2 posts tagged “smoking”

It's a well-known fact that I hate Wal-Mart. And not just in an anti-Capitalism sort of way, although I certainly respect that point of view. It's more that a trip to Wal-Mart must be done at 3 a.m., or else you will need a bag of heroin and a fifth of whiskey just to make it down their overcrowded, super narrow aisles. I once went to Wal-Mart with a man I'd been dating three weeks. Our relationship almost did not survive.

Among the horrifying things I have seen in Wal-Mart include two 16-year-olds draped over one another on the condom aisle, then calling their friends to not only announce they were actually purchasing condoms, but to discuss the different types and brands. Loudly. Or the time I saw a 400-pound woman dressed in a tube top and short shorts and pushing three kids in a cart stopped in the middle of an aisle applying mascara and eyeliner. Perhaps she was on a man hunt, I do not know.

As a result of this Wal-Mart loathing, I generally prefer to go to Target. But now, Target has earned my ire. And they're not even open 24 hours for me to sneak into in the wee small hours of the morning.

A trip to Target today consisted of overcrowded aisles, an inability to navigate a cart anywhere, an overabundance of screaming children, loud women with shellac-ed hair discussing the ins and outs of Neutrogena makeup, soccer moms spending way too much time searching for just the right shade of "mousy brown," disaffected youth in red shirts talking on cell phones and getting in my way (Amazingly, they were employees. I want a job at Target. Red is my favorite color and taking up space near the toothpaste and chatting on my cell phone while looking annoyed with customers sounds right up my alley). If Wal-Mart is the haven for overweight, white trash women looking for Mr. Right by the motor oil, Target is the haven for underfed suburban housewives who've had one too many Botox shots and whose husbands give them credit cards to keep them busy so they'll miss their affairs with interns.

I do not care if Target tempts me with their Choxie chocolates. I do not care if Target uses indie songs for their mod commercials. I do not care if they have cute shoes (which, by the way, are overpriced. I can not bring myself to pay $30 for a pair of shoes purchased in the same store I can buy laundry detergent and shampoo. Put them in any other store, fine.) I do not care if Issac Mizhari vanity sizes his clothes so much I can fit into ungodly small sizes. I found myself walking out of Target feeling like I had been in Wal-Mart on the worst of days.

Now where the hell am I supposed to go? KMart? Nobody goes there. I'd probably like it.

In other news, I read the other day that people who are feisty when they're under 60 have a better chance of retaining their intellectual capabilities when they're over 60. This is good news. Given the rant I just issued about Target, I already sound like a pissed off old woman.

In still other news, I drove by a strip mall today that had an electronic sign touting a beauty salon.

Great prices! Friendly stylists! Nonsmoking salon!

Well, color me shocked. Seriously? A hair salon you can't smoke in? Why hasn't anyone thought of that before? I know this is Las Vegas and we can be lax about smoking in public places, but seriously I don't think anyone's sat underneath a hair dryer with a Virginia Slim dangling from her mouth since about 1978. (Well, OK, maybe sometime in the '80s) I don't really understand why this is a selling point.

"Honey! Let's zip in there! You can't smoke in that salon! It's so different from Supercuts. Where you also can't smoke."

What's next? A day care you can't smoke in? A doctor's office you can't smoke in? A department store you can't smoke in?

What will they think of next?

Today, around 11 a.m.,  I get a text message on my phone. I look at it and it's from a number I don't recognize. I open the message and it's a picture of a child, possibly around 2, riding on a grocery store amusement horse. The text says "giddy up!" And there is a sound attatched that is horse clopping.

OK. Who is this child?

I google the number and discover it's in Tennessee. I am appropriately confused. Is this the wrong number, or is this, in fact, someone I SHOULD know, sending me a picture of their child and, uncaring clod that I am, I don't recognize her? Before I can send a message back inquiring just who the hell this is, I get another text message from the same number.

"Sorry. That's the only picture I have of myself."

Holy smokes! This child is a genius! Not only did this child manage to send me a picture, she typed text AND attached a sound.

I text back and say "Did you send this to the right number? Because I don't recognize the child nor the number. If I do know you, I'm very embarrassed."

I get a text back that says "Sorry. I meant to send to 3036, not 3063."

Well, I guess that toddler's not as smart as I thought. Couldn't even get the number right.

In other news, there is a dog who roams around my apartment complex. He's not a particularly scary dog. He resembles a Chihuahua and wears a black collar, but never seems to have an owner nearby.

This dog has become my nemesis. He has tried to walk into my house. He has nipped at my heels. And he likes to bark at me.

This morning, I step outside to have a morning cigarette. I see Killer walk by, and I find myself foolishly ducking out of site. I'm hiding from a dog that my lame cats could clearly whip the ass of in a dogo-a-cato battle. He doesn't see me, so I sit down and light the smoke. This gets his attention.

Killer begins to bark hysterically. I implore him to be quiet, as it is, after all, before 8 a.m. He is not deterred. I don't see anything outside except a pen, which I pick up and wave in his general direction. This does little to deter his hysterics, either.

No, dog, see, you don't understand. I LIVE here. You are the outsider. You don't need to alert anyone that I'm out here. I am where I'm supposed to be and my grandma doesn't live around here, so tattling on my smoking is doing you no good.

Finally, I set the cigarette down and step inside for a second. He leaves. I step back outside. He's moved on, but is going up and down the sidewalk barking as loud as he can.

I guess he's saving the entire complex from themselves.