Failed retail therapy

So, here's the story: I drove to Laguna Beach, because I'd never been there before. I stopped at two bookstores, where I chatted with some nice people about books, and then on my way back to my car, I noticed The Sunglass Hut and decided to get new sunglasses. When I went in, the fat guy behind the counter was telling his lone customer, a middle-aged lady, about polarized lenses. At the end of his speech, she said, "Gosh, I'd never even heard of polarized lenses before."

"They're not for everyone."

"Well, I'm going to have to think about whether I need them or not." And she split.

I said, "You're lucky -- I already know I want polarized lenses." I meant it as a little joke, but his cell phone rang just as I said it.

Then I did at least four laps of all the cases while he told someone, "I need the money before Friday! You can transfer it to my account! I gotta have the money!"

He hung up, said, "Sorry," and drummed his fingers on the counter. After a moment or two, he asked, "What are you here for?"

"Sunglasses."

"Do you want plastic frames or wire frames?"

"I'm not sure. But I do know I want polarized."

He then launched into the exact same polarized spiel he told the other lady. I kept trying to tell him I already knew I wanted polarized lenses, but he just talked over me.

Finally, I said, "Cut the spiel. I've heard it already. My last pair were polarized. I like polarized. I am going to buy polarized."

He stared at me. Then he asked again whether I wanted plastic or wire. I said, "My last pair was wire, but there's a chance I might find them again, so I'm thinking I should get plastic this time. I have a small face, though, so wire maybe looks better on me."

"And...the answer is?"

"I'm not sure."

I went from case to case, pointing and asking, "Is that polarized? How about that one?" He answered yes or no so quietly, I almost thought I was just imagining the tension.

Every so often, he'd say, "You know, it'd be a lot easier on me if you'd just tell me whether you want plastic or wire."

"I'm not sure."

Finally, when I asked to see both a plastic and a wire frame at the same time, he yelled: "How am I supposed to help you when you refuse to tell me whether you want plastic or wire??"

We stared at each other a moment, like two animals contemplating mutual destruction. Then I said, "I've changed my mind. I don't want to buy sunglasses today." I started heading out.

"You know what? F--- YOU! F--- YOU!!!!"

I turned around. "Pardon?"

"F--- YOU AND GET OUT OF MY STORE!!"

"This is your store?"

"F--- YOU! GET OUT OF MY STORE!"

I thought, once I explain things, he'll feel bad.

"What did I do?"

"I asked you, do you want plastic or wire frames! You don't answer. I try to tell you about polarized lenses. You call it a spiel! Well, f--- you, bitch! Get out of my store!"

I waited until he paused for air, then said, "You know, today is the anniversary of my mom's death, and I'm a bit distracted. So, I'm sorry I didn't seem sensitive to your spiel."

Maybe if I had come up with another word besides spiel, it would have worked, but my heart was pounding and it was hard to think. Anyway, it just set him off anew. "I'm sorry about your mom, but you were rude to me. I want you out of my store!"

Then...I can't believe I said this, but...I said, "Someday, after your mom dies, if she's not already dead," (I tried to look sympathetic as I said this, thinking maybe he was an orphan and that's why he was so horrible), "maybe you'll remember this and learn to be a bit more polite."

A couple walked in just as I was saying that. I am not really happy I said that.

He screamed, "You come in here, you try and make me guess what you want, plastic or wire, you won't let me tell you what polarized means, and now you're insulting my mom. F--- YOU, C--T!!!!"

The woman shook her head at her husband and they left.

Suddenly, I had an insight: "Are you on drugs?"

He screamed just like that Democratic candidate in the last primaries, who lost the election when he went, "We're going to Ohio, then Nebraska, then Wyoming! AAAHAGAHGAHTEYAAA!" Then he ran out from behind the counter into the backroom, waving his arms. I really thought he was going to come back with a gun or something. So, I left.

My trip to Santa Barbara

This morning I headed out for Santa Barbara, but around Santa Monica, I decided the traffic looked better going the other way, so I turned around and wound up in Oceanside. I stopped in at the tourist bureau and the old ladies manning the desk finally ran out of visitors from Missouri, so they were forced to ask me where I'm from. I was about to say the South Bay, but I could see by their frowns they expected as much, so I said, "Uhhh...Los Angeles." (It's clear why I do improv, isn't it?)

I almost got the idea, as I was trying to come up with some place like Burkina Faso, that they were rooting for me...the more I hesitated, the more hopeful they looked. When I finally ended up from Los Angeles, they shrugged and looked motherly, as if I got points for at least trying.

I asked, "Is there a beach in Oceanside?" (Thus implying that although I was from Los Angeles, at least I was from some place inland, like Korea Town.) They looked excited and got out a big map and pointed at the beach, which was about two blocks away. "It looks very big," I said. "I might actually be able to find it."

"Oh, don't worry," one old lady said, "We'll point you in the right direction."

The other lady, who apparently wasn't listening that closely, chimed in, "No, to get to the beach, she has to go left out of the parking lot, then right. On Mission. Then she comes out at the pier."

"Oh yes! The pier! If you like big, you'll love our pier. Oceanside has the longest wooden pier in all of California." (When the old ladies said 'longest wooden pier', it didn't have the connotation it has now. Or maybe it did. Who knows what lurks in the minds of beehived old ladies.)

"And at the end of the pier...." One old lady traced her pearly pink fingernail along the pier on the map, so as to build up tension. But she stopped half-way, as if she forgot the tension and was back to thinking about directions.

I asked, "What's at the end?"

"A Rubio's!"

So much for a pot of gold. I ended up skipping the pier. Then I decided to skip Oceanside. Now I'm back home.

THE END

Guilt or Irritable Bowel Syndrome

Do murderers get over their guilt, just as I will eventually get over this cold? Or does guilt become a chronic condition, like Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS)? Liable to pop up in the most inconvenient of places?

Let's say you're the life of a party, and they're all around you awaiting your next bon mot. A song comes on...where did you hear this song before? Oh yeah, it played on your car radio while you were trundling your victim off into the woods. (This is assuming you are a non-psychopathic murderer, and that the memory would depress you.) You turn pale, start sweating and excuse yourself.

Now, let's say you are not a murderer, but that you suffer from IBS. You're at a party, surrounded by adoring women and/or men. One offers you a cheez whiz. Refusing it would offend a potential hook-up...and it's just a cheez whiz, for god's sake. So you eat it. And then you turn pale, start sweating and excuse yourself.

Disregarding the implications of jail and all that, which would you rather admit to? That you're the one farting, or that OK, you killed someone?

I'm sure you yourself would say farting, but I bet some people would hesitate.

Hair shirt

Once upon a time I really wanted to wear a hair shirt, a'la Thomas More. I googled some nunnery that promoted the wearing of hair undershirts and asked them where I could buy one. They emailed back asking me my religion (I was/am an atheist), did I know hair shirts were scratchy (yes, that was the point), and had I really thought this through (no). It just seemed an easy way to be a better person.

They wouldn't tell me where I could buy one, and eventually I threw my giant hair ball away. Now I'm not sure why I thought it a good idea -- I mean, whenever I feel the least bit sick, I turn bitchy. How would a hair shirt make me feel?

What's more, Thomas More hid his hair shirt underneath mounds of red brocade. I would've had to hide it under a sequined tank top. Gads, I can't imagine the comments I'd get in the bars here if I went out in one.

P.S. I'm feeling sick and bitchy right now, in case you're interested.