Even though I'm feeling a little premenstrual rage today, I left the house to go get some pantyhose. I thought it best before I stopped screaming at my misbehaving dogs and murdered one of them. Or my neighbors called the law on me for screaming at them, whichever came first. So I head out on the road to find road work being done, again, at the intersection of 79 and 160. This particular road crew has the least skilled people I've ever seen directing traffic. You'd think they'd make you take a class or something. I don't know, maybe it's the good people of Cleveland that were at fault. All I know is as I rolled up to the intersection, the driver of the vehicle approaching may or may not have been directed into my lane and, then, to drive through the merge lane at my right into the Tonka parking lot next to me. I got the heck out of there by heading on up 79 for a safer route. A couple of weeks ago it was just as confusing. The little fella was attempting to direct me, but his hand signals just didn't make any sense. As I tried to figure out what he wanted me to do, he got impatient with me and decided that yelling at me would help. So having not killed my dogs or been involved in an auto accident yet, I dropped lunch off to Lee and against my better judgment headed to Wal-Mart. I realized as I looked through what was left of my dress clothes after not working for three years, that I needed some pantyhose. Planning to run in and out of Wal-Mart was a joke. They keep moving the fool store around, I believe in a plan to keep you lost, wandering around, so you will buy more. Wal-Mart is the devil. I shop elsewhere at all cost. I even considered buying the hose at CVS, but the size and color selection at drug stores has been a problem in the past. I walk over half the store before finding the aisle with the hosiery, right slap in the center of the store...evil. It's been three years and I've lost 20 lbs since I quit work. What size? I look on the back of the box. I am between an A and a B. Nude or beige? Shoot! I can't remember that either. Really, Gina? It frickin' pantyhose! Ask Robin.....no answer. Crap! I go with the only box I see, of the brand I used to buy, of B Nude. Better too big than too small, unless they are wrinkled up around your ankles, like you're 10 years old and they belong to your momma. I make it to the register, only to find they won't ring up. Puzzled, the cashier looks to the bottom of the box to find the bar-code folded in. Now, I've noticed boxes of items I've purchased in the past being tampered with by getting home with a cheaper brand and wrong color of my hair-color and hosiery, so I asked her to check it out. She pulled out one knee high. I would have been so pissed tomorrow morning. I went back, of course and dug out another box, opened it to make sure that they would cover both legs. I attempted to check the size, but they don't bother with that on Leggs anymore. The check out lady had gone on break by the time I made it back to the register. The box of tampered hose taunted me, "Haha, missy, I'll see you on the shelves again, because nobody gives a crap and they'll just put me back up." My busy-body self suggested they label it. The checkout boy laughed it off. He'll never understand what a girl has to go through for a great pair of legs.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Nothing Beats a Great PAIR of Leggs
Even though I'm feeling a little premenstrual rage today, I left the house to go get some pantyhose. I thought it best before I stopped screaming at my misbehaving dogs and murdered one of them. Or my neighbors called the law on me for screaming at them, whichever came first. So I head out on the road to find road work being done, again, at the intersection of 79 and 160. This particular road crew has the least skilled people I've ever seen directing traffic. You'd think they'd make you take a class or something. I don't know, maybe it's the good people of Cleveland that were at fault. All I know is as I rolled up to the intersection, the driver of the vehicle approaching may or may not have been directed into my lane and, then, to drive through the merge lane at my right into the Tonka parking lot next to me. I got the heck out of there by heading on up 79 for a safer route. A couple of weeks ago it was just as confusing. The little fella was attempting to direct me, but his hand signals just didn't make any sense. As I tried to figure out what he wanted me to do, he got impatient with me and decided that yelling at me would help. So having not killed my dogs or been involved in an auto accident yet, I dropped lunch off to Lee and against my better judgment headed to Wal-Mart. I realized as I looked through what was left of my dress clothes after not working for three years, that I needed some pantyhose. Planning to run in and out of Wal-Mart was a joke. They keep moving the fool store around, I believe in a plan to keep you lost, wandering around, so you will buy more. Wal-Mart is the devil. I shop elsewhere at all cost. I even considered buying the hose at CVS, but the size and color selection at drug stores has been a problem in the past. I walk over half the store before finding the aisle with the hosiery, right slap in the center of the store...evil. It's been three years and I've lost 20 lbs since I quit work. What size? I look on the back of the box. I am between an A and a B. Nude or beige? Shoot! I can't remember that either. Really, Gina? It frickin' pantyhose! Ask Robin.....no answer. Crap! I go with the only box I see, of the brand I used to buy, of B Nude. Better too big than too small, unless they are wrinkled up around your ankles, like you're 10 years old and they belong to your momma. I make it to the register, only to find they won't ring up. Puzzled, the cashier looks to the bottom of the box to find the bar-code folded in. Now, I've noticed boxes of items I've purchased in the past being tampered with by getting home with a cheaper brand and wrong color of my hair-color and hosiery, so I asked her to check it out. She pulled out one knee high. I would have been so pissed tomorrow morning. I went back, of course and dug out another box, opened it to make sure that they would cover both legs. I attempted to check the size, but they don't bother with that on Leggs anymore. The check out lady had gone on break by the time I made it back to the register. The box of tampered hose taunted me, "Haha, missy, I'll see you on the shelves again, because nobody gives a crap and they'll just put me back up." My busy-body self suggested they label it. The checkout boy laughed it off. He'll never understand what a girl has to go through for a great pair of legs.
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