But was the perfection a blessing? Really? When she showed up with bruises, black eyes, and a broken arm more than once, Jack finally stepped in; thrilled I’m sure to be chivalrous, but also trying to help this young girl who had the bod for sin without the brains for sense.
Julia didn’t last very long at our store. She just didn’t show up one day and that was it. The guys were crushed. It was as if the centerfold had been torn off the wall.
I heard she skipped town late one night. Moved to Reno and got a job at another drugstore, a different chain, with the help of one of the male managers who had been promoted up there from our store.
Julia was the kind of girl who would always be able to depend on the help of strangers. She engendered that kind of protectiveness in men that you rarely see in independent women with brains.
I’m not saying that’s a bad thing.
I’m saying that’s just the way it is.
***
WHERE FOOD GOES TO DIE
On the rare occasions I did not have to work Checkstand One, I relished working in the Cosmetics Department. Sure, I wasn’t your typical long-limbed beauty queen or someone like The Body that Jack went running after, but hey, I was all girl. I knew my Maybelline from my Max Factor. Helping old ladies find their Revlon Cherry lipstick to smear on their teeth made my day, baby. And, the cosmeticians got to wear a pretty, light blue polyester smock. Oh yeah.
Other times, the managers would toss me in a section like Photo, Soap/Paper/Pet, or the dreaded straightening of the food aisle.
Food is cheap at the drugstore for a reason, my friends.
If you are ever in a hurry and think, “Well, I’ll just pick up some food at the drugstore since I’m here anyway,”—here’s my advice: don’t. You want to know why?
Because the drugstore is where food goes to die.
Think of drugstores as food graveyards, if you will. That package of Chex Mix that you think will quell your craving for salt has probably been sitting on that snack shelf since 1987—about the time I stopped working at Longs, actually.
Food in a drugstore is like a toxic chip waste dump. Once a dry snack food is put on a shelf, it usually stays there until some unsuspecting customer unwittingly buys that box of crackers that can bounce itself right out of a basketball game without breaking a sweat.
If I were you, I would think twice before purchasing that haunted Hershey’s Milk Chocolate Bar—I’ve seen far too many filled with worms that have actually walked off the shelf and through the automatic doors, tired of that awful fluorescent lighting.
And don’t even get me started on the stacks (and stacks) of scary Spam—no one knowingly buys that mystery meat (unless you live in Hawaii); though that stuff will most likely last through a nuclear holocaust—maybe all of us should probably purchase a can and save it for World War III, come to think of it…
Then there’s the canned ravioli ravine, the skeletal spray cheese that has hardened in the can (always a winner at parties), and the gummy candy corpses strewn about the aisle as reminders of what exactly it is we are putting into our bodies (“What IS that green sugary goo that won’t come off with the industrial strength acid?” I asked my manager. He just shrugged and handed me a mask and gloves with the instructions “don’t inhale” as he walked away.)
So next time you find yourself in the cereal crypt at the drugstore, walk by quickly. And don’t let those seemingly bright orange “fresh” labels fool you. I can guarantee that box of Mallomars that looks so good when you have the munchies on a Friday night will turn on you as soon as you open the box. It is a trap, I promise. I’ve seen things.
Remember this: There is no such thing as an innocent cookie bought from a drugstore.
Trust your instincts. That chill you feel on the back of your neck is real, people.
They are the ghosts of food gone by.
***
CAT LADY
I always wondered what it would be like to be at the drugstore every single day. Even the managers who worked sixty-hour weeks, like my dad, weren’t there every day.
Only the products could know what it was like to eternally be there, and they weren’t alive. Well, unless you were a candy bar.
Or of course, one of our regulars. We did have those people who came in every single day. Without fail. For cigarettes, wine, meds, food, quarters. Or maybe because they were just lonely and needed the social interaction.
We were their family in a sad kind of way. And that was okay. They needed us. Some of the employees were very good at reaching out to these people; others, not so much. I don’t know that it depended on gender or age so much as it did heart.
And then there was this chick. Sometimes the reality of working in a drugstore is all right there—in the latex-covered hands of someone like Cat Lady.
We all referred to her as “Cat Lady.”
She didn’t really look like a cat or anything.
I suppose it was because of what she purchased every time she came into the store: five cans of cat food, Nine Lives I think it was, chicken flavor, and she always paid with pennies. Painstakingly, s l o w l y, counting them out, one by one. That alone was something you would always remember, even now, all these many years later.
But what really made her stand out was that she would wear several pairs of latex gloves on her tiny, mouselike hands, afraid to make contact with even a trace of any surface. Clearly, the woman was not well.
In addition, she covered her head in a clear plastic shower cap. The overhead fluorescent lights would reflect on the plastic no matter where she was in the store, so there would be no doubt who was coming your way.
There was no hiding from Cat Lady, though my God, we would try.
You know the double doors you see around the edges of every drugstore? That was our safe zone—most customers knew not to pass into the dark, inner reaches of the sanctity of our warehouse.
Cat Lady, however, despite her fear of well, everything, knew no such fear. She was on her cat food mission and nothing would stop her. If that particular brand, in that particular flavor that was on sale for twenty-nine cents, was not in the aisle, end cap or center aisle display where it was supposed to be—or God forbid we ran out—she would come storming back through the double silver swinging doors until she found one of us.
All four-foot-ten of her. Covered in plastic. Even her feet.
Usually she went for the guys, because clearly they must have been in charge. I guess she thought we girls didn’t know how to open a case of cat food.
Which, to be honest, was fine with us. See, the way it worked was the guys stocked the floor, shouldering cases of merchandise from back in the warehouse to the front, onto huge carts, marking it and then putting it out on the shelves. Sometimes the cases were truly very heavy, so in that respect it made sense.
Cashiers were mainly girls. Managers were mainly dudes.
I say girls and not women because I started working at Longs at the age of sixteen, mainly to pay for my cheerleading uniforms and to save up for college. There were a few female cashiers who were “women.” They had been there awhile—and by awhile I mean fifteen or twenty years.
Even now, thirty years later, I can’t get my mind around that. Being a cashier at a chain drugstore is one of the worst jobs in the world.
Especially if you are on Checkstand ONE.
Checkstand ONE is exactly what it sounds like. It never freakin’ closes. If you work an eight-hour shift, you are standing on your feet, in those pretty orthopedic shoes, for one very long, back-breaking block of time. In an attractive smock (I still have nightmares about Longs green). Dealing with tools who could really give a you-know-what about you, who you are, your interests, or even that you are actually a real person with, ya know, hair.
They just want their “damn cigarettes, you goddamn bitch. No, not those, you stupid girl. The ones on sale.”
Regardless of their financial situation, that’s class right there—the tools who buy their
cheap cigarettes, generic beer, and cat food on sale while cursing me out.
Now multiply that times an eight-hour day.
Times a forty-hour workweek.
Times twenty years.
Times Cat Lady.
And that’s why I got my college degree.
***
EPILOGUE
So you’ve come to the end of my little journey.
I hope you enjoyed your time here. I know I’ve had fun—it’s been a wild few years, with all the ups and downs and such. But what I meant was, I’ve been over here in the corner waiting for you to finish and I’m already on my second martini and I still can’t match up all the damn socks, so can you hurry up and let me know what you think already?
’Kay, thanks.
Oh, and I’m hard at work on my personal Mancode book, where I really dig deep into surviving eighteen years of marriage, parenthood, and ya know, being a chick in a man’s world. Hey, it’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta drink all this coffee and vodka, and write all the good stuff down. If not a pale, green-eyed redhead in the land of tall plastic blondes, then who?
(So, yeah, I meant me…)
Meanwhile, keep visiting me on my blog, Twitter: @RachelintheOC, Facebook: RachelintheOC, and the Indie Book Collective: @IndieBookIBC on Twitter and our sites: indiebookcollective.com and indiebookcollective.wordpress.com, where I help teach writers how to use social media.
Thanks for your time with me.
Now go share me with everyone you know. Wait, that sounds funny.
Aw, who cares? Now, go.
***
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
“I’m not snarky. I’m just holding it for a friend.”
When I started writing my little blog way back in November 2008, I did it to keep my sanity as a stay-at-home mom with a swirling head full of ideas and too much Spongebob. I had no idea that people would even read it, let alone embrace me the way they have!
Twitter has been an incredible addition to my life: I’ve met amazing friends, writers, and mentors. Thank you to all of my interactive and amazing Tweeps.
With the success of my Mancode, Chickspeak, and even some of my more serious pieces, I couldn’t be more grateful or humbled by the response, interest and love from all my readers. Without you, there would be no reason to keep writing, so thank you.
Thank you to the incredible whirlwind that is Carolyn McCray, my business partner and mentor. I’m not sure how she found me (“You can’t teach funny,” is her mantra so I guess I passed her test) but I thank my lucky stars every day that she did. This book would not be in your hands (or e-reader) without her amazing guidance, vision, and suggestion in the first place.
Carrie Smoot, editor extraordinaire, who took on my project and made it the best it could be. You are amazing. I cannot even begin to thank you.
Jessica Swift, editor and publishing consultant, who gave me invaluable insights about how to transform blog posts and original material into an actual book.
Graphic artist Jolene Coleman who worked diligently to capture “bad redhead” on the cover and did it beautifully. I thank you.
Formatting services were provided by Toni Rakestraw at rakestrawbookdesign.com, without whom you'd find me in a corner babbling to myself about symbols, indents, spacing and fonts.
Amber Scott, talented author, coworker and friend. Your suggestions and advice are invaluable. Thank you for your encouragement. And chocolate.
Friends Ashle Parson, Julie Rodriguez, Tracy and Eric Hartman, Denise Railey, Judy Clement-Wall, Cristina Lawrence, Amber Scott, LM Stull, Kait Nolan, Jeanette Joy, Ray Beckerman, Sean Gardener, Ryne Douglas Pearson, and Daniel Audet thank you for your support, advice, and help. I listened.
My beta readers for your invaluable early reviews, advice, and suggestions.
My best friends Judy Tognetti and Karen Finerman, who know me better than I know myself and who both speak Prada.
My folks, Jerry and Linda Carsman, who always knew they had a writer on their hands, not even blinking way back when I asked for a desk, paper and sharp pencils at age ten when most girls want dolls or clothes.
Sisters Caren and Leslie, my mentors and feisty best friends, always strong female role models and continuous sources of love and laughter. Brother Christopher, I’m honored by your humor and love. Niece Sarah, who hooked me into Twitter in the first place, I’m in awe of your grace and beauty.
My children, Lukas and Anya, for your unconditional love, patience, joy, soft cheeks, and overall preciousness. Despite your lack of any and all housekeeping skills, Mommy loves you. (Note to self: put plan in place to get kids up to speed on cleaning rooms for next book.)
And lastly, my love, JP. Patient, generous, handy, good at shoe math, my VOR (voice of reason), and funny. This man gets me. Which is a good thing, given my subject matter and the fact that you can’t teach funny. Here’s to eighteen more years, baby.
And of course, to D, who read some of my work before he, um, left and encouraged this “wordsmith” to write her damn book already. Thanks, babe.
***
A Walk In The Snark:
The Best Of RachelintheOC
Rachel Thompson
Copyright Rachel Thompson 2011
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
***
TABLE OF CONTENTS
“I think, “I could use a vodka martini right about now;” therefore I am.”
About the Author
Introduction to Men vs. Women
SECTION 1 - MEN VS. WOMEN: DECONSTRUCTED
Men are from Seinfeld, Women are from Friends
I’m Tired, Deconstructed
You Look Fine—Let’s Go
Introduction
He Loved Me That Much
Don’t Make Me Get Out My Dictionary
I’m Fine, Deconstructed
Chick Time, Deconstructed
Chick Lists
Dude. Ten O’Clock. Check It Out
Tied
Shopping Is NOT A Verb
Stupid Pants Syndrome
Days of the Week, Deconstructed
Near-Sighted
SECTION 2 - MEN VS. WOMEN: MARRIAGE
M.A.N. Disease
I Speak Wolf
Closet Space
Paper Towel Wars
The Difficult Kind
Cold Feet
Pigskin, Prada, and Prime Beef, Oh My
Universal Remote
Man of the er, House
Where do YOU Want to Go for Dinner?
More Power
Last Train Home
Rock, Paper, Scissors
SECTION 3 - MEN VS. WOMEN: KIDS/PARENTING
Mommy’s School of Rock
The Toy Emporium of Wonder and Temptation
The Best Hugs
The Moment
The Needs of the Many
Pay Attention
Boobs and Coffeemakers
Treasures
Contact
SECTION 4 - MEN VS. WOMEN: THE WORKPLACE
We Are Not Them
Just Call Me Wimpy
Damage
The Perfect Body
Where Food Goes to Die
Cat Lady
EPILOGUE
***
Other Titles by Rachel Thompson
Dollars & Sense
Taking a Blog to a Book
Many of you already have a blog. Maybe you even have a large readership already. Maybe, just maybe, your readers are asking when you will have a book come out.
I know. This is what happened to me. I started small, just blogging about my daily life, and then I started writi
ng a few blogs that had a little bit of bite. My first foray into snark.
I quickly realized that the more I took a witty look at my life rather than just reporting on my day, the more blog hits I accumulated, and the more people subscribed to my blog.
Then I met Carolyn, and she taught me how to really use Twitter to drive traffic to my blog. Those techniques and more that the IBC has developed will be discussed in the next section.
A Walk in the Snark Page 13