When things stabilize, I lose my voice.
Dammit, I've a sadist for a muse.
I needed no directions, I needed no assistance...at least not since Trader Joe's had last rearranged its aisles.
(You ever notice how they do that to you? Just when you've perfected your Sunday-night-half-an-hour-to-closing-yuppie-mama-dodging blitzkrieg, Trader Joe's will pull the rug out from under your feet and leave you stoned and bewildered in its congested aisles.)
The booze was to the left and it was my anchor on just such a Friday night. Mister Doofus trailed me on my beeline to the two buck Chuck. I liked the red wine because I didn't have to refrigerate it - it tasted just as good the morning after sitting next to my bed.
I regarded Doofus as he inspected a bag of almonds and made a stupid joke. I grabbed another bottle and considered a third.
(I'd describe Mister Doofus more, but he's probably reading this right now and wondering if I am talking about him. Just so you know, it's called "artistic license" and I probably am talking about you.)
At the check out the striking cashier with the black dreadlocks asked me for my ID and engaged me in small conversation.
(And have you ever noticed how remarkably casual the Trader Joe's cashiers are? I found myself admitting to one of them that I was high and she cheerfully suggested that I check out the organic vegetable platter, which I immediately purchased and consumed.)
I bagged my own wine, graciously thanked the cashier, and dragged Doofus home to awkwardly bed him after several glasses of liquid boredom.
Another day I ran in with my helmet on to grab a Clif Bar for an all day ride and one of the employees stopped me to ask about the ride after party. I told him to check out the website because I didn't know the details off the top of my head.
On Sunday night the striking cashier with the black dreadlocks asked me if I rode a pink bike.
A couple weeks later Mister Ego and I locked our bikes up to the new rack outside. I grabbed my Chuck, but he wanted stronger drink, so we bought a bottle of whiskey instead. This time I had my ID prepared for display.
(I have never understood people with drink restrictions - "Oh I don't drink whiskey," "Oh I don't drink beer," "Oh I don't drink tequila" - I'll guzzle mouthwash and shoot it with rubbing alcohol if I am desperate enough.)
On a Saturday morning I came in for orange juice for my mimosa and the cyclist employee asked if I was going to the ride that night. I said, "No" and instead brought Mister Jackhammer to Trader Joe's for a last minute six pack.
The cashier commented on how my hair is so much longer in my ID photo.
(That always makes me nervous. Because I'm short and I look young and my hair is so much longer in my ID, whenever I hand it to the bouncer at a club, I get nervous. And then I get nervous that they will mistake my averted glance for a fake!)
Mister Suave insisted on a bottle of good wine from Trader Joe's.
On Saturday morning Missus Suave and I needed a refill of orange juice and champagne.
But on Friday night Mister Doofus referenced an obscure foreign science fiction movie as I strode purposefully toward the booze, burdened with a task I was desperate to complete as soon as possible.
My mission was interrupted by a massive Trader Joe's reorganization, and I stopped so abruptly that Mister Doofus collided into me.
"What's wrong?" he asked, lamely unaware of our emergency.
"The booze! Where is it!"
And like an angel in a Hawaiian t-shirt, the bike dude descended from heaven and without asking said, "It's over there now, Liz" and indicated the wall farthest right.
I made Doofus carry the third bottle to the register, where he tripped and would have dropped the wine had the striking cashier with the black dreadlocks not caught it. He laughed good-naturedly and said, "It must be Friday, huh?"
Writing April 28 2009
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