The 99c store and I aren't speaking. I went there the other day to buy an accordion folder (and then a liter of artificially-flavored peach lemonade carbonated beverage, a 5-pack of Bubble Yum Bubble Gum and beef jerky). Walking past the perishable foods section, I was immediately drawn to a bag of shredded cheese.
Now I've always told myself that I will never buy anything edible at The 99c Store with a life durability weaker than that of a cockroach. Well, that and condoms. Anyway, I saw this cheese and my vow against food cheaper than a dollar began to waiver. I mean, I'm a regular connoisseur of Jack in the Box's 99c tacos (TWO for a dollar!) and was literally (and pathetically) delighted when Wendy's added spicy chicken nuggets to their value menu (ALSO 99c). Actually, now that I think of it, I never order anything over a dollar from a fast food chain. So what was my problem? Besides, I needed cheese. How else was I going to make my famous quesadillas? (1 flour tortilla, 1 handful of cheese. Microwave for 30 seconds. Eat. You're welcome.) And this was Mexican-style cheese! So now my quesadillas would taste Mexican! Once again, I was sold.
I think it might have been late the next night (and after a few glasses of wine) that I set to work in the kitchen, exercising my Hispanic culinary skills. But Step 2 of my recipe (microwaving) did not deliver the expected result of melted cheese. Maybe the microwave wasn't working properly? I re-heated for another 30 seconds. No dice and no melted cheese. But my tortilla (1 flour tortilla) was so hot it had begun to take on a nasty, gooey quality. So I ate it.
Still curious about the cheese and determined to solve the mystery of its non-melting properties, I grabbed the bag out of the refrigerator. It read: MEXICAN SHREDS: Pasteurized Process Topping Pasterizado Procesado Coberturas. Awesome.
So I'm a bit upset with The 99c Store. I invest a lot of late-night snacking happiness in cheese, and when I find that I am in fact not eating cheese but pasteurized processed shreds made with powdered cellulose, I get a little upset. Now I know that The 99c Store never promised me cheese; it did, in fact, state that it was proving me with pasterizado procesado coberturas. But I guess I just got a little ahead of myself, what with all the delicious beef jerky and aisles of make-up tools that may or may not gouge your eye out.
Maybe we're just not at That Place yet. Maybe I said some things I shouldn't have and maybe I threw my "cheese" bag angrily on the ground (only to pick it back up, lovingly smooth out the plastic creases, and gingerly place it back in the fridge). I just need a few days to regain my trust and we'll be fine. Besides, I'm running low on I Be Profin.
Showing posts with label stuff that's not cool. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stuff that's not cool. Show all posts
Monday, April 5, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Narrow Escapes from Dog-Killing
Remember that story in the news a few years ago where a man was so overtaken with road rage that he grabbed a dog from a woman's car and threw it into oncoming traffic, killing it? Well, I'm not saying I agree with his actions or that I would do the same, but I'm also not about to proclaim myself as part of Team Fluffy or whatever the hell that damn dog's name was. (May he/she rest in peace in doggy heaven. Ha! Can't touch me, PETA!)
Like shit, road rage happens. And it happens to the best of us. I have been flipped off by an old man (and for the record, liver spots on your middle finger can happen) and told to "FUCKING YIELD!!!" by a hippie driving a VW bus. Maybe you're thinking, "Gee, you're probably just a bad driver." Well I am. But that has (almost) nothing to do with it. The blind anger one acquires from the pressures of driving - commonly referred to as Road Rage - is non-discriminatory and blame is never self-appointed.
Just the other morning I set out to pick up a friend who lives about a half mile away from me. We had plans for a very important game of paintball. The sun was shinning; birds were singing; if a cartoon Smurf had skipped by me on my way to my car, I probably wouldn't have even thought twice about it. I started the car and began to turn around in the direction of my friend's house. But I couldn't turn around. That's when I noticed a steady stream of spandex-clad runners coming around the corner towards me. A marathon. (I was later informed -by my very unsympathetic friends, I might add - that (duh!) this was Oakland's first marathon in 25 years and had been widely publicized.)
The entire side of the street going in the opposite direction was sectioned off for at least my block so I went around the back, planning to turn onto the street at the next intersection. But my smugness was short-lived when I realized that this entrance was blocked as well. In fact, the entire way to my friend's house was closed.
Feeling slightly less Smurfy, but still in decent spirits, I turned around and began driving in the longer route to my friend's. This route required making a left into downtown. But I couldn't make a left. Anywhere. Desperately, I leaned out my window only to see a line of cars for miles and miles - going straight, not left.
To make things worse, the world outside my vehicle of torture was disgustingly perky. Toned men and women ran jauntily by as families waved and cheered.
"Iwanttomakeafuckingleft." I gritted through my teeth, glaring at a little girl eating an ice cream cone, little shit.
By sheer luck, I had a (somewhat aggressive) friend's DMX cd in my player. I turned it up to full blast, shaking my mom's little old Camry with lyrics like "BITCH!" and "MOTHA FUCKA!" Apparently, DMX doesn't believe in inside voices or the letter "r". I scowled at the good citizens lining the street, probably looking more like a Sour Patch Kid than an intimidating gangsta. One policeman directing traffic looked over his shoulder at me suspiciously. I of course panicked, quickly turning down the volume and suddenly becoming very concerned with an imaginary situation in front of me. Once safely by him, I (cautiously) turned back up the stereo and went back to my scowling. (That's right. Who's gangsta now, biatch?)
Somewhere in my fury, my friend called and we decided it would be much easier for me to pick him up at a BART station on the outskirts of town. (This was after he referred to me as Godzilla.) By that time I reached him, I had calmed down and made it with out killing any one's dog. Yes, the streets were safe from my wrath for one more day.
*Oh. I forgot to mention that, due to my small size, I can hardly see over the dashboard. So, as I cruised menacingly through the streets of Oakland I either a) looked like I was riding really low and dirty b) looked like an angry forehead on top of a steering wheel or c) looked like nothing at all because no one could see me.
Like shit, road rage happens. And it happens to the best of us. I have been flipped off by an old man (and for the record, liver spots on your middle finger can happen) and told to "FUCKING YIELD!!!" by a hippie driving a VW bus. Maybe you're thinking, "Gee, you're probably just a bad driver." Well I am. But that has (almost) nothing to do with it. The blind anger one acquires from the pressures of driving - commonly referred to as Road Rage - is non-discriminatory and blame is never self-appointed.
Just the other morning I set out to pick up a friend who lives about a half mile away from me. We had plans for a very important game of paintball. The sun was shinning; birds were singing; if a cartoon Smurf had skipped by me on my way to my car, I probably wouldn't have even thought twice about it. I started the car and began to turn around in the direction of my friend's house. But I couldn't turn around. That's when I noticed a steady stream of spandex-clad runners coming around the corner towards me. A marathon. (I was later informed -by my very unsympathetic friends, I might add - that (duh!) this was Oakland's first marathon in 25 years and had been widely publicized.)
The entire side of the street going in the opposite direction was sectioned off for at least my block so I went around the back, planning to turn onto the street at the next intersection. But my smugness was short-lived when I realized that this entrance was blocked as well. In fact, the entire way to my friend's house was closed.
Feeling slightly less Smurfy, but still in decent spirits, I turned around and began driving in the longer route to my friend's. This route required making a left into downtown. But I couldn't make a left. Anywhere. Desperately, I leaned out my window only to see a line of cars for miles and miles - going straight, not left.
To make things worse, the world outside my vehicle of torture was disgustingly perky. Toned men and women ran jauntily by as families waved and cheered.
"Iwanttomakeafuckingleft." I gritted through my teeth, glaring at a little girl eating an ice cream cone, little shit.
By sheer luck, I had a (somewhat aggressive) friend's DMX cd in my player. I turned it up to full blast, shaking my mom's little old Camry with lyrics like "BITCH!" and "MOTHA FUCKA!" Apparently, DMX doesn't believe in inside voices or the letter "r". I scowled at the good citizens lining the street, probably looking more like a Sour Patch Kid than an intimidating gangsta. One policeman directing traffic looked over his shoulder at me suspiciously. I of course panicked, quickly turning down the volume and suddenly becoming very concerned with an imaginary situation in front of me. Once safely by him, I (cautiously) turned back up the stereo and went back to my scowling. (That's right. Who's gangsta now, biatch?)
Somewhere in my fury, my friend called and we decided it would be much easier for me to pick him up at a BART station on the outskirts of town. (This was after he referred to me as Godzilla.) By that time I reached him, I had calmed down and made it with out killing any one's dog. Yes, the streets were safe from my wrath for one more day.
*Oh. I forgot to mention that, due to my small size, I can hardly see over the dashboard. So, as I cruised menacingly through the streets of Oakland I either a) looked like I was riding really low and dirty b) looked like an angry forehead on top of a steering wheel or c) looked like nothing at all because no one could see me.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Ball-Scratching: A Contemplation
I don't have balls, and I have nothing against those who do, but what I do not understand is why those that do feel the need to scratch them in public. I mean REALLY all-up-in-there, poison-ivy kind of scratching.
Just the other day, I was walking home. I was waiting on the corner (yeah, very funny) at an intersection waiting for the light to change. Directly across from me stood a young man, decently dressed. It's important for me to mention that he was decently dressed so it is not confused that he a) was wearing an overcoat and ONLY an overcoat b) was wearing Tevas and a shirt that read: F.B.I.: Female Body Inspector or c) a garbage bag.
So we're standing there. The street was empty and there wasn't really anyone else around so I know he can see me, right? And - despite what is commonly learned in standard Peek-A-Boo drills and assuming his social awareness extends beyond that of a 2 year-old - he knows I can see him, right?
Decently Dressed Young Man then reaches into his pants, grabs a big wad of ballage, and scratches himself. And it wasn't for just a second. No. It was like he was re-arranging furniture in there or something. Then, when his right hand got tired, he switched! Inappropriate AND lazy! Man, if you're gonna have the balls to scratch your balls in public, at least build some stamina. You know people are gonna stare at you, so be impressive!
Oh yes, I stared. And I'm one of those people whose face reflects exactly what she's thinking. If someone had been watching me, I'm sure they would have thought I was trying to convert Mandarin to Russian in my head. (Or maybe they would have just thought I was a pervert watching some guy scratch himself.) My expression probably followed along something similar to this timeline: curiosity to inquisition to recognition to "What the fuck?!" to disgust to unimpressed (at the stamina, among other things) to "I'm soooo going to blog about this."
Finally, the little tweet, tweet of the pedestrian signal snapped me out of my little, ball-scratching world. We crossed paths, avoiding eye contact, and (me) making SURE to avoid any hand contact.
I walked the rest of the way home like a little snob. I had just had an interview that seemed to go pretty well, so I added a little swagger to my stride. Whenever I'm dressed in business attire and walking downtown, I like to pretend I'm very important. Nevermind the fact that it was the middle of the afternoon and I was walking home and not to Starbucks on my lunch break and I was surrounded by joggers and moms with strollers.
My mind wandered about human behavior and why particular humans seem to have no distintion between private behavior and public behavior. Drawing an analogy of the picking-your-nose-in-the-car syndrome, I was feeling quite proud of myself. I got home, threw my stuff down, and checked my business-savy self out in the mirror - to realize that the crotch of my pants had slouched down creating a faux weiner. Yes. Gross. I turned to the side. Hmmmm. Business-savy? No. Hot shit? No. Expert on managing private parts (real or fake) in public? No.
Moral of the story: Let he who has not sinned cast the first stone because you might have a fake penis.
Just the other day, I was walking home. I was waiting on the corner (yeah, very funny) at an intersection waiting for the light to change. Directly across from me stood a young man, decently dressed. It's important for me to mention that he was decently dressed so it is not confused that he a) was wearing an overcoat and ONLY an overcoat b) was wearing Tevas and a shirt that read: F.B.I.: Female Body Inspector or c) a garbage bag.
So we're standing there. The street was empty and there wasn't really anyone else around so I know he can see me, right? And - despite what is commonly learned in standard Peek-A-Boo drills and assuming his social awareness extends beyond that of a 2 year-old - he knows I can see him, right?
Decently Dressed Young Man then reaches into his pants, grabs a big wad of ballage, and scratches himself. And it wasn't for just a second. No. It was like he was re-arranging furniture in there or something. Then, when his right hand got tired, he switched! Inappropriate AND lazy! Man, if you're gonna have the balls to scratch your balls in public, at least build some stamina. You know people are gonna stare at you, so be impressive!
Oh yes, I stared. And I'm one of those people whose face reflects exactly what she's thinking. If someone had been watching me, I'm sure they would have thought I was trying to convert Mandarin to Russian in my head. (Or maybe they would have just thought I was a pervert watching some guy scratch himself.) My expression probably followed along something similar to this timeline: curiosity to inquisition to recognition to "What the fuck?!" to disgust to unimpressed (at the stamina, among other things) to "I'm soooo going to blog about this."
Finally, the little tweet, tweet of the pedestrian signal snapped me out of my little, ball-scratching world. We crossed paths, avoiding eye contact, and (me) making SURE to avoid any hand contact.
I walked the rest of the way home like a little snob. I had just had an interview that seemed to go pretty well, so I added a little swagger to my stride. Whenever I'm dressed in business attire and walking downtown, I like to pretend I'm very important. Nevermind the fact that it was the middle of the afternoon and I was walking home and not to Starbucks on my lunch break and I was surrounded by joggers and moms with strollers.
My mind wandered about human behavior and why particular humans seem to have no distintion between private behavior and public behavior. Drawing an analogy of the picking-your-nose-in-the-car syndrome, I was feeling quite proud of myself. I got home, threw my stuff down, and checked my business-savy self out in the mirror - to realize that the crotch of my pants had slouched down creating a faux weiner. Yes. Gross. I turned to the side. Hmmmm. Business-savy? No. Hot shit? No. Expert on managing private parts (real or fake) in public? No.
Moral of the story: Let he who has not sinned cast the first stone because you might have a fake penis.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Beef Jerky and Pregnancy Risks
Why did I ever forget about the 99¢ store? Or maybe it just used to be more forgettable. That and less applicable to my own life. As a college student, I didn’t really have a need for a two-pack of crappy dishtowels when I didn’t even have any dishes to be toweled anyway. Anything that required liquid-absorption could be obtained in the manner of fistfuls of napkins at fill-in-the-blank fast food chain or stolen from the toilet paper dispenser at work. (Okay. Well, I did pay for tampons.) And at that time you could get a pack of 10 ramen noodles for a dollar so I had no use for a specialized establishment.
I actually forgot all about the store until a few months ago when a friend offered me some 99¢ beef jerky. 99¢?!? How come the beef jerky I stare at and drool over and can’t afford to splurge on is $4.99 and this perfectly good (well…) beef jerky is 99¢?! I was deeply intrigued.
A few weeks later I got laid-off. This should have triggered an immediate call-to-action response of résumé revision and frantic Craigslist searching, which, in time, did – just after some well-deserved mystery meat for under a buck.
Of course, Plan A was a simple grab-my-grub-and-bounce operation. (What else could I possibly want for a dollar?) However, Plan A was aborted the moment I stepped through those once-upon-a-time-automated doors.
There’s a seductive power that overtakes you when you walk into a fluorescent-lit superstructure packed wall to wall with 99¢ inventory. “I can afford to buy anything in here,” I breathed incredulously. I had to stop myself from spinning around and around, arms outstretched, Sound-of-Music-style.
But you can. Buy. Anything. They had nylons and Cheetos and hair products and…condoms? Whoa. Now I can justify buying 99¢ dehydrated meat (and a huge bag of jelly beans and what I’m pretty sure is a shoe horn) but condoms? Protective material designed to prevent pregnancy and sexually-transmitted diseases? Sounds like saran wrap and a pair of crossed fingers will work just as good.
Thus was my snap back into reality. Don’t get me wrong. If the place had a membership, I’d be getting my tenth stamp on my little card right about now and my apartment is starting to look like Ariel’s treasure trove of crap. But frivolity has a line, and buying a 12-pack of condoms for 99¢ (trust me, you’re gonna need the extra dough for baby furniture in about nine months) is crossing it. So if you’ll just ring me up for my David Hasselhoff calendar and Jr. (not Junior) Mints, I’ll be on my way.
I actually forgot all about the store until a few months ago when a friend offered me some 99¢ beef jerky. 99¢?!? How come the beef jerky I stare at and drool over and can’t afford to splurge on is $4.99 and this perfectly good (well…) beef jerky is 99¢?! I was deeply intrigued.
A few weeks later I got laid-off. This should have triggered an immediate call-to-action response of résumé revision and frantic Craigslist searching, which, in time, did – just after some well-deserved mystery meat for under a buck.
Of course, Plan A was a simple grab-my-grub-and-bounce operation. (What else could I possibly want for a dollar?) However, Plan A was aborted the moment I stepped through those once-upon-a-time-automated doors.
There’s a seductive power that overtakes you when you walk into a fluorescent-lit superstructure packed wall to wall with 99¢ inventory. “I can afford to buy anything in here,” I breathed incredulously. I had to stop myself from spinning around and around, arms outstretched, Sound-of-Music-style.
But you can. Buy. Anything. They had nylons and Cheetos and hair products and…condoms? Whoa. Now I can justify buying 99¢ dehydrated meat (and a huge bag of jelly beans and what I’m pretty sure is a shoe horn) but condoms? Protective material designed to prevent pregnancy and sexually-transmitted diseases? Sounds like saran wrap and a pair of crossed fingers will work just as good.
Thus was my snap back into reality. Don’t get me wrong. If the place had a membership, I’d be getting my tenth stamp on my little card right about now and my apartment is starting to look like Ariel’s treasure trove of crap. But frivolity has a line, and buying a 12-pack of condoms for 99¢ (trust me, you’re gonna need the extra dough for baby furniture in about nine months) is crossing it. So if you’ll just ring me up for my David Hasselhoff calendar and Jr. (not Junior) Mints, I’ll be on my way.
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