Today’s Drill
(Saturday, October 6, 2007; Columbus-day)
Today’s Drill was to go to the vaunted wig-lady, since Linda’s hair will soon fall out.
The wig-lady was decided upon after furious research, and after already having purchased one wig online, which didn’t pass muster. (Looked okay to me, but I ain’t Linda.)
The wig-lady was in an old house by the side of busy Monroe Avenue in Brighton; a place Linda probably could have found, but I’d rather take her there myself, instead of an automotively-challenged person trying to find this place in the middle of a whirling maelstrom.
We head there in the CR-V and find the place without difficulty. It’s about what I expected; a tiny hovel in an old house that would have been near-impossible for an automotively-challenged person to find. (The other challenge would have been turning out of it — it’s a busy street.)
The importance of scheduling widdle-stops has been flip-flopped. No longer is it me that figures in widdle-stops. Now we are figuring Linda — but only because they have her drinking about six times what she usually drinks; idea being to flush the chemo out of her system, along with dead cancer cells.
We amble inside, and are greeted by a flaccid broad with bleached stringy hair, finessing the wig (hair) of a customer.
“Have a seat,” wig-lady said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” (We were about 10 minutes early.)
Linda uses the restroom.
Finally the customer left, and the wig-lady dragged Linda into an anteroom for consultation — me sitting quietly in the tiny “lobby” reading my Cycle-World.
“We have coffee and scones, if you’d like, Mr. Hughes.”
“No thank you.”
Scones, I thought. No scones in man-land. Real men don’t eat scones.
The drill, apparently, is to match the color and appearance of Linda’s hair.
So uh, find the appropriate “mousy-brown color” (not my words).
“There is a little gray in my hair,” so a gray-haired wig was trotted out. It looked like something for the blue-rinse set. Pass! “My hair isn’t that gray.”
Suddenly “Boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka!” The wig-lady’s cellphone was firing off.
“Hello,” she said.
I was tempted to say “If my cellphone ever rang like that, I’d stomp it.”
Two wigs were apparently ordered; and when they arrive in a couple days, wig-lady will call, and Linda will have her wig.
A short deluge occurred outside during our visit; but it wasn’t raining much when we went out.
Back onto Monroe Avenue, and down to “The-Jewel-In-The-Crown,” the mighty Pittsford-Plaza Wegmans so big ya need a powered cart, and where the parking-lot is so big they have limo-service.
We needed coleslaw mix; the Honeoye Falls MarketPlace’s looked rotten.
Into the “Jewel” we go; Linda directly to the rest-room.
I tried to find a small cart, like my blowhard brother makes fun of, but even though I saw a few in use, none were to be found amidst the huge cart-storage out front.
We amble into the vast produce section, awash in apples priced at ten times the value of roadstands. (“You always pay less at Wegmans.”)
Granny is tossing plums on the floor. Clerks are using bananas as baseball-bats. (“Toss me that there avocado, Luke. I’ll bat it clear outta the store!”)
We find the salad-mixes, and Linda starts poring over them. First one coleslaw mix is tossed into the cart. Then it gets replaced by another. A third gets dragged from the back, and replaces the second. “Look-a that! There’s a hair in this thing.”
The third coleslaw mix gets replaced by a fourth.
“Ya know,” I say; “if I were buying a coleslaw mix, I’d probably come into the store, and toss the first one I saw into the cart.”
“You’re turning it into a science-project.”
I had along the list, so we set about searching for items I planned to buy at Weggers eventually. Like vitamins, and socks.
No luck. Vitamins or socks were not to be found easily at the vast “Jewel;” so the heck with it. I can’t afford to waste three hours looking for things I know the location of at the Canandaigua Weggers.
So only the coleslaw mix was in our huge cart. How embarrassing. Shopping the “Jewel” and not checking out an overloaded cart. We’re a disgrace to the American Pig-Out dream.
Today’s Drill was to go to the vaunted wig-lady, since Linda’s hair will soon fall out.
The wig-lady was decided upon after furious research, and after already having purchased one wig online, which didn’t pass muster. (Looked okay to me, but I ain’t Linda.)
The wig-lady was in an old house by the side of busy Monroe Avenue in Brighton; a place Linda probably could have found, but I’d rather take her there myself, instead of an automotively-challenged person trying to find this place in the middle of a whirling maelstrom.
We head there in the CR-V and find the place without difficulty. It’s about what I expected; a tiny hovel in an old house that would have been near-impossible for an automotively-challenged person to find. (The other challenge would have been turning out of it — it’s a busy street.)
The importance of scheduling widdle-stops has been flip-flopped. No longer is it me that figures in widdle-stops. Now we are figuring Linda — but only because they have her drinking about six times what she usually drinks; idea being to flush the chemo out of her system, along with dead cancer cells.
We amble inside, and are greeted by a flaccid broad with bleached stringy hair, finessing the wig (hair) of a customer.
“Have a seat,” wig-lady said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” (We were about 10 minutes early.)
Linda uses the restroom.
Finally the customer left, and the wig-lady dragged Linda into an anteroom for consultation — me sitting quietly in the tiny “lobby” reading my Cycle-World.
“We have coffee and scones, if you’d like, Mr. Hughes.”
“No thank you.”
Scones, I thought. No scones in man-land. Real men don’t eat scones.
The drill, apparently, is to match the color and appearance of Linda’s hair.
So uh, find the appropriate “mousy-brown color” (not my words).
“There is a little gray in my hair,” so a gray-haired wig was trotted out. It looked like something for the blue-rinse set. Pass! “My hair isn’t that gray.”
Suddenly “Boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka!” The wig-lady’s cellphone was firing off.
“Hello,” she said.
I was tempted to say “If my cellphone ever rang like that, I’d stomp it.”
Two wigs were apparently ordered; and when they arrive in a couple days, wig-lady will call, and Linda will have her wig.
A short deluge occurred outside during our visit; but it wasn’t raining much when we went out.
Back onto Monroe Avenue, and down to “The-Jewel-In-The-Crown,” the mighty Pittsford-Plaza Wegmans so big ya need a powered cart, and where the parking-lot is so big they have limo-service.
We needed coleslaw mix; the Honeoye Falls MarketPlace’s looked rotten.
Into the “Jewel” we go; Linda directly to the rest-room.
I tried to find a small cart, like my blowhard brother makes fun of, but even though I saw a few in use, none were to be found amidst the huge cart-storage out front.
We amble into the vast produce section, awash in apples priced at ten times the value of roadstands. (“You always pay less at Wegmans.”)
Granny is tossing plums on the floor. Clerks are using bananas as baseball-bats. (“Toss me that there avocado, Luke. I’ll bat it clear outta the store!”)
We find the salad-mixes, and Linda starts poring over them. First one coleslaw mix is tossed into the cart. Then it gets replaced by another. A third gets dragged from the back, and replaces the second. “Look-a that! There’s a hair in this thing.”
The third coleslaw mix gets replaced by a fourth.
“Ya know,” I say; “if I were buying a coleslaw mix, I’d probably come into the store, and toss the first one I saw into the cart.”
“You’re turning it into a science-project.”
I had along the list, so we set about searching for items I planned to buy at Weggers eventually. Like vitamins, and socks.
No luck. Vitamins or socks were not to be found easily at the vast “Jewel;” so the heck with it. I can’t afford to waste three hours looking for things I know the location of at the Canandaigua Weggers.
So only the coleslaw mix was in our huge cart. How embarrassing. Shopping the “Jewel” and not checking out an overloaded cart. We’re a disgrace to the American Pig-Out dream.
posted by BobbaLew at 6:34 PM
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