vituperation

June 22, 2003

Yesterday was quite the event-filled day.

I ran when I got up, listening to the interminably boring Dreamcatcher, which is apparently never going to end. When it does, assuming I’m not dead from old age, I’ve got Bag of Bones to listen to again. I’m looking forward to that one, because it was the first audiobook I ever listened to and it’ll be nostalgic.

After getting groceries I swung by a local nursery, but they weren’t going to be open until eight. It’s the roses, you see. We’re throwing in the towel, and letting the Japanese beetles win the war. There will be no more roses at Casa And3rson.

I came home and put the groceries away, then headed back to the now-open nursery. Wandering around the large place like the Israelites in the desert, I found that I know absolutely nothing about plants. One of the workers there finally took pity on me and asked if I needed help.

I’m sure he regrets it now.

Ultimately, I bought one "Snow White" Indian Hawthorne to bring home and show Robyn, thinking it prudent not to buy enough to replace all the rose bushes without at least letting her have a look first. It was a 3-gallon plant, and cost $15.99. If you’re interested, or have a Japanese beetle problem, they don’t care for plants with waxy-like leaves. Otherwise, they’re little eating machines, though they seem to be leaving most things in our yard alone except for the roses and the butterfly bush.

I sat around for a while back home, waiting for Robyn to work out. After we’d both eaten, we decided to first visit a second nursery to see if there was something better to be had to replace the roses, then on to Isom’s for some peaches and strawberries. The second nursery sucked — everything was easily double the cost of the first one I’d been to — so we decided to go back to the first and buy more hawthorne plants. We ended up buying a total of ten hawthornes (the other nine are pink) and a little spruce tree. My Jeep acted a little hokey on the way, hitching and bucking like a bronco (it has, after all, been a couple of months since I had to sink several hundred dollars into it, you know), so we went home instead of to Isom’s.

The day was spectacularly beautiful, for the first time in a while, so we decided to head for the river, where I could take the kayak out (I hadn’t been out in it since before my touchup surgery, and was jonesing for it) and Robyn could read. We opted to take her Jeep, since breaking down on the highway between here and Decatur with a kayak on the roof didn’t sound like fun. We had to stop for gas on the way, at a very popular gas station just off the interstate. I had to pee.

I stood outside the bathroom door with another waiting guy, casting a stinkeye toward it. The whole time I’d been pumping gas, guys had been going in and out, and the bathroom was empty when I finished. As I walked across the parking lot, a guy in a big bubba truck drove up, hopped out, and went into the bathroom. Five minutes later, he was still in there, presumably taking a big stanky shit and ruining the place for those who had the bad fortune to follow him. The women’s room was empty.

"If you want to go in there," the guy standing next to me said with a nod toward the women’s bathroom, "I’ll keep watch out here and make sure no one comes in."

I looked uncertainly toward the door, trying to decide if I wanted to violate one of society’s taboos.

"C’mon," he said, "Ain’t no shame in that shit!"

So I peed in the women’s room, then stood watch for him while he peed. Fortunately, no bathroom police showed up. Stanky shit guy came out of the men’s room as Robyn and I drove off. He looked satisfied.

At the river, I paddled off and went — for the first time — into the main channel, where there’s both a current and many big scary waves. Well, big and scary when you’re in a 9.5-foot boat with your ass dragging in the water. I went under the big railroad bridge and into some backwaters, looking for a route back into the channel.

I didn’t find one.

Ultimately, I paddled about 3 or 4 miles, and my shoulders were aching when I got back to the shore. I saw plenty of wildlife: ducks, cranes, fish, and turtles, but no snakes. I saw one big scary spider much closer than I’d have liked when I drifted into its web while exploring the far shoreline.

Robyn was standing at the edge of the water when I returned, and chastised me soundly for being gone so long where she couldn’t see me. I explained how I thought I’d be able to get back out but ended up having to turn around and come the long way back, and she forgave me.

The sun, however, was not so forgiving, and I once again look like a lobster.

I was sitting in the computer room yesterday morning, watching a show called "I Lost It!" on Discovery Health. This show, which seems to be geared toward women (so close your mail client), is about people who’ve dropped weight. In this particular episode, the vioce-over was talking about the subject’s love for certain foods. Among these foods was Oreos, a food I myself was once fond of eating.

When the word ‘Oreos’ was said, the screen showed a pair of hands twisting apart a chocolate sandwich cookie. The white stuff in the middle stuck to either side as the halves separated.

This did not jibe with my recollection of Oreos.

Then, the screen showed a clear plastic tray filled with these chocolate cookies. Any Oreo eater knows Oreos don’t come in a plastic tray; they’re stacked inside a plastic bag. I was incensed. What kind of show was this, calling these obvious knockoffs Oreos? They were like the Sunshine cookies, and not like the real thing at all.

"Bessie!" I said, emphatically. "Look at this!" I pointed at the screen. "They just tried to pass cheapie cookies off as Oreos, when it’s painfully obvious that they’re not. They’re more like….like…"

Inspiration struck, in a flash.

"They’re like faux-reos!"

My very own sniglet.