Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Hot Guy Day

Today was Hot Guy Day at the Hoboken grocery. I think everyone knew but me. But let me back track a bit.

This morning, 7 a.m.
I wake up and as I get out of bed to hit Snooze like I always do, I notice that my right eyeball feels a bit funny. Forgetting Snooze, I approach my full-length skinny mirror. (I know, I'm lucky. I don't know how or why, but it's The Skinny Mirror. Ask Court.) As I peer at my reflection, I notice that my eye is the size of a small golfball and...it feels like shit. It is half closed, and my left eye is beautiful. So you can imagine what a freak I must look like. And I can't even imagine what this must look like in a non-skinny mirror. Fuck.

So I go knock on Courtney's door. "I know. You're not going to work." Huh! As if I always call in sick. So she assures me that I'm not a bad person for calling in, and after phoning my two bosses—assuring them that I'd do some work from home—I call Dr. O. Wait. This is taking too long. On to the point of Hot Guy Day.

So after a long day of taking my prescribed eye drops, applying a warm compress to my eye (which is nothing more than a microwaved wet rag) and emailing and IMing my friends to brag that I'm at home, Court picks me up to go to the grocery store. The local A&P. We never go b/c it's kinda ghetto. But after tonight, oh, I will be back.

This evening, 7 p.m.
Clad in my hot pink PJ pants, a dirty yellow Mizzou sweatshirt, glasses and NO makeup (I didn't even curl my lashes and apply gloss—hey, you never know where you'll meet that special someone), we enter the A&P. Gaaah! I'm surrounded by hotties. And it doesn't help that Court's wearing her cute fuschia stilettos. Boys won't admit it, but they love hot shoes. Um, I doubt my 8th grade Adidas shower shoes got a second glance. But fuck. So golfball-sized eye in tow, I'm trying to avoid these hotties and hide behind the boxes of rigatoni and Snackwell's in my cart. Then my dad calls to bicker with me about pumpkin pie crust. So here I am, yelling in Aisle 5, hotties are walking by trying not to look at my Freak Eyeball, and I'm trying to convince my dad that it's OK that I use graham cracker crust and that "It's the 2000s, I can do what I want." They really need to coin a word for this new century.

Needless to say, it was Hot Guy Day, and no one told me. That's it. No fairy tale ending. I didn't find a husband. But I bought the crust I wanted to get. And some low-fat cookies. Ha. Who needs a Ghetto Grocery Store Guy anyway.

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