Reunited And It Feels. So. Good.

So, I am chatting with the Twin Brother.

Twin, yes.

Note: No, we are not identical twins and if one more person asks me that question I am going to threaten to whip out my penis dingaling and say Heck, yes!

Additional Note: Morons.

The Twin and I are discussing our High School Reunion this weekend, which he did not attend. And in an impressive display of the high quality education received at Gridley Union High School and with a particular nod to the mathematics departments, he asks

What reunion was it?

Sigh. My Twin Brother is seriously asking this question?

Sweet Holy Moses!

What Came First, the Chicken or the Pasteur?

So, you know how when the store employee comes up and says Can I help you? and you're thinking There's not a snowball's chance in you-know-where but then you go ahead and take the plunge to ask for help anyway in spite of the fact that previous experience is screaming Stop! Back away!?

Yeah.

Do you have any pasteurized eggs?

The Worker looks at me and he is pursing his lips and pulling them to one side, like that Rugrats kid. Angelica, yes.

Note: The Daught does a mean impression of that kid.

He has longish dark hair and he flips it, a little. When he speaks he has an accent, French I think, and I am suddenly imagining him in a beret.

Pasture eggs? I do not know of such things. He calls to a buddy, a larger dude, hairless to speak of, who is balancing several cartons of eggs on his belly.

Do we have eggs from zee pastures?

Buddy looks confused by The Frenchman's question.

No, I am saying, pasteurized eggs. The Frenchman's hands land on his hips. Are you meaning eggs that come from zee chicken in zee pastures? I do not know of chickens in pastures.

Buddy laughs.

I am thinking about how all American children learn about Louis Pasteur, who, with a name like that has got to be French and how he saves all of our lives from germs and stuff in our food supply through the process of pasteurization but somehow The Frenchman seems oblivious to the greatest achievement of his Fellow Countrymen, so far as I know, except perhaps for the croissant, which is plenty impressive.

Note: Okay, fine. I don't eat croissants.

So, finally I just grab a dozen eggs laid by certified free-range chickens which is very close to a pasture-ized egg, yes.

Heck, yes!

Thank you for calling. My Name is Peggy. What is Problem, Please?

Actual Conversation with a Helpful Customer Service Representative:

Note: I am lying about the helpful part, yes.

Helpful Dude: Thank you for calling. How may I help you?

Me: I subscribed online to your newspaper and I'm trying to figure out why we're not receiving it yet.

Helpful Dude: I see.

A protracted moment of silence follows. I can not bear protracted silence, as you know. So, I speak, obviously.

Me: Well, can you check your database and see if my credit card payment went through and that I am listed as a subscriber?

Helpful Dude: Not really, no. But I can set you up as a new account.

Me: But I don't want a new account because then I may receive two newspapers. I only want one. I just need to know if you have received my payment and activated my service.

Helpful Dude: I guess you will just have to wait awhile and see if you get a newspaper.

Me: What? You can't check?

Helpful Dude: No. I don't have access to that type of information.

Me: What type of information do you have access to?

Helpful Dude: I can start a new account for you, M'am.

Me: I still don't want a new account. Can you just start sending me the paper until someone figures this out?

Helpful Dude: Would you like a trial subscription, M'am?

Me: Sure. I mean, I really want a regular subscription but I guess I'll take a trial subscription for now.

Helpful Dude: Oh, sorry. I can't give you a trial subscription if you want a regular one.

Me: Fine! I changed my mind! I don't want a regular one anymore. Give me a trial subscription.

Helpful Dude: I'm sorry.

Are you kidding me? Am I on Punk'd?

Note: For those readers who need relevancy training, Punk'd is the modern-day equivalent of Candid Camera.

Me: What am I supposed to do to get a newspaper?

Helpful Dude: I have a phone number that you can call. Perhaps they can help you with your problem.

Me: Whatever.

I am wondering if this dude's name is Peggy and he's sitting in Alaska or Fargo in a remote cabin answering the phone.

Helpful Dude: Please call 1-800-555-1111.

Huh?

Me: That's the number I just called to get YOU.

Pause. Another pause. Wait for it ... wait for it ...

Helpful Dude: Oh, well thank you for calling. How may I help you?

Sweet Holy Moses!

Extra-Virgin? Really? Yeah, Right.

So, apparently I am missing out on an important form of self-expression, but I cannot be blamed for the oversight.

I simply did not know.

I simply did not know that I can express myself with olive oil.

Note: I know, I know. So many good and expressive years, lost.

Oh, sure. I have tried the conventional approaches to self-expression, such as but not limited to words, wild gesticulations, dirty looks, teeth-baring and whatnot, particularly upon encountering Stupid Drivers. I have also tried the artistic approaches to self-expression, such as but not limited to writing, poorly-executed arts and crafts, modern dance and cleaning.

Note: Okay, fine. The modern dance part was just to impress the Lovely DIL, who clearly knows better.

Additional Note: Cleaning is so a form of self-expression. Darned Non-Believers.

But olive oil? Never tried it. Just seems too darn slippery, really.

But, I can picture expressing myself by clunking the bottle on the head of one of those Darned Non-Believers and/or Stupid Drivers ...

Heck, yes!

Hello, My Name Is Moron. How May I Help You?

The Clerk is singing along with the music, which is too loud. I am the only customer at this time of night in the national drugstore chain which shall remain unnamed and purposely, I hope, spells its name incorrectly, for what reason, I do not know.

Note: All right, fine. I am in Rite Aid.

I drop my armload of purchases on the counter.

Advil Liqui-Gels, Tums (extra strength berry fusion), Prilosec, Immodium AD, Pepto Bismol. Oh, and mascara, of course, so the reason for my late night pharmacy run isn't too obvious, if one is a moron.

The Clerk peruses the items and begins scanning. She smiles up at me, still grooving a little, yes.

So how you doing tonight, Hon'? She asks.

Really?

How am I doing?

Are you kidding me?

The mascara purchase really works!

Heck, yes!






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Location: Still Extending ...

Heeing And Hawing, Yes.

The Son and I are chatting and I am waxing nostalgic, about the good old days, when kids rode bikes and ate peaches straight off the tree and pulled the tails off pollywogs, accidentally. Maybe. Hopefully, anyhow.

I am considering the best era in which to live. I ask The Son his opinion. He hems. He haws.

Note: Please no Heehaw jokes, if the reader is even old enough to wax nostalgic about Heehaw.

He finishes with the hemming and hawing. The future he says, finally. I couldn't survive without my technology.

Note: What? He is waxing nostalgic about technology?

I demand a better answer. A real answer.

He hems. He haws some more. A time when music was better, he says. The music nowadays is awful.

Note: Nowadays? How old is this kid?

I tell him about my last three purchases on iTunes. Save Me, San Francisco by Train because I love any lyricist who can rhyme 'Oh, hell no' and Rolling in the Deep by Adele and The Lazy Song by Bruno Mars.

Wow, look at you! he is saying and adds Never heard any of them.

Note: This kid needs serious Relevancy Training.

So we wax some more. The Son is also wishing for a simpler time, before texting. When people talked face to face.

Ah, yes I am saying. Simpler times.

The Son has made his time travel decision. A simpler time with great music. And no texting.

The Nineties, he says.

The Nineties? Are you kidding me? The Nineteen-freaking-Nineties? Not the Gay Nineties, whatever the heck that means?

Sweet Holy Moses!





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Location:STILL Extended ....

Gremlins. Chewbacca. And Jacob, Oh My!

Everyone's a comedian, in his own mind.

And it's not like I haven't heard it all a thousand times before. For example, if my last name were, say, synonymous with, say, an activity only performed legally in certain cities across the country, when meeting me for the first time, say, some may find it humorous to make jokes about whether or not I reside in said city, which I don't, and trust me pal: You're not that funny.

Note: And no, my last name is not 'Girls that Want to Meet You Now'.


So, the Front Desk Receptionist in My Extended-Stay-Type-Hotel squeals when I walk through the door. There it is! There it is!

Another Front Desk Type appears.

See? I told you. That dog looks just like a Gremlin!



Note: Like I've never heard that one? But personally, I just don't see it.

Additional Note: Sic 'em, Rube.

The Housekeeper approaches me in the hallway with her hand extended to my dog, who totally ignores her. Wow! He looks just like Chewbacca!


He? I am thinking. Chewbacca? I am thinking. She is a girl. Can't you see her nine nipples hanging to the floor? And Chewbacca? Really. Rubi is far better groomed and so far as I know has never carried an assault weapon.

Note: Personally, I just don't see it.

Additional Note: Sic 'em Rube!

Today some Comedian in the elevator says My, what big eyes you have, my dear in reference, I suppose, to The Big Bad Wolf.



Hmmmn.

She may have a point. There is a family resemblance.

Heck, yes!



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Location:Still Over Extended