Skanks on a Train

These are the ugliest shoes I've seen in a while. The picture doesn't do justice to the particular shade of nipple pink faux leather that accents the faux leopard skin. Or the nipple pink cord bow on the toe.

They belong to a trout-mouthed woman who was on our train from NY to Baltimore Sunday morning. At first, her shoes were the most offensive thing about her. Then somewhere around Philly she gets on her phone and starts talking, loudly.

It's 10ish on a Sunday. I'm on my second full day of this cold and a bit hungover. I am not light and love and puppies (ask Brian for confirmation.) I am raw and bitchy and on the verge of crying because I just want to be somewhere away from people. I can't get a bagel on the train because the oven doesn't work. I really really want a bagel.

She's directly across the aisle from me. Going on and on at the top of her healthy lungs about black dresses cut down to there, sleepy hugs and everything is punctuated by this doltish laugh. The train chugs on and so does she. Five minutes in I loathe her. I lean to Brian and whisper "I wish someone would kick her in her fucking head." She's still going on and I'm trying to read Outside the Lines but I can't really concentrate on either...something about plans and later and what was it that DA Powell said about burying things in poems? Back up the page and read it again.

She's still going on, laughing that dolt laugh and it seems impossible that she's laughing at what the other person says because she never seems to stop making noise long enough for someone else to respond.

She's the type of girl you'd see at a Young Republicans meeting or out somewhere protesting a Planned Parenthood Clinic and promoting Abstinence only education. She's still talking and I lean in Brian's direction and say, not so quietly this time, "I wish someone would shut her the fuck up." A couple of minutes later she's off the phone and she sits there, furiously texting until we get to Baltimore. I hope that was my fault.

Lordy Mercy

I went shopping and ran errands with my mama this morning. Biiiiiiig mistake. I should've known it would be a madhouse--tomorrow is mother's day, it's sunny and warm out, next week is the local Strawberry Festival--but did I really think of all that before I said: "Hey you want to go to the nursery and run errands?" No, no, I did not. Dammit.

I'm a misanthrope. I know it. I own it. I'm cool with it. I try to stay out of other people's way when I shop--it's only polite. I don't know what's more irksome--the woman at Lowe's with the two out of control tweens who were running up into checkout aisles and throwing shit from her basket (one had the charming habit of putting a rubbermaid-esque storage tub on his head, then walking around like a defective robot, banging into other shoppers); the dude from Kentucky with the white Lexus that almost hit my 67 year old mother in the Wal-Mart crosswalk (I gave him the finger and cussed him out); or the general people who shouldn't be allowed to operate a shopping cart because they seem unable to walk and push at the same goddamned time. I know that there's a lot of stuff on the shelves--I know options are scary and overwhelming, that the sheer capitalist bounty of Wal-Mart is akin to a spiritual experience--but do you need to park your cart in the middle of the aisle and stand between it and the shelving moving back and forth muttering to yourself?

Ach. Time to go out and dig in the dirt and plant some of my purchases.

Boils on the Ass of Humanity

I loathe my nearest neighbors. Some day I'll go into a full and proper psycho rant about why I would like them all chemically castrated for at least 3 generations to prevent their boorish dumbassery from further polluting the world.

They keep cattle. Fine. They have acreage; it's the country; I don't care what you decide to raise. But for the love of god, at least maintain your fences so they stay in.

Every year there are numerous escapes. As a kid, this would amuse me. Watching three or four paunchy guys running after a cow or cows trying to herd them back in? Fun fun stuff if you're 10. Twenty-odd years later? Not so much fun.

The first bovine gulag escape of 2007 is today. I've got this shit spattered black cow roaming my property. And there's no sign of its mouth-breathing throwback owners anywhere. I've tried to call, no answer. No sign of them or anyone at their place. I wonder how long I'm gonna have a displaced cow?

I'm betting they don't get around to capturing it til Wednesday; of course, by then it could be joined by a few of its revolutionary brothers and sisters in a brief taste of freedom.