Rum, Wind and Fire

This bursting into flames thing is getting old. Thankfully, there were 55 mph winds yesterday, so all I had to go outside for a minute and feel better. Mother Nature feels my pain.

Picture this. I'm at the local grocery store, picking up food for the agency training I am about to lead. I can barely get out of the car because the wind is so fierce. Once I finally escape, I head toward the door--hair flying into bizarre shapes, jacket flying open rendering me a flying squirrel. Because I am running a bit behind schedule, I'm moving through the store like a shopping ninja.

I get my bread, butter, creamer, salad and veggie tray. I find the french bread and load up on simple carbs. I zip through the pizzeria line to pick up the piping-hot vat of mostaccioli. I realize that I've forgotten a dessert product, so I grab the closest thing-- 2 for $6.00 Oreos. I fly toward the check out and get in line.

I pick the shortest line, which is often the kiss of death.

I see the guy behind me is only holding a bottle of Bacardi. Even though I'm in a hurry, I'm not in that much of a hurry. I flag him to go ahead of me.

This, of course, ends up complicating things.

When it's his turn, he starts yipping and yapping with the checker, which is fine. It's when it becomes very obvious that he knows the checker AND the guy who was in front of him in line that the issue occurs. They start talking about various topics, all the while the checker stops checking. The guy in line makes fun of Bacardi Man, telling him to take it easy on his liver. Bacardi Man is talking about being 60 years old and having no liver since being a teen because he drank so much. The checker chimes in, wondering where his wife is. Bacardi Man announces "mama's out in Wisconsin with some friends" and proceeds to talk about how he'll be drinking this bottle today while she's gone. He turns to me and drags me into the conversation. I smile and nod and laugh, all the while thinking SCAN THAT BOTTLE OF RUM SO WE CAN GET OUT OF HERE!

That's when thing get volcano-lava complicated.

I feel the familiar tingle in my face. It's just enough to get my attention. I hope that I am wrong but the little tingle continues. No, no, no.

It's not like I can stop what is about to transpire.  It's not like Bacardi Man can distract me out of this happening. My ears begin to turn red (yes, I can feel this) and the fire within my being begins to spread (slowly at first) and work its way out to my chest, neck and face. The insides of my elbows begin to sweat (it's disgusting and most definitely where I sweat the most). Then, the blast of heat consumes me. I want to shout (in my best Sweet Brown voice):

LORD JESUS, IT'S A FIRE!

If I don't get my coat off, I'm going to die. I let Bacardi Man keep yipping while I tug at my coat, trying to be casual about the whole thing. Once that's off, I tear at the thin sweater I am wearing, as I'm beginning to get desperate.

If it were appropriate, I would have taken off my pants. 

I casually drape the items over the cart, hoping that my bright red face and ears aren't giving me away. I can feel the insides of my elbows dripping. I try to remain calm while the three stooges keep talking about his drinking problem. I focus on how this is a "power surge" and that it is a positive sign that I'm nearing the end of egg producing nonsense.

Things don't get much better when it is finally my turn. I hand her the "tax exempt" letter. She starts yapping about that, talking about how she hasn't seen our agency for awhile and that we're not in the system anymore but she's gonna hand-enter it. She's asking where "we've" been and how we are doing. All the while I'm thinking "SCREW THE TAX EXEMPT. SCREW IT!" No, she is going to triumph at this task.

By now, I'm starting to cool down. Thankfully, being on fire don't last long. I'm still miserable but I'm under control. My ears are no longer on fire, which is always a good sign. She finally gets everything in order and I'm on my way, now 10 minutes late.

The wind. The wind now takes control.

I'm trying to empty the cart but the trunk keeps slamming shut because of the wind. Since many of my groceries are heavy, I need two hands to move them from the cart to the trunk. I grab the giant salad and off pops the lid, sending sausages and onions onto my binder. I swear, put the now-no-top salad back in the cart, only to have one of the two receipts I have escape from my grasp.

Dang, I need that receipt! The business lady is going to kill me if I don't have that reciept. So, I am now running against/with/against the wind trying to catch the receipt. I am here to tell you that receipts fly REALLY FAST when the wind is 55 mph.

No, I did not catch the receipt. Business Office lady, forgive my sin.

That's when I see the cart is rolling down the aisle at breakneck speed. It's rolling along as I watch in horror, frozen. It suddenly starts veering left....now heading towards some really nice cars. I gasp and break into a sprint, all the time yelling, "NOOOOOOO!" I catch the cart, in the nick of time. I'm sweating again, only this time due to terror and effort.

Getting the food into the car was a major undertaking. Each time I bend over to take something out of the cart, the wind blows the door shut. I'm swearing and I'm fighting and I'm one hot mess--pun intended. I stop for a breather, hoping that NO ONE is filming this endeavor. I am now at least 15 minutes late. I leave the escapee sausage in the trunk and turn to put the cart away.

There are NO shopping cart stall thingies in sight. Who has a parking lot without these things spread all over? The nearest one is at least four rows over. This means I'm going to have to take the cart back into the store, lest I damage unsuspecting vehicles. I push that empty cart as fast as I can, all the while praying, hoping, begging that no one is using their camera phone to capture my endeavor to post on Facebook.

Once in the car, I'm freezing. Of course I am. All that sweat combined with freezy wind has left me shaking. I am now 17 minutes late. I'm wishing I too had purchased a bottle of rum.

When I get to work, I drag the items in, one by one, still fighting the stupid trunk lid. As I carry in the various items (getting really pissed off at the outside entrance, which also won't stay open), everyone is staring at me--where have I been? Why do I look like I've been through the war? Where's the food? Somebody with brain cells and empathy (and a history of hot flashes) asks if I need help....

YES. YES--OF COURSE I NEED FRIGGIN' HELP. LOOK. AT. ME! People jump up and start helping. Damn right, they did. Respect your elder, under 40 crowd!

I'm pretty sure I looked like a deranged, rabid flying squirrel who had been caught in the cross fire during squirrel hunting season.

Suffice it to say, training went off without a hitch, albeit now 19 minutes late. No one cares about that when they are feeding their face with free food. I could have been 45 minutes late and they would have forgiven me--as long as there is free food, everything is easily forgiven. I plop down, finally able to catch my breath....when I remember....

....I'm parked illegally. I have to go outside and move my car, out of the way and into a more legal manner.

You know what I did? Nothing.

I. DID. NOTHING.

Screw the illegally parked car. I'm not going back out there until I have another hot flash. When I fire up, I can go outside and kill two birds with one stone. If anyone wants to say something about it, I will throw my keys at their head and make it quite clear that THEY can move my illegally parked car. Trust me, I think--I will throw those keys so hard that I'll probably take out both of their eyes.

As I said--this bursting into flames thing is getting old. But, I will continue to embrace the power surges, keeping the eye on the prize. I shall be empowered by my natural heating and detoxification unit. That said....

Mother Nature can kiss my ass. 'Nuf said.