Reader advisory: this story has consumers and feminism, militarism and auditory hallucinations in it. Rage against the machine!
“If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh?…And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?” The Merchant of Venice, Act 3, Scene 1
ALERT THE MEDIA! The pandemic is over! Masks are over! Social distancing is over! Hand washing is over! It’s time to be consumers again! And if you believe what I just said, you’re over!
But there is good news: VACCINES! Yippee…Yet, instead of feeling peppy and ready to hug the new normal, I find myself emotionally crawling around on the kitchen floor, like a weird bug in sunglasses, always sleepy and with fewer ways to fill my time.
Self-Service From My Self
My dear friends, if ever there was an opportunity for you to feel sorry for me, that time is now. “Gag me with a spoon! We’d rather eat hummus with a furry beard because it was rotting in the fridge than feel sorry for you!” Hmmm…Is that a “no” on the pity party? What? I should grow up? I hate you. Not really. Okay, yes really.
Guess I better check in with my Self. She’s always supportive. Unlike some people I know. “Oh, Self, oh, Self…R u there?” I pout as dramatically as one can when talking to an invisible presence. “Hello, pinhead. This is your Self. You, who tirelessly moans about consumers and feminism, blah, blah, blah, have a heart-rending and pathetic problem.
“Ergo, I urge you to consult one of your 11 mental health professionals, past, present and future. Knowing you as well as I do, and I do, if you beg them in your uniquely sad sack way they’ll feel sorry for you and give you advice for free.”
Free? Did I hear the word “free”? Alrighty and Almighty!
Shake Your Chakras, Baby
Jumping out of my PJs, I dive into my black capris and gold cashmere sweater, remnants of life BEFORE…Then I grab Scotch tape and denude my attire of the cat hair rug that has grown on it over the past three months.
Quick thinker that I am, I trap my YouTube therapy quack Sigmundo Freddie Freudo (not to be confused with Frodo of Middle Earth) into a Zoom session by telling him there are headless zombies on my lawn. As always, he is supportive.
“Listen up, you dead beat has-been,” says Freudo the quack. “The pandemic has cancelled mindless mall wandering and passing the mike at karaoke parties. “But it’s handed you the golden opportunity to shake your chakras, which, in doing, gives you a fighting chance to learn what a mess you are.
“So, when things return to normal – oh, excuse me for just a sec. Ha! Ha! Did I say ‘normal’? OMG. THAT’S NEVER GONNA HAPPEN! Anyhoochee waa waa, upon shaking your chakras – one-two, cha-cha-cha, one-two, cha-cha-cha – you’ll emerge so enveloped by despair that anything good that happens in your life will seem like a gift from God.”
Never one to ignore free advice, I decide to dedicate my empty life to shaking my chakras. Just as I’m about to vibrate the hell out of them, I discover that 27, 34 and 46 are missing. Who stole my chakras? Gosh darn it! Betcha it was that brat down the block whose nanny gives him a whiskey shot and a Yodel for breakfast every AM.
(Do little boys believe in consumers and feminism?)
Despite my reduced chakra count, I put on my belly dancing outfit and Bill Haley & His Comets singing Shake, Rattle & Roll.
I really let ‘er rip, runnin’ around the house, shakin’, jigglin’, jumpin’ and pumpin’, all the while screamin’, “Shake rattle and roll, shake, rattle and roll… Well, you won’t do right to save your doggone soul…”
And then I see it! Stuck between chakras 12 and 31 is my cherished revenge to-do list. With annotated notes re: tactics and operations. With 147 people/things on it.
The Revenge Short List
Let’s start with a brief list of revenge tips.
1: Your target can be animate or inanimate.
#2: Revenge can be symbolic.
#3: Revenge may result in collateral damage. But that’s OK ‘cause it’s a win-win situation for you and…uhhh…you. Cause you’re, in essence, taking revenge on others before they can be mean to you at a future date.
#4: Revenge might mean channeling your feminism!
And now, here’s my list.
1: My junior high school chorus teacher, Mrs. Thumbputz, the old bitch, who told me, “please, dear, don’t sing. Just move your lips.”
2: Milty, my ex-boyfriend, who, when dumping me, said, “I’m breaking up with you today because I know you have therapy later.”
He thought he was being so humane. Like when poor, sick Smoochie Ruff Ruff gets snuffed out by her favorite vet and you think that makes it a better experience for her.
3: The hopped-up, tattoo-freak workout junkies at my gym. They never wear masks so I send out daggers of negative eyeball laser energy through my fogged-up eyeglasses. But they stare through me like I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past and they’re all atheists.
4: ShopRite, the grocery chain, ‘cause once I was eating their canned peaches out of the can and I bit on a giant pit. I was indignant! One minute I’m chewing on sweet, fleshy fruit, and, suddenly, the canned fruit version of a cannonball lands in my mouth.
I spit the pit behind the stove where the dust bunnies cushion its fall. I shoot off an abusive email to ShopRite’s so-called customer service. Then I immediately forget about the tragedy that has almost taken my life.
The Straw That Broke the Camel’s Back
Three months later, I get an email from ShopRite. “We are so sorry you nearly died by choking on an unexpected pit. To make amends, we’ve put $2 on your store card, which you can use at any ShopRite check-out anywhere in the country.” I’m thrilled! And bummed. I’d expected a much bigger payoff. Don’t they know that consumers with feminism added in are a powerful bunch?
Anyhoo, the very next Saturday, I go to my local ShopRite, wearing my newest mask, the one that says, “Maybe today, Satan.” At the checkout, I ask the cashier to verify my $2 credit. Nope. “No such credit there,” she says smugly. “Manager!” I scream. “Manager!! Get over here right now, you sordid sleazo of a bureaucrat, and get me my $2 payoff for a near-death experience with a peach pit!!!”
The manager comes over, walking as slowly as possible, and zaps my card with his ray gun. “Ma’am, you can’t get the credit until you supply a PIN number provided by the dead-beat customer service crooks at ShopRite’s detention center in Des Moines.”
“But the email never said anything about a PIN number!” My feminism neurons start to maniacally whiz around my brain like paintballs on uppers. Is this a COVID-19 Looney Tunes Personality Disorder (Ell-Pee-Tee-Dee) relapse? Yes! I am going bananas! {Little-known factoid: Humans and bananas share 50% of their DNA.}
Did Joan d’Arc Invent Feminism?
Suddenly I hear a voice. “Oooh laal aa. This is Joan d’Arc. Mon dieu! Are you la victim or la victorieuse? Now is the time to choisir! Oui, ou, dearest Joanie! I race over to the produce area and climb atop the avocados, hard as rocks as usual, but providing me with a drone’s eye view of the store.
The voice returns. “Madame, il est temps de se battre!” And so, waving my shopping list like a sacred war banner, I scream, “I WANT MY TWO DOLLARS! ” I am Joan at the Siege d’Orléans.
Then I hear the manager over the intercom, “Security to avocados. Security to avocados.” Boom! Boom!! BOOM!!! The store begins to shake as the security guard, a mountain of a man in a Daffy Duck hat with tassels, thromps ever closer to my battle position. if magnetized by a powerful force larger than their petty rivalries, the shoppers begin to merge into one heaving, pulsing organism.
Someone shouts, “Remember the Avocado!!!,” inspiring a volcanic freak-nado of pent-up consumer rage. Mothers and toddlers scream. Run amok. Pelt the guard with Concord grapes and baby carrots. Dudes in overalls charge the poultry aisle, grabbing chicken wings and drumsticks. College students with whopping big loans overrun meat, snatching sirloins, ribs and turkey burgers.
{Ironic side note: Not one single person takes toilet paper.}
The guard lunges at me with a war whoop, his huge feet crushing the fallen grapes and turning them into store-brand vino. But I am fast. I whirl and twirl like Bruce Lee across the grapefruit and mangos. Grabbing a bottle of Lambda Ultra-Premium Extra Virgin Olive Oil (street value: $54), I bolt from the store and run for my Prius, screaming, “Run, run, as fast as you can! You can’t catch me!! I’m the gingerbread man!!!
The drive home is quite satisfying.
Update: I never got my $2 credit and you may say I was defeated by a force greater than myself. And, now banned from ShopRites nationwide as well as Krogers and Publix, I shop at Trader Joe’s where the food is too pricey. But they have tons of free samples, which I devour on all visits, leaving disgruntled, sample-less customers in my wake.
But I know and you know that, with each bite, I sow the seeds of another, even greater, grocery store rebellion. Yes, I fight for consumers and feminism everywhere there is a customer service representative asleep at the wheel.
ERGO GROCIO HORRIBILUS!
Brilliant and funny, dear Amy! How do you do it??