I've Got a Secret

Today, I had a secret, a secret I was bursting to share. As I shopped in the Michael's craft store and the sweet elderly lady next to me confided, "I'm buying this stationery so that maybe my grandchildren will write me letters," I very nearly shouted out, "MY DAUGHTER IS IN LABOR!"

I bit down on my tongue, so as not to seem like a Shopping Loony. You know what I mean, right? Those crazies who pop up when you are quietly sifting through the sale racks at Robinson's May, or trying to find the perfect match to your dress fabric in the ribbon section of Jo-Ann's Fabrics. One moment, you are quietly absorbed in your shopping and in the next, the Shopping Loony invades your space.

"Oh, I really like that selection of colors you have there. I can't wear purple; it makes my teeth look yellow. My mother can wear purple though. She doesn't have any teeth. Well she does, but she only wears them to chew."

You murmur, "Uhmmm, thanks."

SL is undeterred by your barely-above-freezing manner.

"So, I'm making a remote control cozy for my mom. She says that when the temperature dips below 78 degrees, her buttons freeze up."

"Uhmmm...hmmm..." you mutter, as you sidle farther down the aisle.

SL follows you closely. Any closer, and you might have to explain to her that you are heterosexual.

"Personally, I say it's the ice cream."

(What? Oh, the hell with it. Who cares? Where the hell is the 1/2 inch navy grosgrain, anyway?)

You are nearly in the Styrofoam ball department, now. Still, IT advances...

"See, she has me scoop her up a big bowl of ice cream--she really likes the kind with walnuts, but the doctor says she shouldn't eat nuts on account of she gets these pockets in her colon, you know, that trap bits of food and stuff... Anyway................bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...................

You have stopped listening.

You know that she is still talking, because you can see her lips moving; the lips that you notice are edged with this whitish crud--oh god...

The navy grosgrain! At last! You escape to the cutting counter--but wouldn't you know it, the SL follows you.

"2-1/2 yards," you tell the cutter.

"So, what are you making?" says the SL.

The cutter looks up and smiles. "Oh, you're sisters, aren't you? I can tell! Are you making matching outfits?"

You die.

When I'm An Old Woman...

When I'm an old woman
I shall wear purple
Just like I already do.

I'll eat too much chocolate
And waste all my dinner
Just like I already do.

I'll drink all the bourbon
And scream for champagne
Just like I already do.

And I shall tell everyone
To go and fuck-off
Just like I already do.

The Savage Alphabet-- part 2

* continued *

C is for Capybara: The world's largest guinea pig. The Laaduu breed and consume capybara on their feast days. They first lured them into their traps with very old corndogs given to them by missionaries. The Laaduu enjoy the missionaries very much. They say that they are particularly tasty with chili sauce. The corndogs they can take or leave.

D is for Death: The uninvited visitor, who never leaves empty handed. (Maybe if we left out some cookies and milk for him, he'd leave us alone-- ya think?)

* to be continued *

Musings on "Black Friday"

* To America's retail wage-slaves on their worst day of the year: the view from the other side of the cash desk, from one who has labored on both sides. *

My name is Savage, and I have retail problems.

Okay, I am a woman. I shop. I know what I am talking about. (Can I hear an amen, sisters?)

As a former retail clerk who has served both the nicest of customers and the rudest and stupidest, and as a former retail clerk who has served with both the best of employees and the rudest and stupidest, I have a few things to say on the subject.

As a customer, here is what I require:

I want to go in and pick out what I want, and if I have questions about the merchandise, I want you, the sales clerk, to be able to answer them, or to quickly find someone who can. Do not say, "I dunno," and think you can leave it at that.

I want to be able to pay for my merchandise in a timely manner, and I don't want any rudeness to enter the transaction zone. Do not give me any of your pompous attitude. Remember which one of us is standing behind the register for minimum wage. Princess Diana you are not.

(Y'all still with me so far?)

I do not want to hear your private conversations, especially when they refer to customers. I do not want to hear an after-the-sale evisceration of the looks, weight, character or taste of the unfortunate shopper who preceded me at the cash register. Oh, and I really don't care when you are taking your break, or what your boyfriend said last night, or the results of your medical test. Can the employee's break room chatter while on the sales floor, okay?

I do not want to have to send out a search party for you when it comes time to pay for my stuff. Be there. It's your job. They aren't paying you because you're so darn cute. Really.

Unpacking boxes, hanging clothes, recording sales info; these are things you have to do, I know. What you need to understand, is that these things are not as important as waiting on your customer. If the customers go away, YOU WILL NO LONGER HAVE A JOB.

(Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were listening. Your mind seemed to be wandering.)

Dress like a grown-up professional, not a teenaged hooker/slacker. I don't think you want to see my undergarments or private body parts; I assure you that I do not want to see yours.

Do a good job, be smart and keep your eyes and ears open. Soon, perhaps, you can leave your crappy retail job for something better. Until then, remember:

YOUR CRAPPY JOB IS NOT MY FAULT!

The Savage Alphabet

A is for Alone: We are all alone, no matter that we may surround ourselves with friends and family. In the end, we die alone. Those of us who realize and accept this fact lead lives of overwhelming sadness. The human animal much prefers fiction to fact.

B is for Beelzebub: Very few people believe in him nowadays; fewer still fear him. My grandfather says this is why the world is going to Hell in a handbasket.

*to be continued*

Working Stiff

He punched in one night, put his tuna sandwich in the office fridge, wished the day shift guy a good night and settled down to read the paper. He had just finished the comics and Dear Abby and was about to skim the front section, when the buzzer rang. He set down the paper, sighed, took a sip of coffee and logged on to the program. He reviewed the subject's case history, tapped away on the keyboard for a couple of minutes, then returned to his paper. He finished the national news and was deep into the sports section when the phone rang. He picked it up and spoke quietly and gently into it, while his face went through a series of horrible contortions and his long, thin fingers drummed restlessly on the desk.

"Yeah, Mom. Yes. I'll be there. Sunday. I know. No, Cindy and I aren't going out anymore. She said I was too involved with my job. I know, Mom. Mom! I'm not even thirty for--

"Grandchildren. Uh-huh. Yeah, right, Mom. I know. Look, I'm at work here, and the boss--

"Yeah. I love you too, Mom. See you Sunday. Goodbye."

As soon as he hung up, the buzzer rang. He read. He typed. He would do this many times as the night wore on. At three o'clock he ate his tuna sandwich and bought a candy bar from the vending machine. At eight, the day guy came on and he punched out and went home.

While getting ready for bed, he thought of the many people who had died that night. He thought about leaving the business, going into another line of work. Those ads for dental assistant school looked interesting. He drank a glass of milk and got into bed. He fell asleep with the sun shining on his face.

On Sunday, Death went to his mother's house for dinner.

The Shortest Country Song Ever

Yew broooke mah heaaarrrt,
So Ah kicked yer aaassss.



Thank you, thank you ver' much. Goodnight!



Savage has left the building.

It's a Turkey of a Day for the Savage Chef

It's been a long day, I'm in one of those moods, and the big day is almost upon us. Time for a Thanksgiving rant. So, let me put on my apron, roll up my sleeves, step up on my soapbox (actually, the crate my ice cream compressor came in), and just rant away. Don't worry, you can stop and make some nachos and pour a beer or whatever; I'll still be here when you get back.

Say, those look tasty. Mind if I have one?

Forthwith, I would like to state quite firmly: Sausage, oysters, raisins, peanuts, candy corn, prunes, apricots, rice, ham, eggs, old sweat sox, eggplant, caviar, mushrooms and leftover fruitcake, have no place in a proper Thanksgiving turkey stuffing. A proper Thanksgiving turkey stuffing consists of homemade cornbread, seasoned with salt and freshly ground black pepper and some sage and thyme; celery, onion, some green apple chunks if you like--I do-- and perhaps a bit of chopped up neck meat and giblets, which may or may not include any of the liver.

Add sufficient melted butter and turkey neck broth to moisten it just enough to enable it to be packed inside the big bird, remembering that you don't need much of either, as the turkey's wonderful, fragrant juices will baste the stuffing into a truly ambrosial dish. If you do not make your own stuffing--and I cannot imagine why you would not, as it is so simple that you could have a handy small child do it--then please do not ever, ever resort to that dusty, dry boxed faux stuffing mix the grocery stores sell. It isn't possible to say enough Hail Marys or Our Fathers to do penance for that mortal sin. Either wangle an invitation to someone else's house, or dine out at a reputable establishment; one that employs real cooks, not microwave jockeys.

A properly executed stuffing is often the best part of the whole Thanksgiving Day meal. Like the little boy said, "No more turkey for me, thank you. I'll just have some more of that bread he ate!"

Beyond my deeply held religious belief in the sanctity of stuffing, my pet peeves regarding Thanksgiving Day foods are many. In general, I despise the ready-made, so-called convenience foods that all too many culinarily deluded people rely upon these days. In particular, I detest such gustatory abominations as:

Green beans (from a can!)-- canned-cream-of-crap-soup--fake-onions-also-from-a-can casserole. Ladies, I implore you. Do not believe everything that you read in Good Housekeeping magazine. Sometimes they lie to you. Really.

Mashed potatoes made of alleged potato flakes. Hollywood uses this stuff when they want to simulate a snowstorm. Better you should eat real snow. It doesn't clog your bodily plumbing, and you can use it to make killer daiquiris.

Canned (do you begin to see a theme developing?) yams with miniature marshmallows on top. What sick mind invented this shit? My cat left a more attractive mess on my bed quilt, that time she ate three lizards in a row.

Gravy from a can. Dear Lord, WHY? What on earth do these people do with all the luscious turkey drippings? My brothers' little boys don't mind it, though. I remember being that age. All the little boys seemed to really like to eat paste.

Those icky, pre-cut carrot pucks. They DO NOT taste like tender baby carrots. They taste like orange Lincoln Logs. You shouldn't eat wood. I don't care what that old guy who ate pine trees said.

Nasty bottled ranch dressing to go with the carrot pucks. Grumpy calls it "raunch" dressing. I concur.

Canned cranberry sauce, whether berry style or jellied. Especially grievous to this eater is the practice of pushing the jelly straight from the can onto the serving plate. There it sits, wobbling slightly, in all its cylindrical glory. This presentation does have one virtue: it gives me something to giggle at, as I steel myself to the thought of partaking of the rest of the dreadful meal.

"Dinner rolls" from the grocery bread department. Why not just throw in the towel entirely, and pass around that baggie of Wonder Bread? You know you want to. And don't even try to tell me that's butter. I know whipped margarine when I see it.

Well, so much for the main meal. Anyone up for dessert? I thought you'd never ask.

Those Cool Whip and Jello creations. Why are they so often a leprous green? There's a reason why they are called "molds" you know, and it's not just because of the pan they're made in.

Finally, DO NOT EVEN THINK of serving me a frozen pumpkin pie, or an instant pudding one in a faux crust that you grabbed from the grocer's freezer case. More of that darn Cool Whip, you say? That's it. I'm outta here. If anyone wants me, I'll be outside in the driveway, letting the air out of your tires and writing nasty things on your windshield in gravy. From a can.

Next year, come over to my house. We'd love to have you. I'll do ALL the cooking. Please. Don't make me beg. I have canned gravy, and I'm not afraid to use it.

Why Savage Drinks So Damn Much

Let me tell you about a typical Savage Swiller day...


People ask me why I drink. I tell them that it depends on the occasion. For example, one day last week I woke up, still a bit fuzzy-headed from the night before, poured myself eight ounces of vodka and topped it off with two ounces of Coke. I needed the caffeine jolt for energy, as I do not drink coffee. The vodka was because it doesn't announce itself the way my usual bourbon does. The soda crackers I consumed with it were in anticipation of a churning stomach. The aspirin chaser was for the free-floating headache with my name on it. The eight ounces of straight vodka that followed the first wee drinkie were necessary for my sanity. The day ahead of me was going to be rough. I prayed that I would make it through in one piece. At that moment, the doorbell rang. My hand shook, and I spilled the last few drops of vodka on the carpet. It was time. I took a deep breath, opened the door, and prepared myself for



Luncheon With My Parents.

Daddy insists on driving.

"You sit in the back, and give us directions," Mom says. Daddy starts the car. Well, he turns the key, looks puzzled when there is no sound, then fumbles for the keys on the floorboards. Daddy starts the car.

NINETY MILES AN HOUR TO THE STOP SIGN!

(It's one hundred feet from my front door, by the way.) My mother says (in her usual conversational tone--imagine a very deaf Ma Kettle), "What's the best way to go?"

Go where? I think, as I cover my ears with my shoulders.

Daddy whips around the corner at high speed (Mr. Daddy's Wild Ride!), then slows to a pleasant eight and a half miles per hour, straddling the center line and staring off into space. Do not bother him; he is in the Driving Zone. It is a happy place. For him. Soon, there are fourteen pickup trucks and SUVs behind us. The drivers of these vehicles (I worry that they may be armed) are not happy. They are eager to let us know this. Oncoming traffic skins the paint from both doors. I ask Mom, "Where do you want to eat?"

"I want to eat someplace NICE!" she screeches.

Damn. There goes my plan to take you to Ptomaine Palace. However, I am nothing if not flexible. I throw out suggestions. "Red Lobster? Mimi's? TGI Fridays?"

I know that we must go to a corporate-clone sort of place, or else my mother will say, in her whisper-that-wakes-the-dead voice, "I think they're foreigners here. Who knows what they're serving? I've heard that these people eat dogs!"

Meanwhile, Daddy is driving down an unpaved country lane. We pass by cows, silos, and a pack of mean and hungry-looking coyotes that are savaging what I hope is some kind of large animal. Whatever it was, it was wearing overalls and a baseball cap, but lots of people dress up their livestock these days, right?

"Al! Where the hell are you going?" screams my mother.

"I dunno. Wherever she told me to go, I guess. "

Realizing that I am the "she" being referred to, I take a look around and do not recognize any landmarks.

"Well, if you had let me drive..." I whine, instantly reverting back to the twelve-year-old I once was.

"You know we don't know which roads to take!" says Mother.

Well, aside from the fact that they managed to get to my house, and that they shop in the town that we are going to, and that they always gaff off my directions anyway...well, aside from those things, she is correct. I take charge.

"Turn here Daddy, " I suggest. (Foolishly, as it turns out.)

A few hundred yards down the lane, Daddy turns the car onto a farm access road. A whole bunch of cows gaze at us. No, a flock. No, wait--a herd! Anyway... A pack of farm dogs run alongside our car, barking their little canine lungs out. Soon, we come upon the actual farmhouse. Should I get out and ask for directions? Uhhmmm... probably not. A woman with a rifle is standing on the porch. She opens her mouth to yell at us. She appears to have no teeth. Brandishing the rifle in what I feel is a threatening manner, she pauses in mid-tirade to spit an astonishing amount of cloudy, brownish liquid in our direction. I tell Daddy to turn the car around.

Fortunately, none of the bullets pierce the car. The cows stare placidly at us as we leave. I realize that if I crouch down behind the car seat as if I were fixing my stockings, I can take a few quick nips from my flask. (Why did I leave my rosary beads at home?) A few minutes later, somewhat restored and able to speak in complete sentences once again, I ask, "So. Mom. What kind of food would you like for lunch?"

"Let's go to Hungry Hunter," she says.

Good, I think. Generic steakhouse. Should be a piece of cake--or should that be slab of beef? Daddy knows where it is. Sort of. We make a double left turn and drive the wrong way down a blocked-off street. Those pesky orange road cones cling to the car's undercarriage for several blocks. We briefly get stuck in the middle of a flock of pink plastic flamingos, but soon extricate ourselves.

"They shouldn't have those things in the middle of their lawn when their house is so close to the road," says Mother.

Finally, we arrive at the steakhouse. Daddy parks. Perhaps the people who own the white Bentley won't notice the dents...

We enter the dining establishment. I say a prayer.

"Al! We're going to the ladies room!" bellows Mother, as though she were in charge of encouraging the passengers of the Titanic to enter the lifeboats. Everyone in the dining room looks at us. A Japanese tourist snaps our picture. Daddy remains oblivious, entranced by the artful display of after-dinner mints cunningly arranged in a plastic bowl. In the bathroom stall, I take the opportunity to have another couple of drinks from my flask. Damn! The flask is now empty. Luckily, I have planned for just such an emergency. I have three more flasks in my purse and two in the tops of my stockings. Maybe I should just start carrying around the 1.75 liter bottle around instead. (But it would be hard to be discreet while sipping from it.)

Back in the dining room, Mother rejects two tables for being in the mysterious Unclean Section, but at last, we are seated. I realize that Daddy is MIA. We find him sitting by himself at a dirty table, reading a discarded children's menu and coloring on the placemat. We persuade him to join us. Soon, our very own waitress cruises up to our table. She goes through the "specials" spiel. She is middle-aged. She has waited tables for many years. She knows that no one ever listens to the list of specials. She knows that customers will ask dumb questions, and demand special treatment. She has grown accustomed to the slings and arrows of customer service. She believes that she has heard and seen it all.

She has never met my mother.

"Would anyone care for a drink before ordering?"

"Where do you get your chickens from?" Mother demands.

The waitress is confused. "From the freezer," she says.

"How do I know they don't have Newcastle disease?" jabs my mother.

"They're not from around here," parries the waitress.

"Well, what about the salmon? Has it been checked for mercury?"

"No," the waitress answers shortly.

Riposte! Take that! (Why did we come to a steakhouse, anyway?) I say, "Mom, how about the rib-eye special?"

Daddy is looking up at the waitress like a little boy trying to get the teacher's attention, his finger pointing at something on the menu. Everyone ignores him.

"You know I don't eat beef. All those hormones they give the cows!"

I am growing desperate. And thirsty.

"Well, how about a nice garden salad, Mom?"

She stares at me as though I have grown another head. "Are you crazy? Haven't you heard about all those people dying?"

Now I am confused. "What people, Mom?"

"Those people in Kansas or Pennsylvania or somewhere. They ate green onions and then they died!"

Huh?

"Well then, just ask that the green onions be left off your salad," I say, thinking it a perfectly reasonable solution.

"How do I know the lettuce didn't come from some foreign country where they use dirty fertilizer on it? Do you know what they use?"

No, and I don't want to know. In just a moment, I am getting up and going back to the Ladies to drink some more.

Suddenly, it is over.

"I'll have a turkey croissandwich."

I wonder if turkeys suffer from Newcastle disease. I decide that I really do not care.

"Is the turkey lean?" 'She Who Must Be Obeyed' asks the waitress.

Yes. We've had it on a bread and water diet for weeks.

The waitress snaps her gum. Wait, she didn't seem to have gum, before. Maybe she just cracked her jaw. "Mustard or mayo?" she says.

"Do you have lemon for the tea?"

"Coleslaw or potato salad?"

"I want Sweet 'n Lo for my tea."

Somehow, without either player acknowledging the other, the order is transmitted and recorded. When her croissandwi(t)ch arrives, my mother will look at it suspiciously. She will take two bites and then abandon it on her plate. "I'm not hungry," she will say as she sighs, making the napkins at the table across the room go flying. I let Daddy order his meal all by his very own self and for a wee bit, we are hung up on the beverage selection. The restaurant serves Pepsi. Daddy wants Coke.

"Why don't you have Coke?" he asks the waitress plaintively.

"We just don't. We have Pepsi."

"But I want a Coke."

"We only have Pepsi."

"Why don't you have both?"

"Because we don't."

"But I like Coke."

"Sorry."

"Oh. Well, do you have Moxie?"

Suddenly, the waitress has a brilliant idea.

"I'll bring you a Coke," she sighs.

Daddy smiles like a good little boy who has been promised a cookie. All is well.

At last, it is my turn.

Here it comes.

I can have one if I want!

I am an adult.

I have a husband, and several grown children.

I'm a homeowner. I pay taxes.

So there!

"I'll have the Petite Steak Special and a glass of red wine."

My mother's eyes widen.

"Going to get schnockered before noon, are you?" she asks. "Do you always drink first thing in the morning?"

I grind my expensive dental crowns together, and manage a rather tight smile.

"It's. Eleven. Forty. Five. I mean, no! I don't--"

"You know, I read in the Reader's Digest that women shouldn't drink more than two drinks a week. It upsets your estrogren balance."

I read in the National Enquirer about a daughter who beat her mother to death with a gin bottle.

The drinks arrive. Sullenly, I take a big gulp of wine, and nearly choke. Mother sneers.

"At least I'm not driving," I mutter. I excuse myself and return to the Ladies for fortification. On the way there, I run into our waitress and order a carafe of wine.

"But put some vodka in it," I tell her. She does not seem surprised by my request.

Back at the table, the food has arrived. My vodka-wine sits embarrassed in the middle of the table, the subject of stares angry (Mother) and perplexed (Daddy).

"You know, alcohol is nothing but empty calories. Do you really think you need them?"

I take a deep breath, and suck in my stomach. "Well, Mom, maybe I shouldn't eat this steak. All those fatty calories, you know."

Damn! She's goaded me into answering back. It's like entering a time machine...

"Beef is very bad for you. Those hormones they give the cows..."

"Mom," I say quietly. "Since you don't seem to be enjoying your meal, perhaps you should order some dessert."

"I'd like some pie," Daddy says wistfully.

Mother glares at him. "You know what the doctor said, Al! You need to lose some weight."

I look at Daddy, all 125 pounds of him on a five-foot nine-inch frame. In shorts, his legs give Colonel Sanders evil thoughts. What the hell kind of quack were they going to?

"Your father is pre-diabetic and pre-hypoglycemic."

What?

She scoops up my pair of rolling eyes and throws them home.

"He has to take pills!"

Geeezuz, I would too, if I had to live with the Food Nazi.

Daddy is gazing longingly at the pie being served to the table next to us.

"And, he has pre-diverticulitis, so he's not allowed to have nuts."

No.

I let that one pass.

"Well," I say, taking pity on him. "I would like some dessert. What kind of pie do you want, Daddy?"

His smile is wondrous to hehold. He has apple pie, with ice cream and a beer(!) I order more wine. Mother glares at us. We ignore her. I make another visit to the Ladies Drinkatorium. On the way back home, Daddy blows through three or four stop signs (I wasn't counting--unless you count my imaginary beads--and pulls out in front of opposing traffic even though our light is red. I don't panic because, after all, we are all pre-death. I'm sitting in the back seat, happy that this family excursion is nearly over. When I look out the window, I realize that we are on the I-15 freeway, heading north towards Las Vegas. Home is twenty-five miles behind me and getting farther away by the second.

Bwahahahahahaaa! I don't care. I know that there are plenty of places in Vegas to get a drink.

And I still have one flask left.