vituperation

So.

I went to the nursery across the big highway—

Robyn and I live on the residential side of the big highway, in a suburban subdivision. On the other side of the big highway is all the cool stuff: Bruno’s, Publix, Winn Dixie, Lowe’s, Home Depot, Kohl’s, and about 30 other little shops and food places. It rocks living so close to everything, truly.

—because I have another—

I say "another" here because I already filled one flower bed earlier this week, when this site existed merely as a twinkle in my psyche.

—empty flower bed that needs filling with plants. I bought six rose bushes (one each of this, this, this, this, this, and this) and nine small soft-leaf holly bushes. The holly bushes are so the bed doesn’t look all brown and shitty during the winter, when the roses are asleep. Nothing looks quite as dreary as a completely dead flowerbed in the winter.

I paid for my plants ($154, one of the sucky sides of living in the suburbs) and the helpful clerk got a couple of big pieces of plastic to protect the interior of my Jeep. She walked out with me, carrying the plastic, because the cart I had would only hold the six rose bushes. She was going to take the cart back in after I unloaded it and get the holly bushes while I put the roses in the Jeep.

"It’s funny," I said to her as we walked out, "we buy an SUV so we’ll have room for stuff like this”— I waved at the roses—”then we put plastic down to protect it because it cost so much."

She concurred.

At the Jeep, we set all the roses on the ground. She placed the plastic flat in the back of the Jeep, then puttered back off to the nursery with the cart to get the holly bushes, leaving me the simple task of putting the roses on the plastic in the back of the Jeep.

Simple for most, that is.

I had to lower one of the back seats to make room for all the plants, so I went around the side of the Jeep and opened the door. I lowered the seat, put the second piece of plastic down along with the rose I was carrying.

I got two more roses and put them on the same piece of plastic, filling it. When I walked back around to the back of the Jeep, the first piece of plastic was struggling valiantly to escape the Jeep, perhaps to return to the comfort of the nursery. I laid it flat again and turned to get a couple more bushes to hold it down.

It flapped up again.

I caught it before it could get away and laid it flat once again. The instant I let go, it made its move, choosing to go for my face instead of simple freedom. Before I even had a chance it attacked, wrapping around my head like Marion Berry’s hands around a crack pipe.

I stumbled.

I flailed.

I swore.

And found the clerk standing there watching me when I finally got the plastic off my head.

Hey, did you know Taco Bell doesn’t serve the chili cheese burrito any more? I went there for dinner tonight (I tend to eat junky foods on Fridays) and ordered one, only to be rebuffed by the gum smacking girl at the other end of the intercom. Hell’s bells.

Then again, it’s been like two years since I’ver been there, so I guess they had to make room on the menu for all the freaky turkey bacon shit they’re always yapping about on the TV now.

For the record, I’m already behind on my email. Please bear with me as I catch up.

For Nance, who calls me "Freddy-baby" when she’s talking about me behind my back, this is from about 45 minutes before I posted this entry:

I just realized y’all might not know what I look like, so here’s the most recent picture I have of myself. This was taken last weekend, while I was gathering evidence for an upcoming lawsuit over an injury sustained when I trustingly opened a capsaicin-laced letter bomb from a crazed stalkereader named Moira who shall remain nameless.

A fine specimen of boyish good looks, I am.