Marcita

Every Monday for the past two years, my family and I have eaten dinner at my grandpa's house, usually followed by a trip to Wal-Mart. I call this Fun Monday, because it's not really that fun at all. Wal-Mart's wide selection and low prices attract certain people, most of them fat, ugly and mildly amusing. The cashiers have some genuine variety, like the angry red-haired kid wearing a Jagermeister shirt instead of a uniform, and the tall flamboyant guy who looked like a black Mr. Clean and tied the bags in one quick motion.

Today, our cashier was Marcita, a stout, middle-aged black woman with reddish-brown hair. My mother pointed her out to me while she was counting out change from the old woman in front of us. The first thing I noticed was how the old woman was wasting everyone's time. The second was the fingernails of her left hand. There was far too much of them.

The nail of her thumb curved upward and back, arcing above the back of her hand, while the rest of them dangled freely, like icicle lights from the seasonal department. They were yellowed, with strange purple streaks winding through them, and they made thin scraping and clacking noises as she moved. And she was about to scan and bag our groceries.

As we checked out, my mother got up the nerve to ask her how she wears gloves, while I, completely entranced by these bizarre protrusions, could only stare in revulsion. That was a good thing, because I probably would have asked her what the fuck and why. She was able to pick up each item like anyone else would, evidently experienced from the time it took to grow them out. With an average growth rate of 0.1 mm/day, these must have taken about 4 years to reach their current length, giving her plenty of time to figure out how to handle a gallon of pickles.

Reluctantly, I grabbed the bags she had touched and put them in the cart. As we drove home, questions flooded my mind. Was she reluctant to remove them because they took so long to grow? Or did she grow them so she had something to talk about at the register? And would she think it was funny if I came back and bought several (edited) Nine Inch Nails CDs? I won't find out, because spraying Lysol on everything made my eyes burn.

Oh, Marcita. I wish your store's dress code had a rule about this.

Anyway, I've been working on a list of web proxies and their corresponding IPs, to make it easier to block them from web sites. It isn't done yet, because there are a lot of web proxies.

Also, JC Penney sends us useless coupons. And Knorr creamy chicken rice with shredded sharp cheddar mixed in is the most delicious thing ever.

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