Sunday Scribblings Post-Prompt "Omen"
Omen
It's just a trip to go get groceries, just like every other trip to go get groceries, ever. I've got my list, scribbled in my large, looped handwriting on a small piece of paper, concocted while I took inventory of the food that I plan to make and which of the necessary ingredients I have on hand. My car starts immediately, run just exactly like it should, and in the absence of a radio (because the radio hasn't worked for almost six years now), I sing a few songs by The Eagles and a couple by John Denver, a Buffalo Springfield song, and at least one Joe South song. Somewhere in the mix, I throw in a tune by Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show and the only Poets & Pornstars song I know all the words to. Traffic isn't too bad and I find a parking spot easily.
They have everything on my list at the store, which means I won't have to drive anywhere else. It's not that I mind driving, just that, since it's a game day, the traffic is going to get ridiculously hairy just before game time. I swear, though, that everyone decided to do their shopping in the morning, too. I dodge children and avoid oblivious suburbanoids on their cellphones while trying to be patient with the elderly and the people who are just too stupid to exist. It's not like anyone else in the whole entire world might, you know, want to get some peanut butter while they're shopping or anything.
I briefly contemplate buying a new printer, since mine coughed its last gasp two weeks ago, despite the addition of new ink, reinstallation of drivers, and letting it sit unplugged for several hour, but decide against it because I might have to use the money for other things. After buzzing past the electronics section of the store and seeing the huddled gang of people standing there having a social hour, I decide that it's just not worth it to even price compare. The twitching buzz of the driving need to get out of the store is starting to build along my spine, starting just between my shoulder blades. I definitely do not want to think about what it says about my stress levels that a bottle of Jack Daniels' Tennessee Honey looks amazing and beautiful under the glare of florescent lighting.
He knows that I don't actually enjoy shopping, not the way that “all” women are supposed to. Sure, get me in a book store or someplace with a good selection of movies or CDs and you'll be hard pressed to get me out of there, but for the normal stuff on a normal day, I just want to take my list, get my stuff, and get the hell out of that store. He can tell that my tolerance for the regular shopping trip is, today, at a greatly reduced level, even if he isn't quite sure why. We're just headed towards the checkouts when there's a lull in the Christmas carols that they're playing before Thanksgiving is upon us. The unseasonably early holiday music is just another contributing factor to the “get me out of here” vibe that I am projecting. Suddenly, instead of Burl Ives or Gene Autry, the familiar strains of my very favorite Creedence Clearwater Revival song start playing.
It's one of those signs from the Universe that everything will be fine if I'd just let it and, just like that, the mood is broken. All of the agitation is carried away by the very simplest and most random of omens.
It's just a trip to go get groceries, just like every other trip to go get groceries, ever. I've got my list, scribbled in my large, looped handwriting on a small piece of paper, concocted while I took inventory of the food that I plan to make and which of the necessary ingredients I have on hand. My car starts immediately, run just exactly like it should, and in the absence of a radio (because the radio hasn't worked for almost six years now), I sing a few songs by The Eagles and a couple by John Denver, a Buffalo Springfield song, and at least one Joe South song. Somewhere in the mix, I throw in a tune by Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show and the only Poets & Pornstars song I know all the words to. Traffic isn't too bad and I find a parking spot easily.
They have everything on my list at the store, which means I won't have to drive anywhere else. It's not that I mind driving, just that, since it's a game day, the traffic is going to get ridiculously hairy just before game time. I swear, though, that everyone decided to do their shopping in the morning, too. I dodge children and avoid oblivious suburbanoids on their cellphones while trying to be patient with the elderly and the people who are just too stupid to exist. It's not like anyone else in the whole entire world might, you know, want to get some peanut butter while they're shopping or anything.
I briefly contemplate buying a new printer, since mine coughed its last gasp two weeks ago, despite the addition of new ink, reinstallation of drivers, and letting it sit unplugged for several hour, but decide against it because I might have to use the money for other things. After buzzing past the electronics section of the store and seeing the huddled gang of people standing there having a social hour, I decide that it's just not worth it to even price compare. The twitching buzz of the driving need to get out of the store is starting to build along my spine, starting just between my shoulder blades. I definitely do not want to think about what it says about my stress levels that a bottle of Jack Daniels' Tennessee Honey looks amazing and beautiful under the glare of florescent lighting.
He knows that I don't actually enjoy shopping, not the way that “all” women are supposed to. Sure, get me in a book store or someplace with a good selection of movies or CDs and you'll be hard pressed to get me out of there, but for the normal stuff on a normal day, I just want to take my list, get my stuff, and get the hell out of that store. He can tell that my tolerance for the regular shopping trip is, today, at a greatly reduced level, even if he isn't quite sure why. We're just headed towards the checkouts when there's a lull in the Christmas carols that they're playing before Thanksgiving is upon us. The unseasonably early holiday music is just another contributing factor to the “get me out of here” vibe that I am projecting. Suddenly, instead of Burl Ives or Gene Autry, the familiar strains of my very favorite Creedence Clearwater Revival song start playing.
It's one of those signs from the Universe that everything will be fine if I'd just let it and, just like that, the mood is broken. All of the agitation is carried away by the very simplest and most random of omens.