Lockboxed Raincoats

Dear email inboxes,

I'm back after a 19 day absence from the land of lollipops, video games, and frequent naptimes! At heart (or at a tangled mass of grey* matter in my noggin), I am a hopeless addict with many vices. Fortunately, I also have the attention span of a 9 year old without ADHD meds, so my addictions don't last long because I forget about them. Two negatives do make a positive! Cue Wyclef Jean.

In my last post some 19 days ago, I promised something funny. And unlike the politicos you see on the tele, I do deliver on my promises, if somewhat vastly late. With much ado:

(If you don't know what raincoats are, please ask your little brother or any adolescent male for that matter)

(overshare alert)

So my friend, who overshares quite frequently (which I am never guilty of!**), told me a few weeks ago about her raincoat buying experience. Apparently in downtown Houston, prophylactics belong in Gore's lockbox along with the nicotine supplements, razor blades, OTC antacids (the fancy PPI ones), and diabetes kits. Being that it was nighttime literally and in the economic proverbial sense (I'm still out of work, btw), the establishment only had a person working the front register with a throng of people in line trying to get things not usually meant to assist in getting one's 'swerve on.'

My friend fully intended to get those raincoats that night because it was going to rain very soon, and she didn't want to get caught unawares. So after waiting several minutes in line she stepped up to the counter to semi-discreetly mention that she needed the raincoats which were lockboxed. The clerk, swamped with customers, paged the manager who promptly showed up more than several minutes later 'after finishing a solitaire game' as managers are apt to do when no one is making sure they're working.

In the manner of one intending to protect someone's privacy while inevitably revealing an embarrassing fact, the clerk informed the manager of 'assistance in aisle 8' with a sheepish grin/frown.

So after more than a half hour affair, my friend finally left with her 12 or 24-pack of raincoats in assorted pigments and/or flavors.

'Ha, I have no shame!'
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I, on the other hand, have lots of unhealthy Catholic guilt in buying prophylactics. I remember the traumatizing experience buying the damn things for the first time. I casually entered the OTC section of the store, pretending to look at some antacids (I did need Pepcid for my Asian flush) while truly surveying the dizzying array of colorful water balloons (some 'ribbed for pleasure') with my peripheral vision. After making sure everyone had vacated the area, I quickly turned my sights on my mark, walked confidently but a bit hurriedly to the area, and picked the moderately sized pack (12) of the brand name I knew (the one with the Greek helmet, though the story behind the name doesn't exactly inspire confidence: after the horse gets into the fortress, all the seamen evacuate to pillage the town).

With the merchandise in possession, I extended my fingers to obscure the face of the product. I walked to the front of the store, wondering if I had aroused the attention of the shrink cop with my furtive movements. Of the 5 open lines, I went to the shortest one with the guy who would be least likely to make any comment; the 2 with the pretty girls were absolutely out of the question--I felt that would have been like shooting Bambi's mother for some reason.

When it was my turn, I placed the product slightly more than halfway up the conveyor belt, so that it wouldn't take too long to reach the checker. I heard the total and handed a $20, with only a brief glance at the dude's face which was thankfully expressionless. Taking my change, I wrapped my purchase tightly in an upsettingly translucent plastic bag. I walked out feeling the same guilt as if I had stolen the thing(s).

I made a promise then and there ('Never again!') which I soon recanted after I made use of the merchandise ('But this is way too much fun!').

Nowadays, I do feel a slight bit of shame but there are stores with a self-checkout line. And I make sure those lines are open and sparsely populated before I make my purchase.
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A random memory: Some girls in high school had asked a male teacher about the sinfulness of prophylactics (the school was like 90% Catholic because it was 90% Hispanic). He responded, 'If you're going to do wrong, do it right.' Then he smiled in a way that male teachers weren't supposed to smile at underage girls. He was an English teacher, and we had just read Bless Me Ultima, which was the first time I had ever seen the F-bomb in a legit novel.

And a random thought: I wonder if Mama has ever found my stash. I know she knows what they are, because I unfortunately stumbled upon her cache while searching for the TV remote. I think she follows the U.S. military's stance: don't ask, don't tell. And we all know the results of that program are simply fabulous.
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*one of my friends (a dude) and I have agreed that the proper and English way of spelling 'grey' is with an 'e'. 'Gray' is drab and boring and has a thudding sound when you say it. 'Grey' on the other hand, has a delightful ring and reminds me of the hue of certain pants women wear which makes me swoon.
**What is a blog without oversharing?