Going to the Store

PrefaceEarly this morning, our water heater sprung a leak. After visits and quotes from various plumbers, some 6 hours later, I finally had one working on a replacement. I was texting Ben to keep him apprised of the situation just as our water was turned off.

Screen Shot 2015-01-12 at 1.05.31 PM

Pants dry. Trees Die.

The coffee place Ben and I go to on weekends has started selling these stickers. It wasn’t immediately clear to either of us what their meaning or purpose was. So, while we waited in line, we speculated:

ME: Is it some sort of metaphysical, circle-of-life bullshit? Like, “Hey, man. Pants may get wet, but sooner or later they dry. Trees, they live, but then they die. Oh, how like we are to pants and/or trees! Sic transit gloria! Feeeeeeeeelings!”

BEN: No way. It’s not that deep. It’s, like, “Fuck it. Pee your pants.”

ME: Wow. Totally. Like, whatever, man: go for it.

BEN: Why not? Your pants will dry eventually.

ME: For reals.

When we got to the front of the line, however, I felt the need to verify this theory. I asked the man behind the counter what the stickers meant. He stood for a moment with a confused look on his face then wiped his hands on his pants. “Pants dry,” he said. Then, he pointed at some napkins. “Trees die.”

“Oh,” I said, “we thought it meant you should just pee your pants. Fuck it. Pee your pants. Pants dry.”

“That’s a good idea, too,” he replied.

Once we had our coffee and were leaving the shop, Ben turned to me and said “They better not be drying their hands on their pants. That’s gross.”

“Word. Peeing your pants is totally cool, though.”


In Which I Become Old and Cranky


Every morning I drive Ben to school and we stop at a little coffee shop for drinks and treats. Ben always has four shots of espresso over ice. What I get varies depending upon my mood.

This morning, I ordered an iced decaf non-fat vanilla latté. I call it “That Sissy Drink.” I am not entirely oblivious.

When my order came up and they called it out, a customer standing at the counter said, to no one in particular, “What is this, Starbucks?”

Maybe he meant it for me, because of course I was up there picking up my drink. To no one in particular: “What is this, Sanctimonious Prig Gives A Lecture Cafe?”

You would think that would be enough, but no. “I’m pretty sure I can order whatever I like, if it’s on the menu. I’m not asking for a pony and a wizard, though I’d like both.”

Nothing. Not even eye contact.

As we were leaving, I kept on muttering to myself, fuming at this (to me) smug fuck, who probably just meant to make a little joke for no one’s ears but his own. “…stupid jerk loves the sound of his own voice… next he’ll be telling me how to vote…”

What’s happened to me?

— photo unrelated —

No more posts.