Warning, this will probably be offensive to any readers who are not evil atheists. You have been warned.
This morning I educated the Viking on a little Ecclesiastical tradition known as the Paschal greeting:
Me (gesturing towards a certain southward appendage standing cheerfully erect): He is risen!
Him: What?
Me: You’re supposed to say, “He is risen indeed”. All over the world today, people are in church saying that, and I just felt that we should participate.
Ah, what better way to celebrate the integration of a pagan fertility holiday and Christian tradition than with erection jokes?
Today, for reasons that will remain largely undisclosed, I was forced to return 72lbs of sausages to Costco and exchange them for the same amount of sausage of a slightly different variety. I was already 45 minutes later than intended due to various and sundry issues, thus, by the time I reached the returns counter at Costco I was in a less than chipper mood. Which is to say, I was tired, hungry, stressed, angry, and more than a little self-conscious about being That Girl With All The Sausage. Thus, when the returns clerk nodded irritably at the $150 worth of raw meat at the counter between us and groused, “You know we’ll have to throw all this away, right?” my only attempt at pleasantries was, “Yeah, well maybe your warehouse shouldn’t have screwed up, I want a full refund”. Yes, I have successfully devolved into THAT customer, the one I would have sworn at in the drive-through at the various unfortunate fast food restaurants I worked at in a past life. I’m a bitch, but I get things done.
“I need to know where to get [specific item number] to replace what I returned,” I said, once the refund was completed.
The returns clerk gestured expansively across the entire north side of the store, “Oh, it’s over there, you can’t miss it”.
As it turns out, I can, and did. After wandering the aisles for about ten minutes, my search parameters changed from finding sausage to finding anyone at all who could make the agony end: I just wanted out of that hellish store. Costco is a fantastic place, in theory, full of great bargains and bulk beer (seriously), but the reality is that it is an extremely unpleasant place to shop, particularly when an 8-hour work day is rapidly stretching into ten.
After finally locating a Costco representative willing to help (which was a challenge above and beyond simply finding an employee), he passed me off on the adult version of Jack-Jack from The Incredibles (the demon-super-hero-baby – if you haven’t seen the movie, don’t). This particular employee was the sort of faux-cheerful, energetic fellow who makes you want to punch him in the throat, but you can’t because his energy has completely sapped yours.
“So, you’re looking for sausage? What kind of sausage? Oh, breakfast sausage? Okay, I know just what you’re looking for, we’ll find it.”
This, and variations on the sausage theme, was uttered in rapid-fire micro-bursts of speech as we whirled down aisles I had already been down, clearly marked as containing every type of meat EXCEPT sausage. The second time through the aisles, with my fearless guide still talking and suggesting every few seconds that I should have a sample of whatever happened to be nearest to us, I began to wonder when this strange adventure would end. I was pushing a grocery cart the size of an SUV and had already mowed down three small children and taken out a display near the deli meats as we blazed up and down the aisles; Jack-Jack was STILL talking.
“What do you need the sausage for? Oh, a company breakfast? Try a sample! Are you cooking? You don’t sound very happy about it! No need to snap, just asking! Try a sample! I’m sure we’ll find it somewhere! What kind of company? Sample? Oh, look, here it is!”
He was pointing to an aisle that we had already been down twice before, and I was about to protest that it couldn’t be there, we just looked, but lo and behold, there before me was the sausage of my recent, delirious daydreams!
Jack-Jack chirped, “I found your sausage, are you happy now?”
“As happy as I can be about raw meat.”
“Don’t you like sausage?”
“I think I’m a lesbian.”
“What?”
“I said, thanks for your help.”
I now have sixty pounds of sausage crammed into my freezer, which, if you were paying attention at the beginning, you may recall that I began the debaucle with 72lbs, meaning I still have to return to Costco tomorrow to get the remaining meat, once they are restocked. Oh joy beyond all joys.
After buying Brokeback Mountain and extolling its greatness to my predominantly conservative friends, I somehow found myself frequently required as a token female presence when my heterosexual male friends wanted to watch the film. This, despite my repeated insistence that, no, watching a movie will NOT turn you gay (although it may evoke some latent tendencies). I love the film, and so this obligation was never a particular hardship (although I did find it a bit annoying to be told that I couldn’t leave the room, even for a bathroom break, because WHO KNOWS, a gay orgy might spontaneously arise. Yes, pun intended, always).
A few months before I moved from Boise, my friend Brandon came over and suggested that we watch a movie. Having watched our limited collection innumerable times, I told him to choose. He picked Brokeback Mountain. I should note that while Brandon is a very sweet kid, he is also one of those swaggering, libido-driven, hyper-(pseudo-)masculine, homoeroticism-thinly-veiled-in-homophobia types who seem to thrive so well in Idaho deserts. Thus I was shocked at his choice, but made no objections to it. We watched the entire film with minimal awkwardness expressed on his part, and minimal tissues used on mine.
As the credits rolled, I took a few deep breaths and wiped away my tears.
Brandon, too, seemed to be wrapped up in silent awe.
“Well,” he sighed, pausing significantly. “That was gay.”
Yes. Yes I suppose it was.