One of my "additional duties" here at the little house that is the Fire Direction Center is Assistant S-4 (Class I resupply) along with Mess Sergeant.
As such every weekend I do the marketing.
This morning I went to the ####### - I'll leave the name of the grocery off so as to preserve the anonymity of the person in the picture above - and there she was, looking drop-dead gorgeous in her "grocery outfit" complete with killer heels, skinny jeans, shirred-silk blouse, and pearls.
She was visibly a cut above the rest of us hoi-polloi in our scruffy jeans (or worse, pajama bottoms - I still don't get how you think it's okay to go out in public in pajamas. Seriously?) and go caps and the other shabby, bulky, utilitarian cold weather clothing that explodes across the Portland basin in late autumn.
When I came upon her, though, she was crossly surveying the desolate shelf-spaces in the "toilet paper" section. The COVID re-lockdown orders coming tomorrow in both Oregon and Washington states seem to have brought out the usual "OMFG-I'm going-to-be-wiping-my-ass-with-fallen-leaves!!!" nitwits who have begin hoarding the bog roll again. The woman was not happy.
So as seemingly out-of-place madam's outfit was, I totally get the fuck-me pumps - not so much a statement as a weapon.
When you come limping up to the checkout it's because the one that was on your bare foot is buried in the heart of that fucking Charmin-hogging bitch lying back there in Aisle Eight.
Here's your Plague Year writ small, small as a scroll made from quilted Northern; two shoppers enter. One shopper leaves.
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