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27 november 2000

he knows when you've been sleeping,
he knows when you're a pain

Well, here 'tis, the new CSS-based Lioness Den. I don't really have much to say about it, except for one little warning. If you're running an older Netscape browser, you may want to upgrade for optimum viewing enjoyment. In my testing, I witnessed some serious Navigator 4 goofiness that simply happens with CSS. After weighing the nefarious Netscapian consequences of moving to CSS, I've decided to forge ahead and let the rest of the world catch up to me for a change. Darn it.

ALSO, the archives are still under construction for a few days, as I couldn't seem to find some of my older essays. When I do, I'll finish the whole conversion. Otherwise, the Den is ready for a read. I hope it downloads faster for you; I know it does on my end.

So...

I broke a personal rule that I've carried for some years last Friday. I went to the store on the busiest shopping day of the year. Like a big, consumerist dope. The thing was, I just wanted to pick up some frames at a favorite store and skedaddle on home. Hopped into the car at 8:30 a.m. Made it to the store without incident.

Then I entered the store. Welcome to Hell, Where Everything is Half Off -- But ONLY UNTIL NOON!

So I'm squeezing, cajoling, tiptoeing, and otherwise carefully maneuvering my way to the back of the store (naturally). There were little old ladies screaming to people over cellphones, "It's twelve bucks. Do you want it or not, Myrtle? I got to get me some slippers, so hurry up!" These women were brutal. I don't know what the armed forces ever had against women joining their ranks. Just move the war to a shopping mall and do a big air-drop of suburban housewives. War over.

Alright, so I finally get my piddly frames, and then proceed to line up. That is, as soon as find the end of the line. How many yards away from the basket is a three-point shot? Okay, that's where the end of the line was. And of course, I get behind the surliest, cheapest, complainingest yakety yak yak mother and daughter you can imagine. I am not kidding you when I say they reduced the cashier to tears, berating her for not discounting their Neutrogena Rain Bath twenty-five percent. When the cashier did leave the register, they acted all huffy and indignant, yakety yak yakking their flappy little rain-bathed jaws until I thought they might get tired and need a nap. No such luck.

The manager came out to take care of them, while they continued their assault on the character of the other cashier. Finally, the woman behind me looked right at me, seemed to know what I was thinking, and we both spoke up to the manager. We told her very nicely that the cashier did nothing wrong, that Cruella and Ursula were icky from the get-go, and we would have left them there, too. The Grinch wouldn't hang out with those chicks. Santa, they're definitely on the "naughty" list. Take note.

So I finally get out of the store, where I am then stranded in the parking lot for a half hour. Traffic jam. Ho ho ho. Honk honk honk from the people around me, convinced that the Middle Finger of Diplomacy would get them out of there much faster. Eh. I turned off my car after a few minutes of gridlock, flipped on NPR's Car Talk, and enjoyed myself as well as I could. Luckily, there are always a few books in the car, so I caught up on some reading. Periodically looked out the window at all the angry people with bulging head veins, big bags, and a cell phone stuck to one red, angry ear. Confirming prices. Getting directions. Mapping their shopping strategy.

The turkey was barely cold.