I was at the grocery store this weekend, negotiating a chicken purchase with the butcher. I have an unhealthy attitude towards chicken. I hoard it. I can’t pass up a chicken sale even when the freezer is so stuffed with it that breasts, boneless, skinless and otherwise, repeatedly fall on the foot of the poor sap who happens to need to dig for something else.
That would most often be The Big Daddy who cusses out all the $%&**!% chicken breasts and the woman who keeps buying them.
There I was trying to determine how many more The BD would tolerate in the big chill, and from the corner of my eye I noticed a guy at the end of the counter buying ribs. I envied those slabs sitting on the scale because that’s another thing that won’t fit in the freezer with all the chicken hooters in there
He looked my way and yelled, “Well, I’d recognize that hair anywhere.”
It was the father of one of Mallie Bee’s friends. A friend (maybe from middle school?) a short-termer when they parted circles in high school. I have never known him all that well. I liked him but it’s not like I see him or his family on a regular basis.
Evidently my hair has been on friendlier terms with him.
“Yep, I saw that head of hair and said to myself, well I know who that is. There’s no mistaking those curls.”
This was when it was a few days post-wash and thus smaller than usual. It’s not even the humid months yet when its volume will intensify significantly. By then it should have its own zip code, a name (Large Marge), and a wide load sign with flags coming out the side for clearance.
If only I could think of a way to turn the burdensome second person in this relationship into a moneymaker………..
