You
know
who you are.
You've snagged tasty job- that you had to jump through flaming hoops to get- laying singed and beaten- and now you make poverty wages- yet your employer has been tossing free tickets to this or you know, that- the ability to walk past a mile long line to the front and cut through- comped drinks. You're now tickling shoulders with prominant figures and getting "who is that??" looks.
These perks are pretty much the sole reason that you are able to go out and do 'normal' things. Want to pay your rent on time? Not a chance- because even your credit card is burgeoning to it's limit.
You start going to the office in your worn through slacks- attempting to cajole a raise- cruise happy hours- budget booze "Who brought the PBR??!?" at company Bbq's.
dot dot dot
With that being said I found myself at Trader Joe's this morning with the intention to purchase a bottle de vino- for a small get-it-together- with a coworker (our celebration is the fact that we successfully found people to cover our shifts- er what I mean is that we traded shifts.
Lately, it seems: that I do my purchasing of provisions- at the same time as the elderly. I'm bombarded with determined, Hawaiian shirted, drug store slippered --bargain shoppers- fishing coupons out of fanny-packs circa 1987--who insist on getting these pretzels because they are fifty cents cheaper than those.
By the way, did I mention my disheveled state? Hair tangling about my face, I'm pretty sure my sweats are dangling down my hip bones exposing outrageously polka doted pink panties and I'm supporting a bottle of red from Paso Robos on my hip.
I say to the cashier, "I sort of felt awkward walking in here in the hour of nine buying a bottle of wine- but it seems to me that all the blue hairs are stomping me- buying multiple c a s e s a piece, "
He offers, "that dirty Charles Shaw"
Me: " Pray, it's Dollar- ninety- nine delicious"
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