Today I was getting a pedicure, and they sat me next to two blonde mid 30-somethings with gigantic purses in yoga pants who sipped their fat free lattes and contstantly said "Yah!" to each other.I silently cursed myself for not having my iPod with me.
"So, basically, I go to meetings ALL day. I have meetings with Marketing, and... everybody else. I'm just CONSTANTLY on the computer. He says, 'Lisa, your job is to just move the dial bit by bit', you know?"
(Wide eyed "I'm listening" sip from friend): "Yah!"
Lisa, "moving the dial bit by bit" isn't putting money in anyone's pocket. He's keeping you around because your completely round, tan, symmetrical plastic tits are nice to look at, albeit a little bit too close together in the front - remember, it's called "cleavage", as in "cleaving" or "splitting"... you know what, never mind.
When Lisa's nails were done, they moved her over to the drying table, and she turned around and kept blathering on to her friend about her big jobby job. I had a feeling you could stick her head in a fish tank and she'd keep talking until she inhaled tank gravel and died.
Then I headed over to the supermarket. Picked up my coffee, heroin, and family-size box of tampons, and got on line. The woman in front of me had a cart overflowing with crap, but put it all on the register with one hand. Slowly. As she talked on her cell phone, she carefully regarded her purchases as if each can of Spaghetti-o's were a hand-stitched Italian shoe. It took her seven full minutes. I know, because I counted to 426.
There should be horns on the fronts of shopping carts. Or sharp steel spikes.
People of the world, there are people around you. And behind you. And in listening range.
Shut up and get moving.
That is all.
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