!

In other words, there IS hope for Romi yet! 

So forget human males, the population of animal dudes is probably 1000x greater!  And like hellllooo…talk about variety eh? I’ve got the ENTIRE Animal Kingdom to solicit now; lions and tigers and bears, oh my!

I should probably begin by spamming my personal profile; I’ll start with the “big ’n trendy” Zoos, ’cause I only want the top-notch “captives” (and between you and me, I sure wouldn’t mind a little ”elephant”…mmm…)

So wish me luck, and let’s say engagement by…January 1st, ’08?  

I’ll update you then with good news or bad news… 

YO BITCH: LESS TALK MORE LATTE!

I don’t get mad very often, but when it comes to “goods and services”, I have zero-patience for anything less than EXACTLY WHAT I WANT.

I experienced a slight deviation from “what I want” this morning, as I visited my #1 latte shoppe (or that little-known place called Starbucks).

I had a day-off you see, and though it really switched up my morning-process, “latte-acquisition” remained top of mind.  

It was one of those mornings where I wished long and hard for a loyal monkey-butler.  Yes…“home-delivered lattes”, what a dream…

Well guess what: my monkey-butler-bitch is still en-route to Canada (current status: half way across the Atlantic on a cargo ship from Africa), so for today anyway, I was grudgingly resigned to leaving the goddamn house.

The suckiest thing about “leaving the goddamn house” was having to ditch my PJ’s.  Yeah, apparently “teddy bear prints” aren’t socially acceptable (ohhh….well I’m sorry I’m so fucking cute).  I wasn’t about to make a full-on compromise, so I only committed half-way; that is, I swapped out my PJ bottoms for my hot-ass exercise pants.  My motivation here was to leave all the men out there thinking: “hey, who’s that bitch in the ass-hugging workout pants? She must’ve just finished a yoga class or something…what a cool slut”.  That’s right, you force me to go outside? I will make you fucking drool.

When I finally arrived at Starbucks, my patience was level-zero, and my latte-thirst was mile-fucking-high.

As I rushed on over to the latte machine, the tall young barista caught my eye.  NO he wasn’t a “hottie”, but more like your “run of the mill”, “average-joe”, psycho-looking FREAK.

We ended up having a chat (against my will), and here’s how that all went:

Barista-dude begins with:  “SO, HOW IS YOUR DAY SO FAR???” (picture him saying it VERY loudly) 

I muster up a smile and think to myself: “Oh God, this is one of those small-talk-loving fuck-heads; I am probably in for the worst 5 minutes of my life”.

[Side-note: I am NOT a bitch, but when pre-disposed to being "cranky-as-fuck", I just want a goddman latte to make my world okay.  Like seriously, interacting with baristas when I'm waiting for a coffee is "priority #: NEVER!!" (fucking losers who talk to strangers...) ]

So anyway, this stupid man-bitch just wouldn’t let up on the small talk!  He actually went on to make it special, deepening our exchange with his “cult-leader” eyes and “I’m gonna cut up your body parts and put them in my freezer” smile.

And here’s how that went…

Psycho-Cult-Man: “Can I…share my opinion with you?”

WHAT—THE—FUCK…

Me: “Sure…..”

Psycho-Cult-Man: “I just wanted to give you a little recommendation about your latte…”

Me: (dumbfounded stare)

Psycho-Cult-Man: “I strongly feel that you should skip the “regular nutmeg”, and instead try our special “holiday nutmeg”.  In my experience (self-righteous tone), I find that the regular nutmeg over-powers the drink, whereas….(blah, blah, blah, he went on about nutmeg for another 5 minutes)…But hey, that’s just my “barista-expert” opinion” (picture the axe-murderer-smile once again…)

Me: “riiiiiighhht…okay” (just give me my fucking latte BITCH!!!)

So 2 or 3 hours later, I walked out of Starbucks at last, shaking my head in a “did that seriously happen?” kinda way. I mean come on people, I spend five whole dollars to get myself a latte and LEAVE; I can do without the life-altering-foreplay-ridden-slut-bag-conversation about “nutmeg”, especially when it’s had with a psycho-freak who wants to chop me up and save all my fingernails…

Loser.

Final thought: whether or not I was a cranky-bitch is open to debate, but I will seriously kick some fucking ass (yours, your mom’s, a baby’s) if this ever happens again.