magnet :: iron as CC :: freaks

On Sunday, I bought a picture frame at Little Tokyo. The base of the frame has a little smiling angel figurine next to the inscription “Chase the source of happiness with you.” I showed it to G and he claimed it was giving him cavities, but I thought it was cute and I immediately decided to get a print copy of the pretzel picture and put it inside. Then I’d bring it to work and put it in my cube, and all day I could stare at my cute boyfriend in the cute frame and DIE OF THE CUTE.

Anyway, I went to Long’s last night to order pretzel picture prints and purchase some sort of unguent, cream, or lotion to hasten the demise of the enormous zit I am currently sporting on the left side of my face. It is the largest zit I have ever had in my life, and I’m including adolescence here. I suppose I could try covering it up with a small round Band-Aid, but such is its girth that I think it would force the Band-Aid up and make it appear as though my zit was sporting a sombrero.

So I ordered my prints and headed over to the zit cream aisle. I was weighing my options when I heard someone shuffle up to me and say, “Um, miss?”

I looked up to see a large man with a string of letters either tattooed or drawn under his left eye.

“Uh, yeah?”

“Could you please give me some money, like maybe 69 cents.”

“Sorry, but I don’t carry cash with me anymore.”

This was, of course, a lie. I don’t carry a LOT of cash with me, but I always have at least five dollars with me in case I absolutely must purchase something and can’t, for whatever reason, use my credit or debit cards. But I must admit to a shameful Republicanesque streak in that I just don’t like giving money to any old person who asks for it. Maybe I’d like a copy of Marie Claire, but you don’t see me going up to the blonde in the Juicy sweatpants in the analgesics aisle and asking her to buy it for me.

“Oh, okay. Nice purse, by the way. Nice wallet.”

Um, what?

Okay, first of all, pal, you didn’t see my wallet. Second, if you had, you would have noticed that it’s fraying along the seams and barely even closes. Third, this purse is from Target. I think it cost me $16. So yes, even though it is a nice purse in the sense that it’s in good condition, it is not a NICE, i.e. designer and/or expensive, purse.

And Jesus Christ on a Carr’s water cracker, even if it was a diamond-studded Gucci with platinum Prada charms hanging from the zipper, and even if it was overflowing with MAC cosmetics and $500 bills, guess what? This is MY money and I don’t have to give you diddly, capisce?

Slim Shady shuffled off and I grabbed my box of Neutrogena zit cream and got in line. I saw him talking to a woman by the photo counter, and I could hear him saying, “Oh, man, thank you! God bless.”

And then he got in line behind me.

Oh, please don’t let him say anything to me.

“Hey, how’s it going?” the cashier said, scanning my zit cream.

“Good, thanks, and you?” I asked.

“Doing all right,” he said. He gave me the total and I slid my debit card through the machine.

Slim Shady said, “Don’t you think she has the nicest skin tone?”

I glanced out of the corner of my eye, thinking he was pointing out an actress or model on the cover of a magazine.

Nope, he was talking to the cashier about ME.

“Hey, man, be cool,” the cashier (the same one referenced here, by the way; I swear he’s my favorite person whose name I don’t know) said. “She’s a nice lady.”

“What, man? I ain’t saying nothing bad. I’m just saying that she’s got really nice skin. It’s all creamy.”

Okay, fucking EW EW EW EW EW!

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, my card went through and I hastily scribbled my signature on the slip and fled out the door. Once I was safely in my car and on the road, I got a good chuckle out of the whole thing. He never really saw the left side of my face, so I’m assuming he wasn’t just being a sarcastic asshole, but it still ooked me out.

Creamy. Yeah, CLOTTED cream right now.