So, I’m at the store waiting in line to buy my stuff, chatting on the phone with my friend, Toni. (How about that for a shout-out, Toni? You do still read this blog, right?)
So, I’m waiting my turn, minding my own business, regaling Toni with the latest hilarity in my life when a quick movement behind me catches my attention. Something has changed but I’m not sure what. I scan the items on the conveyor belt.
- Motor oil
- Batman costume
- Glass bottles
- Rags
- Hubba Bubba gum
- Nail polish remover
I quickly come to two disturbing conclusions:
- I could create a bomb with these items and wreak some serious vigilante justice; and
- that Hubba Bubba ain’t mine.
“Will you buy this gum for me?”
I turn around to find an old woman standing behind me. And by old, I mean batshit crazy. I can tell because her skirt is hiked up to within an inch of her crotch and tucked into her underwear (but only on one side), her blouse is mis-buttoned, and she’s wearing a maroon crocheted beret at a cocky tilt that tells me she meant to put it there. To round out her ensemble she’s chosen to don royal blue koozies on her feet. Last but not least, she has no teeth with which to chew this Hubba Bubba she’s hoping I’ll purchase for her.
The only thing appropriate about her is the fact that the undergarments, which are cinching her skirt at an uncomfortably revealing angle, are in fact, pale green granny panties.
But who am I to judge?
“Just a minute, Toni.” I place my hand over the phone and smile at the woman. “Sure,” I say. “Why not?”
I resume my conversation with Toni and mime with the cashier, who could care less what I’m buying or for whom, and pay for my purchases. The woman behind me scoops up her gum and is out the front door before I’ve even begun my usual apology for “forgetting” my reusable shopping bag.
As I leave the store, I see batshit crazy lady wandering in the parking lot. I begin my standard post-purchase routine of trying to locate my keys in my purse, when they are actually in my jeans pocket when again, my peripheral vision warns me that’s something’s up.
“Hang on a sec, Toni. I think she’s back.”
Clutching her Hubba Bubba in her left hand, batshit crazy lady mimics smoking a cigarette with her right. “You don’t happen to have any chips, do ya?”
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I had lunch with a dynamo of a woman recently. She’s 89 years old. Sharp, witty, and fantabulous. Everything I want to be at her age. Any age, really.
