What? EMAIL? THAT'S SO last decade!

Ok, fine. You can email me. Use the form over there on the right.

WARNING: If you spam me, I'm going to hunt down everyone you've ever known and loved and tell them that you are a dirty, rotten spammer. And you smell.


123 Street Avenue, City Town, 99999

(123) 555-6789



You can set your address, phone number, email and site description in the settings tab.
Link to read me page with more information.


Perceptions Can Change Quickly


Yesterday, I was in Safeway picking up a few essentials (read: beer) and the cashier asks for my ID. I never have a problem with being asked whenever it happens and don't give it much thought. I suppose that I might even miss it when they stop asking altogether.

At any rate, the cashier offered up some reasoning for the request. "We have to ask. They had an undercover guy in here a while back and busted us, so we have to ask anyone who looks around 30."

I didn't point out that she should be asking people who look 30 and under, not just "around 30". She probably knew that.

"And here I thought it meant you couldn't see the grey in my goatee," I reply, punctuating it with a wry smirk.

She looks at my chin, almost squints a little, and says "Wow, you do have a lot of grey there."

<facepalm> Ouch.

Then an old man comes up behind me and starts unloading his cart onto the Jetsons-like conveyor belt. Leaving it at "old" wouldn't accurately describe him, so allow me to elaborate. He is small, wrinkled and grey. His face is oddly even older than the rest of his body, but his expression seems serene as he minds the task at hand.

With one hand on the cart for support, he unloads his food with the blinding speed of a tree. As if to further illustrate his advanced age and questionable health, I notice that everything in his cart is a single item. One orange, one apple, one cucumber, etc.. Like he's only shopping a day or two at a time, if you get my drift.

So, for a moment, I think to myself that it's kind of a shame that he doesn't have something heavy or bulky that I can offer to lift for him, or whatever. You know, because offering to lift one bellpepper for someone is insulting, even if they're 103. Then, he speaks.

"Hello, baby girl," he says to the cashier in a voice that's half lecherous old man and half The Mummy.

"I don't see a baby girl here," responds the cashier with a roll of her eyes. "Just a grown woman."

"No, YOU'RE my baby girl. Heh heh." He kind of slurs when he talks and I shudder a little.

Suddenly, I'm glad I didn't have the opportunity to help him. I silently wish the cashier good luck and leave.

The end.

tags technorati :