Monday, August 10, 2009

how not to pick your friends.

The hardware store is a great adventure on a Sunday. The domestic warrior on his junket for fix-it parts and tools is swaggering the aisles while wives and rug rats lag behind.
Most of the men are wearing denim jeans slipping an inch too low off the hips while their shirts have ridden up over their protruding stomachs.

Here we have this guy in the store, you wouldn't really notice him initially. He blends in with the rest of the typical shoppers, yet he keeps looking at the two of us with pretty deep intensity.
I have this extra paranoid radar and can sense whenever someone's up in my business. Where did I get this radar? probably from the fact that I am equally as nosy and staring at people but I think my way is candid enough that its not caught frequently.
Sure as shit, I look and this guy has followed us to 3 different aisles but hasn't really appeared to be shopping for anything. He's just checking us out like we're the next broadway act.

We've come to pick up a dozen extra tiles that are going to be laid at the entryway near the sliding glass door. My man's weekend warrior job is to finally give the living room the kick in the ass I've been begging for. The flooring is (was!) pretty damn worn and in desperate need of repair so with my combination of begging and nagging he's given in at long last.

We pick out our ceramic tiles, nails and transition strips and toss them into the buggy (okay what do you call it? Originally when I lived in the northern Midwestern states I called it a grocery cart but after the last 7+ years south of the Mason-Dixon I've found myself calling it a buggy) we then make our final approach to the check out.
The next thing I notice is that the weirdo is suddenly ahead of us and doing his check-out (he has bought a package of AAA batteries).

He looks over his shoulder at me.
Takes his right index finger and inserts it into his nose with complete deliberateness. Then while his finger is in there, does a full swirl like he is swiping out the inside of a bowl cake icing.
Withdraws his finger and inspects it closely - you know the way you would look down your nose and then twist your finger this way and that to get the sunlight to catch every angle of the glistening prize.

With his forefinger and thumb he starts rolling this globule of goober until it wicks away enough moisture to his satisfaction.
He then starts pulling his booger covered finger, in pistol-like fashion towards his side...farther..farther until he gently tucks it OH SO LOVINGLY into his rear pocket. He actually pulled back his back pocket just enough so he could insert his finger and deposit that goober for safe keeping.

With a quick flourish, he then patted his own rear and pulled his hand back up to his mouth and licked his finger and left the building.

holy crap - all of this while he basically was still watching me. He wanted an audience.
He got one and now he has an even larger one.