Parched

I have recently become quite addicted to Powerade Zero. But only the red ones. You know, fruit punch. It’s a nice replacement for sugar-laden soda (although I will still drink one on occasion) and provides a pleasant change from the gallons of water I consume daily.

As far as the zeros go, it is available in orange, grape, and blue mixed berry. Yuck. Yuck. Super Yuck. And, of course, the red fruit punch. While I have no problem whatsoever finding my beloved beverage in the 32-ounce size (and, I might add heavily discounted thanks to grocery store sales), trying to find the eight-pack of 20-ounce bottles is even more difficult than trying to locate a needle in a haystack, a four-leaf clover in a field, or your contact lenses on casino carpet.

And before you think it, just don’t. Gatorade is gross. Truly repugnant.

I have looked high and low, in numerous Albertsons, Smith’s, and Vons, and in several Walmarts and Targets to no avail. Oh sure, the disgusting blue ones are everywhere. In fact, in many retail outlets, there’s not even a space on the shelves for the fruit punch ones. Regular fruit punch is abundant but not the zero ones. Why is that, Coca Cola? Why is this item so damn difficult to find? I’ve even asked grocery managers to order it, which, apparently, they can’t, or, more accurately, won’t. Pfft.

Yes, I know I can order it on Amazon and have it delivered like some antisocial shut-in who can’t grocery shop for herself. But that’s beside the point even though I may be just a skosh antisocial. Just a skosh, mind you. But I enjoy grocery shopping. I particularly relish playing “Stump the Checker” with some uncommon produce item that very few people purchase such as fennel, rutabagas, or parsnips which force the person ringing me up to ask what it is. Sometimes, when I’m feeling really obnoxious, I memorize the item’s number and provide that to the cashier.

Well, I’m off to order 12 family packs of Powerade Zero fruit punch from Amazon. Until next time.

Jingle This

I already don’t like this time of year. For one, it’s far too commercial, and it seems as though every year we are inundated with holiday decor and advertisements that inform the brainwashed masses who think they must buy their spouse a Lexus and their kids the latest and greatest popular toy (that will, undoubtedly, break after a week) earlier and earlier. This year, I saw a bunch of holiday, crap, er stuff out before Halloween. Call me crazy (everyone else does), but that’s far too early. It’s almost akin to seeing Valentine’s Day (yet another high-dollar “holiday”) stuff at Christmastime.

Anyway, in addition to the obnoxious advertisements (that entice people to spend exorbitant amounts of money purchasing gifts for ungrateful family members and lukewarm friends who they only see, oh, twice per year and who aren’t going to like whatever they get anyway), the epileptic seizure inducing holiday lights, the annoying and overplayed music, and the overcrowded stores, I am also not a fan of holiday smells.

Smells, you may ask, what smells? Now, I’m not talking smells like unbathed rednecks swarming the crowded aisles at Walmart who reek of cigarettes, cheap beer, and pork rinds. I’m referring specifically to the nauseating smell of cinnamon. Cinnamon everything: candles, air fresheners, ornaments, the whole shebang. I absolutely despise the smell of cinnamon. I’m okay with freshly baked desserts such as cinnamon rolls. It’s the disgusting, artificial, vomit-inducing stench of the fake shit that seems to permeate the atmosphere with a blanket of fetid foulness covering the Earth and offending my olfactory system.

Now, in addition to the aforementioned holiday annoyances, perhaps the most offensive are those annoying-as-fuck Salvation Army bell ringers who swarm the entrances to every possible place I need to go (grocery store, anyone) with their irritating and relentless clamor. Case in point, I was at Walmart yesterday (big mistake, big, HUGE) buying a toilet seat, Swiffer dusters, Kleenex, melatonin, and oatmeal because that’s what Walmart is for. After navigating the malodorous aisles, I was a bit annoyed (okay, a lot annoyed) by the time I left the store. Not only did I feel like a salmon trying to exit the store fighting the swarms of festive folks with zero spatial awareness, there was an annoying woman ringing her bell so as to proclaim her holiday festivity for the entire state of Nevada to hear, who decided that singing Jingle Bells at the top of her lungs was an appropriate endeavor. Let me tell you, it wasn’t. After my malevolent glare failed to explode her head a la Scanners, it took everything my loving supportive boyfriend who has the patience of a saint had to keep me from shoving her Godforsaken bell down her throat. What about Silent Night, huh?

Happy Holidays everyone!