The rug I won in a vicious Ebay auction arrived and turned out to be dreadfully the wrong color. Instead of the brilliant marigold orange pictured, it turned out to be rust. Ugh. Do I look like a rust person? And then I got the worst manicure of my life, one which actually left me bleeding. To quote Dorothy Parker, “Damn Miss Rose.”
Wounded, I nevertheless pressed on because our dear Diane con Austiburg is due in town tomorrow and I needed some of those homey little things one needs if one wants one’s guests to be able to take showers. Yes, there I was, BLEEDING, and yet I headed off to the much loathed Lowe’s Home Improvement Hellhole because that’s just the kind of martyr I am.
Driving over there, I noticed I was suddenly roasting hot (understandable in July in New Orleans, but the air conditioner was cranked all the way up) and sort of clammy and light headed. So what did I do? I kept driving. I’m an American, dammit, and I’m not about to let a little thing like physical incapacity stop me from wheeling along in my Nissan death machine.
I staggered into Lowe’s feeling like crap on a stick. I know there are many mens who seem to get an erection just walking in their doors, but I am not one of them. I find the whole thing confusing and annoying at the best of times, so for a while I blamed my symptoms simply on being in the damn store. That’s when I realized my eyes weren’t exactly focussing, which seems like something I would have noticed while driving, but no; let us assume this speaks to my superior piloting skill.
I stood in some aisle surrounded by those mysterious bits of electrical thingies (I have no idea how I wound up there, I have never in my life needed any of that colorful but menacing esoterica) trying to decide if I was having a stroke or a heart attack. In fact I stood for quite a little while considering the two as if they were items on a menu and trying to remember which one was worse. All I came up with was the memory of how Bette Davis’s face looked all droopy and scary after she had hers.
I decided what I needed was a good piss and on the way to the toilet, I found a cooler filled with Cokes and Gatorade, cause this is an establishment that caters to manly men. I love Gatorade, I think it a panacea and sure enough it did seem to make me feel better, so I wrapped up my shopping and checked out. I was determined to get that damn shower curtain up if I died en route. Also, since it was a self check out and chaotic as something out of Dante, I refused to pay for the Gatorade and just tossed the empty bottle in handy receptacle. Hee hee.
I suppose I could have taken a shot at an emergency room, but I’m pretty sure none of the Lowe’s employees would have helped get me to one and would have, in fact, stepped over my failing corpse if I had collapsed. Anyway, my experience with New Orleans’ emergency rooms is that unless you’re bleeding and can include the term “gunshot” in your explanation, you’re in for a long wait for not very much.
Also, by that time I felt better so I just stopped at Walgreen’s for a creme filled Twinky knock off delicacy and came home. And now I feel fine, peachy in fact, so either it was none of the scary things I was envisioning, or it was one of them and it didn’t particularly kill me or it really was just being in fucking Lowe’s. Could happen.
Meanwhile, the motherfucking shower rod refused to work. Typical.