Month: December 2017

We’re Going to Need a Glass Pipe and a Protractor

Carlisle, Rok, Nuke, and Nuke’s boyfriend (Scrappy) were all hanging out with me in the store last night, but we could barely hear each other, on account of the music from the bar was blasting at skull-shattering levels. So when Carlisle said something about bubble bath (which made sense in context), everyone else went, “Bubble meth? The hell is bubble meth? How would you even do bubble meth?!”

Well, everyone except me, because I was all, “Bubble math? The hell is bubble math? How would you even do bubble math?!”

The point here is that Rok and Nuke have terrible drug problems, whereas I will never stop being a Liberal Arts major.

Hey, want another solvent story? Of course you do.

Customer: [pointing to his straight female friend] “Do you carry butt plugs? She wants a butt plug.”

Me: “No. We do not carry butt plugs.”

Straight Female Friend: “Where could we find a butt plug?”

Me: “Well, you could try [sleazy store] or [sleazier store].”

Customer: “What about poppers? Do you sell poppers?”

Me: “We do not sell poppers, but we do sell solvents and polish removers.”

Customer: [dejected] “Oh. Okay, then.” [leaves]

Rok yelled, “SOLVENTS ARE THE SAME THING” as they walked out the door, but they didn’t hear him. I blame the music.

You know what would be funny, though? If, in a couple of months, one of them accidentally spills nail polish all over the place, and the other goes, “Quick! To the Forge!” If that happens, I’m totally going to be like, “Oh, sorry, guys. We only sell poppers.”

Meow I Lay Me Down

ProTip: If your day job involves managing gated townhome communities, and a homeowner calls freaking out because there’s a dead cat in their retention pond, so your boss contacts an animal removal services but is then all, “$400 to get rid of a dead cat?!” the correct response is NOT “Seriously? Hell, I’d do it for $200.”

Apropos of nothing, but there’s a dead cat in my trunk.

Cereal Numbers

My Mom: “I mentioned to your sister-in-law that we’re having your car detailed for Christmas, and she said, ‘Oh, we had it washed before we sent it down there.’ So I explained that you’re very proud of the car and want to take good care of it, and I pointed out that it was just driven across the country, so it was bound to get at least a little dirty during that trip.”

Me: “Yup. And that’s also how all those Cheerios ended up in the back seat.”

My Mom: “Yeah… maybe we don’t tell them about the Cheerios.”

Again, please know how grateful I am for my brother’s generosity — I’ll take a vehicle full of Cheerios over no vehicle at all any day. More than anything, I’m just relieved that he and his wife remembered to let their kids out of the car before shipping it to Houston. I love them dearly, but they are the reason why movies like Home Alone always strike me as plausible.

A Privilege Carol

Straight Girl: [across the store] “Hey.”

Me: [at the register, to the customer in front of me] “Your total is $70.35.”

Straight Girl: “HEY.”

Me: [to the customer in front of me] “Ok, you’re all set. Have a good night.” [then, to her]  “May I help you?”

Straight Girl: “So this [pointing to a union suit] is for men, and that [pointing to a leather miniskirt] is for women?”

[Inner Me: Gender-specific dress codes are outdated social constructs designed to oppress both cis women and individuals on the nonbinary spectrum.]

Me: “Yes.”

Straight Girl: “Well, why is the ladies’ stuff so revealing, while the men’s stuff covers everything?”

[Inner Me: You speak in too many italics.]

Me: “Union suits are very revealing.”

Straight Girl: [arms crossed; one brow raised confrontationally]

Me: [winning smile]

Straight Girl: [rolls eyes, flounces away]

I do appreciate the chutzpah it took to bow up in a gay bar and accuse the guy selling cock rings of objectifying women, but the fact that she did so while standing next to a display of tear-away codpieces kinda, y’know, bled the blister from her bluster.

Later in the evening, I overheard someone politely but firmly ask her to please stay out of the men’s room. She seemed affronted by that. I can only imagine how quickly her devastating Yelp review will shut this place down.

Waiting to Inhale

Customer: “Which of these solvents is your favorite?”

Me: “Y’know, I don’t use them myself.”

Customer: “You don’t use solvents?”

Me: “Nah.”

[beat]

Me: “I use straight-up paint thinner.”

Customer: [leaves quickly]

One of these days, I’ll finally accept that my terribly droll flavor of sarcastic wit is not to everyone’s delicate taste.

But oh, trust, I am huge in France.

Huge. Trust.

Solvent for X

Customer: “Hi, I just need a bottle of poppers.” [to his boyfriend] “Which poppers would you like?”

Me: “We actually don’t sell poppers.”

Customer: “You don’t?”

Me: “We don’t. But we do carry solvents and polish removers.”

Customer: “OH. Right.” [to his boyfriend] “Which not-poppers would you like?”

Part of me wanted to backhand him, but considering all the “Definitely Not a Raffle” ads I’ve created for Misfits fundraisers, I’ll just give him a respectable B- for effort.

Binding the Coverage

Customer: [holding up a leather armband] “Is this an armband?”

Me: “Yes, it is.”

Customer: “Oh.” [immediately tries to put it on as a collar] “It feels like a neck brace. I can’t move my head.” [to the friend who came in with him] “I’M GONNA FUCK YOU SO HARD, WE’RE GONNA HAVE TO EXCHANGE INSURANCE INFORMATION.”

Friend: “…”

Customer: “Did you get a picture of that?”

Friend: “No.”

Customer: “Okay, I’ll do it again.” [directly into friend’s camera] “I’M GONNA FUCK YOU SO HARD, WE’RE GONNA HAVE TO EXCHANGE INSURANCE INFORMATION. Did you get it that time?”

Friend: “I got it on video.”

Customer: “Send it to me. That is some FUNNY SHIT. But don’t put it on Facebook — my mom is trying to help my aunt die and would not appreciate it.”

And see, if I were trying to kill off a conservative relative via social media, a viral GIF of my drunk son screaming obscenities in a fetishwear shop would probably get the job done efficiently. Unless she doesn’t have insurance, in which case it would just be gloating. Way to kick a girl when she’s already on her way down, you monster.

When You Laugh, The Voices Laugh With You

I saw my psychiatrist yesterday, because I take medication for a panic disorder, and I have to check in with him every two months to make sure the happy pills are still keeping me unbothered. So we were chit-chatting about how things are going in general, and suddenly he was like, “You know, awhile ago you said the funniest thing about dating, but I can’t remember what it was.”

I told him that I remembered making him laugh but for the life of me couldn’t recall what I’d said. “Oh, no worries,” he replied. “I put it in your chart. Let’s see… ah, yes! Here it is!”

And he read it out loud and cracked up all over again, while I flashed back to an earlier incident in his office, when I was complaining about friends who come over to my apartment and blithely move things around after I’ve spent hours arranging everything just so [Ed. Note: I’ve also got Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder, itself an extension of my anxiety issues], and he interrupted with, “hang on one second; I want to finish writing down everything you’ve said.”

And that’s when I realized I’d been going on and on about the flying penis statue in my living room, which is a perfectly normal piece of home décor, so stop oppressing me, but also maybe a little weird to have included in one’s medical records.

While I’m certainly not going to censor myself in front of my shrink, I do need to be a lot more aware of what pops out of my mouth during sessions. In related news, I’m pretty sure someone at my insurance provider chokes on his coffee whenever it’s his turn to read my claims.

Paris is Here, Wish You Were Beautiful

Customer 1: “I like these onesies!”

Customer 2: “So do I!”

Customer 1: “I need a small. What size do you wear?”

Customer 2: “I probably need a small too.”

Customer 1: [suddenly aggressive] “A small? Really? You think you can fit in a small? You honestly think you need a small, like me? Okay, fine, let’s see you in a small, and oh, look, there’s a dressing room. Get in.”

Customer 2: “Um, okay.”

Customer 1: “And here’s a large. If we put you in a small, you’ll be a Santa ho-ho.”

Customer 2: “Yeah, thanks for size-shaming me…”

A few points of information here.

a) Customer 2 needs new friends.

b) Customer 1 needs a medium. (The fit is based on height, not weight.)

c) Size-shaming is repugnant, and any gay man who size- or body-shames any other gay man deserves to get stabbed in the eye with a dirty fork.

d) “Santa ho-ho” is the lamest insult in the history of throwing shade. The entire cast of Paris is Burning has been alerted and will be here any minute to destroy him, while Customer 2 and I eat popcorn and giggle.