Advent: Celebrating The Coming of Christ (and Also Cash)

Today, I had to send my husband to the store to pick up some staples such as milk, bread, and cheese.  Before he left, we both finished watching the Packers game.  During one commercial break, the Wisconsin Lottery was advertising their “Holiday Countdown” scratch game.  Therefore, before he finally set off to the nearest convenience store, I added this item to my list of necessary purchases. 

“Honey, buy me that calendar countdown card too,” I said. I didn’t ask, “Honey, will you …?” I just told him “buy this.”  I can be a real bitch like that sometimes.  I don’t intend to come across like this; I think it’s a disorder.  If you’ve been following this blog, you’ll recall that my husband has diagnosed me with “Bitch Tourette’s.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, with clear confusion regarding the item I had demanded he purchase.

“The lottery ticket thing we saw during the game,” I tried to explain, failing to recall that he had excused himself to the bathroom during that particular commercial break.  While I witnessed the uncertainty that remained on his face, I further attempted to clarify, “It’s a scratch game for every day of the holiday season.  You know, it’s just like an advent calendar.” 

 

When he looked back at me after this comparison, it was as though he was looking at me with his mother’s eyes, judging me for my obviously blasphemous statement. 
 

Is it blasphemy to ask you to pray that I win? Hmmm ...

To those unaware, the word ‘advent’ has a Latin origin meaning “the coming,” and for Christian believers, the practice of advent began as a means of celebrating the greatest gift ever given by God to mankind – the birth of his son and our savior Jesus Christ.  Originally, this period was acknowledged with a mark of chalk upon the doors of believers.  Eventually, the observance of advent, like most holiday traditions, became a mark of consumerism and profit rather than a celebration of God’s gift to us.

Okay, so advent is meant to celebrate the birth of Christ, and not intended to celebrate cash winnings. Again, I didn’t intend for my comment to be blasphemous; sometimes words just spew out of my mouth like vomit.  Perhaps we should call that “Bitch Bulimia,” which would probably be just as politically correct and sensitive as the former diagnosis.

At any rate, I felt it was a fairly accurate analogy.  Despite my husband’s look of disapproval, he understood my meaning and brought the correct lottery card home.  And quite frankly, I feel it would be a magnificent gift to me if God were to help this girl out with a $100,000 win.  While this gift would not be as wonderful as my salvation, it would still be pretty damn awesome. I think Christ wants me to have a hot tub.

Don't Mess with Pat Monahan

If you follow me on facebook, you already have a heads up on the tale that is about to unfold.  If you don’t follow me, why the hell not? Hit that “like” button, yo.  You would know that yesterday  I posted a comment on my writer page about the random dream I had the night before.  In that dream, my friends Angie, Melissa, and I were all out to eat at a fine restaurant before planning to go club-hopping (something we do never in real life because I live in the middle of nowhere).  We were all looking damn good.  I had on a little black dress and a stunning silk black and white striped scarf wrapped around my head like I was Jackie O.  The details are really irrelevant, but this is how well I am able to recall my dreams, and this is also why my husband is annoyed as shit every time I want to share them with him. 

"I'm so gangster. I'm so thug."  Really, Pat Monahan, really?
 

Okay, so let’s damn the details and get to the part worth sharing.  The band Train was also dining at this restaurant at a near-by table.  My two friends were stirred up by this celebrity sighting, and headed over to excitedly introduce themselves to the band.  I remained seated awaiting my Caesar Salad and glass of Merlot.  They were chatting with the band for a while and then the lead singer inquired about me.  Here’s exactly how I posted about this inquiry on my facebook page: “Then the lead singer (not even bothering to look up his name ... sorry Train fans) nodded over at me, and said, ‘What's the matter with her? Is she shy?’ My friends laughed at his silly question. Then I looked at him and spoke, ‘I'm not shy. Just not interested in meeting you,’ and quickly looked back away. I'm awesome even in my dreams.”

Yes, you can correctly conclude that I am not a Train fan.  Drops of Jupiter?  What the fuck are drops of Jupiter?  And why does he give a shout-out to deep fried chicken and soy lattes in that song?  I don’t want to meet Virginia, either.  Virginia doesn’t really sound all that interesting. Her hair is always a mess, she smokes a pack a day, and she wears high heels when she exercises.  That bitch is crazy, not fascinating.

Further, the singer claims he and Virginia just “like to sit at home and rip on the president.”  People! Stop ripping on the president, for Christ’s sake! If we don’t have respect for the office of president, how can we expect our children to respect their teachers, pastors, parents, coaches, and other mentors? (My apologies for the random soapbox.)

I admit I’m a music snob.  I don’t listen to a lot of “mainstream” artists.  My favorite artist is Aimee Mann, who was only mainstream decades ago as the former frontwoman of ‘Til Tuesday.  I appreciate lyrics, and that’s why I am not a fan of Train and didn’t make the effort to figure out the lead singer’s name.  I mean c’mon: “Hey soul sister – like a virgin, you’re Madonna – and I’m always gonna wanna blow your mind.”  Gonna? Wanna? Go to grammar school! Going to. Want to.

While I want to send Train to grammar school, I got my own ass schooled yesterday for hating on the band.  The following comment was left beneath my random dream posting: “His name is Pat Monahan and Train is awesome.” I suppose we will have to agree to disagree on this issue, but both confirm that music matters.

From this schooling, I learned two very valuable lessons:

1.       The lead singer of Train is Pat Monahan. Recognize.

2.       You can drop all the f-bombs you want on your blog, but don’t fuck with Train. 

Thanks for the knowledge! And to all of you Train fans and non-Train fans alike: Let’s keep music alive and support the band and choir programs in your local schools (both of which are so very sadly currently on the chopping block at my former district).  Dance to whatever music makes you happy and sing along loudly during every commute … especially if you hear Mister Mister on the radio (you’re welcome for that one final Train allusion)!



 

Dear Woman at Wal-Mart

I only wanted one card.  Just one fucking birthday card I had hoped to pick up real quick before a party.  I expected the usual bullshit – the classy line of customers that typically takes over the floors of this mega-store.  Folks are stopped in the middle of aisles with their carts full of purple soda pop and lowest ply bulk toilet paper.  They stand there talking about their cats and their kids like they’re at a social event when I just need to get two items and get the fuck out. 

“Well, Missy just got her third underage drinking ticket.  I told that girl Imma kick her ass out of the trailer if she can’t straighten up.”

“Now, which one is Missy?  Is that Billy’s baby or Ricky’s baby?  Why don’t she just move in with her daddy?” 

“I don’t know who her daddy is, Rachel Lee.”

 

And then there’s me, “Excuse me.  I just … I just need to grab this shampoo.”  Fuck; I hate this store. And yes, I am definitely judging those people.  If you don’t know this by now, you are clearly new to this blog. Welcome.  If you are offended, please remove the stick from your ass.

So, like I said, I expected those kinds of women – nothing new there.  I was, however, freshly irritated when I got stuck behind the elderly man in the hover-round with a case of Milwaukee’s Best in the attached wire cart.  Do you need that motorized machine because you’re disabled or you’re drunk?  Fuck, people.  Get out of my way old man.  I have a party to get to and I just need one card. 

At last, I made it to the card aisle.  I didn’t like any of the cards in the first section.  None of them said what I needed to say: “Happy Birthday.  I love you because you’re a bitch like me.  Now let’s get shitfaced and find some ass together.  I promise not to let you fuck anyone ugly tonight because I like you, my dear friend.”  

So, I turned the corner.  And there you were.  Holy fucking shit – there you were.  You were probably the same height as me – maybe even a little shorter.  I would have guessed somewhere between five foot and five foot three.  However, you easily had one hundred or more pounds on me, and you had no qualms over showing off that bountiful flesh.  You had on a tank top that I am assuming was formerly white, but now yellowed and stained.   The tank top rested just above your protruding muffin top – lots and lots of muffin top.  There really has to be a different term for what you had – soufflé skin or something.  I don’t know, but it wasn’t pretty.  I wanted to gouge my own eyes out with a fork, but it probably would have taken me another twenty minutes to make it to the kitchen section of the store.

You were wearing cut-off sweat pants.  They were frayed at the edges and barely covered your bulbous ass that threatened to approach me as I stood frozen and appalled in the aisle.  I could smell cigarettes, and first assumed the odor was attached to your “designer” clothing.  But then I looked at your hand to see that you were actually standing there smoking a cigarette right in the middle of Wal-Mart.  But that’s not even the best part because you were also barefoot.

So, I never even bought that card.  I turned the fuck around and hauled ass out of Wal-Mart.  I didn’t return to that store for six whole years.  Yet, your image remains forever etched in my head.  You are everything that is wrong with America.  Therefore, I expect to see you again soon when I turn on the television to find you now have your own reality show. 

 

You can check out more of the fine "People of Wal-Mart" here: http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/

I am not the only judgmental asshole out there.  Don't even try to tell me you've never judged.