Wednesday, March 04, 2009
I drove off the mountain into town today to do a few errands. It's funny, I seem to feel the isolation more when the snow and ice keep me from traveling. I can go for quite long periods without seeing anyone or feeling any need to do more than drive to the mailbox, but I do get stir-crazy if, for some reason, I can't actually leave.
Now, in case you think I'm a huge wuss about the driving in snow/ice (and I absolutely will agree that I am), it's not so much the ice and snow as it's the vertical slog up Thrust Road that has me so trapped. The bridges have been out and they routed us over a treacherous one lane gravel road. And we have to keep calling the highway department to have fresh gravel put down. Yes, the same highway department swimming in Maker's Mark, and boy, are they cranky during work hours (I myself, have been cranky following an evening that involved bourbon and sympathize). Anyway, Thrust Road is underlaid with mud, so the gravel just sinks into it. My jeep hasn't been out of 4WD this winter.
But I digress. You may not know this about me but I have a mouth like a sailor. Not sure how I got it--I remember having it from about age 12. Not sure where I picked it up since profanity wasn't spoken around my home. Perhaps it's just my love of all things word, but I like salty language. I like that it's language uttered with emotion. You spit it out sometimes as a challenge, as a curse. It's a vocalization of pain and frustration and passion. It's rarely whispered. There's nothing subtle about it. I have cleaned my act up since coming here. Such language is frowned upon in Cocke County.
So, I'm in Walmart getting some groceries. The problem with Walmart is that for some unknown reason, every single piece of shelving, every shopping cart, every surface in the store produces a severe static shock. I feel my pants clinging to my knees in fear the moment I walk in. I try to keep the F-bombs to a minimum and my voice down, but it's really hard when you are getting the shit shocked out of you every four feet. Also, I start doing this thing where I stab my finger back and forth before touching anything. It's not like it actually helps--I still get jolted--but I feel compelled to engage in this spastic behavior for some reason.
Everyone stares at me like I'm a candidate for demonic possession. And I can't blame them as I jerk, spit, roll and jump through the aisles. Really, they are fortunate I didn't just shuck all my clothes off and go running, screaming through the store. Some crap like this always happens to me in Walmart. Last time, I had one of my legendary nosebleeds in the magazine racks and had to run to automotive for paper towels.
Maybe it's not me. Maybe the store is possessed. I just wish the little children would stop averting their eyes.
I have to see a woman about a sheep tomorrow.