To the Trail

     Years ago, I lived in a subdivision promising “city conveniences with country views”.  Basically, that meant hastily slung-together houses on eighth-acre plots conveniently located a few miles from the world’s shortest strip mall.  If you wanted to escape Lake Wannaslitmuhwrists to reach actual civilization, or a store with more to offer than bologna and lottery tickets, there is but one road.   

      I hate that road.

      Twelve miles, a million trees, two lanes, and a ditch on each side all conspire to make a prescription for highway hypnosis.  Travelling this road of doom requires a firm determination to remain awake and alert despite overwhelming desires to drift to la-la land and ponder the great mysteries of jello and male sleep habits.  It was by sheer force of will that I was able to avoid slipping into the comatose comfort of highway hypnosis. 

      It was during one such trip of wills that I first encountered my nemesis.  They looked harmless enough.  Their shiny red, black, or orange outfits hugged every gross curve on their sweaty bodies.  Their “vehicles” looked like the mutant love child of a bicycle and an operating table.  As they reclined on this mobile surgical implement, oblivious to the fact they were travelling 45 miles an hour UNDER the posted speed, their legs were outstretched leisurely pedaling at a maddening, meandering crawl.  The first time I rounded a corner and stood on the brake pedal to avoid creating a medium-rare idiot burger, I blew the horn with my heart pounding in my throat and my knees turning to oatmeal.  This particular idiot decided to show me his IQ ... with one finger.

      Yep, thought so. 

      On and on, over and over, I ran across Idiot and his crony clones.  Sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs, sometimes in packs, but always in the middle of the road and always coasting at 20 feet per hour.  (Miles per hour is not applicable in this situation.)  The more I blew my horn to say, “This is dangerous!  Don’t you have a family member or at least a goldfish to consider?” the more Idiot and his posse proudly displayed their fingers as if to say, “I has one eye-cue point but I is berry proud for it.” 

      As spring dawned one breezy day, I was ecstatic to be released from the prison of my home after two weeks of battling Buttercup’s bronchitis.  Of course, the only way out of that subdivision was down “the road”, but I didn’t care at that point.  A view beyond that of my living room walls at lovely Lake Wannaslitmuhwrists was worth any treachery.  Singing along with Patsy Cline on the stereo system, I dreamed of a fabulous lunch out and marveled at the budding trees.  Life would be OK again.  I smiled and rounded the bend. 

      There he was.   

      This time, his orange and black suit didn’t quite meet so I could see a bit of back/love handle fat.  (It’s funny the quirky things you notice with both feet on the brake pedal and your life flashing before your eyes.) I was livid.  This inconsiderate dirtball had added a new embellishment to the back of his stupid-looking mobile operating table: a flaming yellow bumper sticker with black letters that said, “Share the Road” next to a picture of a real bicycle.  It was on.  I made sure no cars were coming, swerved to the opposite lane, and rolled down the window.  “You pompous nincompoop!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.  “I’ll share the freakin’ road with a Craftmatic Adjustable Bed if it’ll go 50 mph!  How would you like it if I showed up on your bike trail in a Panzer, huh?!!  Have some consideration for something bigger than your hideous, stupid-looking beverage cart on tires!!”  I sped away leaving him in a cloud of dust and road kill. 

      We moved away from Lake Wannaslitmuhwrists three months later and I never saw him again.  I often think about Idiot and his Band of Merry Morons.  I hope he’s still picking dead squirrel fur out of his teeth and looking over his shoulder for a 6-foot crazy woman in a Panzer.  Besides the one where I’m dancing with Cary Grant, it’s my favorite dream. 

 © Bertha Grizzly 2012.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Bertha’s Bakers Dozen ™: What Not to Say to the Parents of an Autistic Child

     Having lived with Buttercup’s autism for some years now, I have heard just about everything anyone could possibly invent.  Some helpful, some kind, a lot stupid.  (I will warn you in advance: given the circumstances, you must forgive me a bit of excess snark.)  Well, Letterman has his ten; Bertha has her Bakers Dozen … and this time, it’s the What Not to Say to the Parents of an Autistic Child list:

13) “He/She can’t have _________? (fill in the blank with gluten, tomatoes, dairy or whatever exacerbates your individual child’s autism symptoms)  I could NEVER do that to my kid!”  Newsflash: I’m not doing it TO my kid.  I’m doing it FOR my kid.  If you knew that one food item caused your child to lose bowel control, the ability to form sentences, and the peace to sleep through the night, you would be a fool to feed it to him anyway.       

12) “I think that ‘autism’ thing is totally over-diagnosed.”  How do you “over-diagnose” something that is staring you in the face?  All tests, observations, and instincts point to autism, ergo, it’s probably autism.  How would you like it if you told me your mother had breast cancer and I said, “I think that ’cancer’ thing is totally over-diagnosed”?  You could knock me in the floor and there isn’t a jury alive that would convict you.  Have a little courtesy.

11) “Don’t scold her for hitting.  She’s autistic and can’t help it.”  Call her disabled.  Call her handicapped.  Call her different.  Just don’t call her helpless.  We have to make some allowances, but violence is not one of them.   

10) “If you’d just spank her once in a while, she’d stop repeating herself over and over and over.”  Wow!  Gee!!  Why didn’t I think of that?!!!?!  And while we’re at it, why don’t you spank your kid for saying “I wuv you” instead of “I love you”?  Like Nanny used to say, “That’ll learn him, dern him!”    

9) “Did she just hug you?!  Autistics can’t feel emotion!”  No, you’re confusing my child with your mother.      

8) “She can’t have autism!  Only boys get that.”  Thank you for your insight.  You might also be interested to know that men can’t have breast cancer, women can’t have biceps, boys can’t cry, and girls can’t do long division.   

7) “What do you mean I shouldn’t talk about him where he can hear?  He doesn’t understand anything.”  Yes, he most certainly does understand what you are saying.  He understands that you are talking about him in an unkind and unnecessary way.  He also understands that your manners could use some spit and polish.

6) “Those autism parents - they can’t wait to blame their bad parenting on something.”  You’re right; just like your child’s glasses are a manifestation of your refusal to feed her enough carrots.  And that kid in the wheelchair?  His parents were too lazy to teach him to walk.  And don’t even get me started on those useless hearing aids ... 

5) “Don’t be so hard on her.  It’s OK if she eats with her hands.”  I really do appreciate you trying to be understanding.  Truly, I do, but manners are a requirement of everyone.  She will not make it very far in life if she eats like a resident of the city zoo.  And I’m not “hard” on her; I am gently firm.

4) “I don’t think it’s fair for my child to be required to play with your child.  Your child’s behavior is so odd.”  If my kid has to put up with your kid picking his nose, screaming at the top of his lungs, and incessantly droning on and on about every nut and bolt that holds a train together, I see no reason why your child should be bothered by the fact that mine sorts his chicken nuggets by size before he eats them.       

3) “If I throw a box of toothpicks on the floor, can she tell me how many there are?!”  No.  Can you?   

2) “Autism is fashionable right now.  Just wait a few years.”  Wait.  Autism … is … fashionable.  Did I hear you correctly?  Because I’m sure you did not just stand there and call me an attention whore.  I’m certain that you have enough brain matter to realize that autism is not a fashion statement.  I am absolutely positive that you did not just tell me that the hours I have cried over my child’s struggles with bowel control and the inability to communicate were because I’m keeping up with the Joneses.  And wait a few years for what, pray tell?!  Until she comes to me one day and says, “You know, Ma, all those times I wanted to tell you I love you but couldn’t make my mouth say the words?  It was all a joke!”?  Oh, yes.  Autism is so en vogue.   

1) “No kid of mine would ever act that way.”  I sincerely hope not, because that would mean your child is autistic.  And from what I’ve gathered by our brief exchange, you aren’t strong enough to be a good parent.    

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Bertha’s Bakers Dozen ™: Tips for Drivers

     Driving is like cooking: we’ve all attempted it at one point or another.  Some of us have a real knack, some of us get by, and some of us shouldn’t be allowed within 10 feet of trying.  Fabulous, mediocre, or just plain inept, driving is one of the unavoidable facets of our lives that we just have to learn to deal with.   

     Unfortunately, our own safety, blood pressure, and punctuality often depend largely on the skill or ineptitude of others.  Well, Letterman has his ten; Bertha has her Bakers Dozen … and this time, it’s the Tips for Drivers list:  

13) Taking corners on two wheels is stupid but so is slowing down to the point your speedometer is forced to display in fractions.  Two wheels = jerk.  Fractions = senile jerk.   

12) Slamming on the gas when I put on my signal light to change lanes is not only rude, it also wastes gasoline and puts you at your destination a mere .0000000004 seconds sooner.  Happy now?

11) The left lane is the passing lane.  It is not a mobile billboard for you to tout the über-righteousness of your rigid, never-speeding, compulsively law-abiding credo. 

10) If you have to talk, text, eat, apply makeup, change your pants, and drive all at the same time, you need to seriously loosen up your schedule there, partner.  You are not the wonder of a multi-tasker you think you are so just stop it before you hurt somebody. 

9) Yes, I realize the bambis and bunnies hang out on this side of town, but driving 35 mph under the speed limit so you can see them is a) pointless, b) rude, c) selfish, d) outright dangerous to humans.  Speed up or give your car to the poor, swear off bathing, and go live among the woodland critters.

8) Your car is running on fumes.  Guess what!  So is mine!  We have so much in common we should have lunch sometime!  So how come when I pull up behind you at the gas station, you stop at the first pump?  You couldn’t even pull forward 8 feet for me?  I thought what we had was special. 

7) Just because you have one hand on the wheel and one hand on the cell phone/GPS/kids’ DVD controls does not in any way excuse you from pretending your signal light is missing.   

6) I think it’s amazing you spent 4 months of child support payments on a stereo system that is worth three times as much as your car, and if you would like to be dependant upon hearing aids by the time you are 40, that is your business.  However, the fact that the bass is making the plastic, fiberglass, and loose mechanics of your pitiful car buzz and vibrate is not only irritating, it lets people know how little money you truly have.   

5) Don’t have GPS?  That’s OK!  Not familiar with this road?  Fine by me!  Not sure where you’re supposed to turn?  I totally understand.  PULL OVER to the shoulder or stop in a gas station for directions.  Slowing down to 11 mph while you swerve from lane to lane is rude, dangerous, and endlessly aggravating.

4) The speed limit on this highway is 70 mph.  I’m driving 77.  So why are you so far up my butt I can actually see your blackheads in my rearview mirror?!  Huh?!

3) Parking lots have “lanes” just like a regular road.  Do not cut the corner, turn into the lot, meet me head-on and then glare at me like I’m in your way.  Move over Grandpa!  The NERVE!!  And if you honk your horn, oh it’s just over.

2) I realize your 100 year old granny has a bad hip.  I understand she’s too proud for assistance so you have to let her out at the door.  But you, with your able-bodied legs, are perfectly capable of parking and walking to the door.  So why do you find it acceptable to park yourself in the fire lane, block traffic, and wait?  I bet you have a toilet paper wand because you’re too lazy to wipe your own rear end, don't you?!

1) You do realize your car has clear glass windows, right?  So why for the love of all that is sacred do you dig in your nose like a sino-nasal spelunker on a dare? 

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Bertha’s Bakers Dozen ™: Things I Would Love to Say But Really Shouldn’t and, Therefore, Never Will

     I have been called bold.  I have been called fearless.  I have even been accused of saying what comes to mind without pausing to filter.  Truth be told, I have a remarkably well-fitted filter that is constantly at work.  Well, Letterman has his ten; Bertha has her Bakers Dozen … and this time, it’s the Things I Would Love to Say But Really Shouldn’t and, therefore, Never Will list.  You might be offended, you might not.  You might laugh, you might not.  You might recognize your own silenced subconscious, you might not.  But in any case, you have been warned.  That being said, here is the Bakers Dozen list of those things trapped in my filter:

13) “I have this look on my face and yet you keep talking.”  I don’t want to talk about politics.  No, I am not a fan of modern art.  Yes, I’ve heard of that author.  Actually, extreme activism generally gets on my nerves.  So why are your political, artsy, activist gums still flapping?!

 
12) “No, you are not a ‘marvelous cook’, as you like to put it.”  Perhaps I am a grouch.  Perhaps I am a snob.  Perhaps I am the reincarnation of a European gastronome from a bygone era, but if your “marvelous cooking” involves a milligram of margarine or the excessive use of a can opener, I must raise an eyebrow.     
 
11) “If you knew how you looked in that dress, you’d burn it.”  I know, I know.  Clothing is a very personal, subjective purchase but I still have to see you in it.  When the hem of your dress is at your knees in the front and teasing your ankles in the back, I find it difficult to believe you put that on and thought, “Oh yeah!  I look good!  Uh huh, you know you want ‘dis!” 
 
10) “Umm, ever hear of this new craze called ‘daily bathing’?  It’s all the rage!”  In a country like America with millions and billions of bars of soap, bottles of body wash, and sticks of antiperspirant produced every year, why do so many people seem to feel the need to abstain from hygiene practices?  This is disgusting and I come across it everywhere I go.  I’ll be standing in line at the grocery store and before I know it, I am blindsided by the pervasive stench of someone’s unwashed body.  It’s like a skunk and an outhouse created a signature scent and decided to surprise me with it.  I’m surprised alright; surprised I haven’t said anything before now.  My watering eyes and nauseated tummy have suffered in silence for a very long time.    
 
9) “If you truly find it necessary to smack your food like an uncultured baboon, could you just go eat in your car?”  Is my mother the only one in history who said, “Chew with your mouth closed.  No one wants to hear or see your dinner”?  If you get a spot of sauce on your fingertip and discretely, silently touch said fingertip to your lips, I will not say a word.  But if I can hear you sucking the life out of rib bones from across the restaurant or you are in the booth right behind me and your chewing reminds me of something I saw on Uncle Froggy’s hog farm, I start to get irritated.  I’ve never actually asked anyone to take their food to the car, but it has crossed my mind many, many times.    
 
8) “Yes, I’m a big chick, but I fit in this booth just fine.  Yes, I ordered dessert, but I also ate my steamed vegetables.  Raise your skinny eyebrows at me again and your tip will magically disappear.”  It amazes me that starving college students masquerading as servers suddenly become the resident dieticians.  I don’t order dessert every time but once in a while, I think a nice fruit sorbet or chocolate dessert sounds tasty so I indulge.  I don’t feel guilty about it and, honestly, as long as I pay the bill it’s my business what I order.  Unless you think I’m buying cocktails for a 16 year old, leave me the heck alone.      
 
7) “I think it’s great that you watch your calories and spend 14 hours a week at the gym; I just don't want to hear you talk about it.”  If you did a thousand quad reps, if you ran 20 miles, if you figured out how to eat exactly 941 and three-fifths calories in one day, if you think I would benefit from this wonderful new program … please share it with someone else.  “I went to the gym” will suffice.  
 
6) “Why, yes, I do mind if you cut in front of me.”  The store is crowded.  We’re all tired from working all day.  We all want to get home to our families, our kids, and our laundry.  The fact that you deem your hurry more important than mine is not an excuse to throw your frozen dinners on the belt and then half-heartedly shrug, “Hope you don’t mind if I cut in front of you.”  The next time that happens, I’m adding my purchases to your order.  If you pay for my groceries, you can cut in front of me as often as you like.   

5) “Stop laughing.  It’s not that funny.  Really, stop laughing.”  I’m all for a hearty laugh but when I’m in a restaurant or a store and I hear someone loudly forcing a “laugh” that is obviously as fake as Pamela Anderson’s boobs, I cringe.  If you are trying to flirt, stop it.  If you’re nervous, learn to twiddle your thumbs.  If you have nothing to say, then don’t say anything; the silence alone will alert the boring individual how very un-interesting they really are.  And for the love of Pete, stop ending every texted or e-mailed sentence with LOL.  “I’m eating lunch LOL!!!!”  Really?  Is your lunch that amusing?  Just stop it.  

 

4) “I know you don’t care how I am doing today.  You’re just trying to sell me something.”  I hate it when I’m walking through the mall or answering my phone and I hear this unfamiliar, overly-enthusiastic voice shrieking, “Hi!!!!!!  How are you today!!!!!!!!!”  I’m not stupid.  We are not friends.  I have never met you before.  You are trying to sell me something that I don’t want, can’t afford, and have no interest in learning about.  Save it. 

 

3) “If you cannot properly pronounce a word, pick a different one or stop talking.”  Pronunciation is very important to me.  Maybe it’s all the years I spent desperately trying to tone down my southern drawl or maybe it has something to do with the fact that mispronounced words sound like fingernails on a chalkboard to my bleeding ears.  Whatever the reason, I must get this off my chest: the word is “deal”.  It rhymes with “meal”, “steel”, “feel”, and “teal”.  It is not pronounced “dill”.  “Dill” is an herb.  “Dill” is a pickle.  “Deal” is a bargain or a contractual agreement between two parties.  The two are not interchangeable in any way.  The same goes for “feel” and “fill”.  And if you got a fabulous price on your dinner for 2, please oh please, do not tell me about your “mill dill”.    

 

2) “You asked me a question, I’m trying to answer you, and now you’re interrupting me.  Next time, just write me a letter, you pompous nincompoop.”  It’s not just the total lack of manners that annoys me.  It’s the fact that you have the nerve to act as if I’m wasting your time. 

 

1) “No ma’am.  Your child does not have a precocious sense of adventure.  Your child is an unruly titmouse.”  If little Matthew has ripped the tags off of 12 dresses, thrown a ball into the candy display, bit his baby sister, spit in your face, screamed at the top of his lungs, and punched an old lady in the stomach, that is no longer a mischievous little tyke.  He has become a despicable little monster and the problem is yours to correct.  But I will warn you: if he comes near me with his grubby little fist poised for a punch and he accidently trips over my foot, I have no idea how it got there.  Honest. 

 

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

It's Not Just Me

Dear Guy in Front of Me at the “Hunan Panda” Chinese Restaurant,

     We don’t know each other, but you were in line ahead of me last week.  I was waiting to place a carry-out order and you were waiting to be seated.  I noticed you as you came across the parking lot, your large legs causing you to walk in a swaying motion that reminded me of why Dramamine is one of my dearest friends.  Now please don’t misunderstand me: there is no shame, NO shame, in having a bit of a belly.  It happens to the best of us.  However, Sir, there is MUCH shame is wearing a shirt that is 2 sizes too large with “I’m da big dawg” on the front of it.  If you purchased a shirt in a size that actually fit your frame, my corneas might not have been permanently and irreparably scarred by the mole covered “back boobs” that hung out of your shirt’s armholes.  And, for the record, when one’s feet resemble those of a hobbit from “Lord of the Rings” and fall over the sides of discount flip-flops, one might consider purchasing slightly wider footwear in the future. 

     While I was standing there waiting for my lo mein, I heard your cell phone ring.  And ring.  And ring.  And.    Ring.  Not that Travis Tritt’s “I Smell T-R-O-U-B-L-E” isn’t a dang snazzy ringtone, it’s just that anything repetitiously repeated can get repetitive when it is repeatedly repeated in a most repetitious manner, repeatedly repeated repeatedly.  As the kindly waitress seated you, was it truly necessary for you to lean over another diner’s plate, deeply inhale, and exclaim, “Thet smells good ‘nuff to eat!”? 

     I’m certain you don’t remember me, but if you will think back to your surroundings at that meal, I was the one standing at the front door, mouth agape at your manners.  Not that your “Hyuck, hyuck, hyuck!” laughter wasn’t endearing, but the fact you kept it up for a full 12 seconds while another diner frantically tried to sop up the glass of water her child has spilled was just wrong.  I stood in awe of how your mother, a supposed member of our community, could raise a little boy to behave in such a manner.  I wondered how many more times I would have to hear Travis Tritt singing at decibel levels usually reserved for engine takeoff.  I wondered who on earth could possibly be trying to get in touch with you so many times in one 10-minute span.  How did you get to be so popular anyway? 

     Please forgive me for staring.  Maybe it’s just me, but isn’t digging in your ears with your car keys ever so slightly unsanitary?  Not to mention DISGUSTING?  Really?  Is it just me?  Or is it that we have become a nation of slovenly, unkempt, inconsiderate sloths who have so little self-respect that we have convinced ourselves that manners and appropriate attire are relics of a stuffy, bygone era?  Is it really just me?  Or is the refusal to lower the volume of your cell phone ringer a manifestation of some deep-seated need for attention?  Is it really just me?  Or has the art of conversation given way to the art of self-service?  Is it really just me?

     I paid for my food, grabbed my lo mein, and headed for the parking lot just in time to see you use your car keys as a toothpick.  Nauseated, I ran for my car and as the door closed behind me, I got the privilege of hearing Travis Tritt … one … more … time.  Nope.  It’s NOT just me. 

With Deepest Sympathies to Your Mother,

Bertha

  

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

An Open Letter to Public Cell Phone Users

As a reasonably intelligent human being and a semi-astute American citizen, it has come to my attention in recent years (mainly based on the fact that I have ears) that many individuals have no idea that there are manners and expectations when using a cell phone, smart phone, or other portable communication device.  As a method of self-preservation and the unavoidable fact that I am in fact, a grouch, I hereby submit this list of requests, nay, demands to John and Jane Q. Public, cell phone users extraordinaire. 

1) Keep your voice down.  While waiting in line at the pharmacy recently, I was scanning the covers of tabloids and secretly debating as to whether the health of my sinuses was really worth standing for 30 minutes for a handful of pills.  In the midst of my inner debate, I heard: “Mom?  Hi!  How are you?”  Like the countless millions of other women who have given birth, my head immediately turned in the direction of the word “Mom”.  There sat a miserable, portly woman of approximately 40 years with chapped lips and a pouty frown who had wedged herself sideways into the seat of the blood pressure machine.  “I’m at the pharmacy right now,” she continued, “so I didn’t want you to wonder where I was.”  My immediate thought was that if her mother had been curious as to the woman’s whereabouts, said mother would have called the cell phone to find out.  But, I digress.  “No, no, no, I’m fine, Mom.  I went to the doctor today and he gave me a prescription I have to get filled.” 

At this point, I wish to make you aware that the woman’s voice was obnoxiously loud for such a crowded and overheated environment like the overflowing line at the pharmacy.  If such phone calls in close quarters are absolutely essential, please keep your voice to a reasonable level.

2) Keep personal details to a minimum.  As this woman continued her conversation, more and more patrons began staring at her.  She didn’t mind in the least.  In fact, despite her obvious misery, she seemed energized by it.  “The doctor thinks I have HPV based on my last pap smear.”  An audible gasp of disgust went through the crowd, growing more and more anxious to flee every passing minute.  Still undeterred, the woman continued, “Yes, Mo-therrrr, that is the one that causes cancer.  The doctor doesn’t think I have cancer but I may have the warts.”  By this time, nausea and blinding mental pictures are making me forget the sinus infection that brought me into the pharmacy in the first place.  “He decided to do another pap today so with that and the blood draws, I am NOT a happy camper.”  She paused long enough to listen to “Mo-therrrr” on the other end and to take a breath before charging ahead.  “Well, Randy hasn’t come near me in a month but who has time for sex with a teenager in the house?” 

By this time, her unwitting captive audience members were beginning to look at one another and mutter responses like, “Really?” or “She did NOT just say that!”  These personal details of her medical problems were not, and I repeat NOT, life threatening nor were they of the nature requiring that they be shared immediately.  If you have personal, intimate, private, or just plain gross information to relay, please wait until you are alone in the parking lot or, at the very least, LOWER YOUR VOICE!

3) Do not gossip about other people.  While the rest of us were staring holes through the pharmacy techs (who felt discussing whose thong showed through their white pants was more important than serving the exhausted, overheated, exasperated crowd), this woman was oblivious that her conversation was making matters worse.  She continued talking about her teenage daughter: “She’s getting such an attitude.  Randy and I can’t agree on how to handle it.  She pits him against me and me against him and then leaves the house when we fight about it.  I told Randy if she’s out messing around with her boyfriend, it’s his fault.”  (Poor Randy.  He probably gets blamed for everything.)  “I told her I didn’t like her attitude and she just rolled her eyes at me.  Can you believe that!”  (We can all hear a muffled shriek on the phone from this woman’s mother, we’re just not sure if it’s disbelief or laughter.)  “I know!  Randy says it’s no big deal but I just don’t like it.  I tried looking through her e-mails but I can’t figure out her password.”  (Hey woman, try “cantwait2be18” …)  All of her jabbering on and on about poor Randy and their daughter was just the last straw.  Don’t gossip, people, seriously.  It’s tacky.  It’s wrong.  And, honestly, nobody wants to hear it!

When my turn finally came to check out, I paid for my pills as quickly as possible and turned to run out of the store.  I got to the door just in time to see someone put a six-pack of beer at her feet and say in a dramatic stage whisper, “This is for Randy”.  Atta boy. 

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.