Back to the ghetto grocery store. I realized this afternoon that I was out of some necessary items to make Carolina Bar-b-que for dinner. I took a quick gander in the mirror to assess my leaving the house appearance. Having mostly dried from Senior Splash water aerobics this morning, my hair had acquired a chlorine-stiff-wayward quality as it tried valiantly to escape from its tightly bound scrunchy. (Yes, scrunchy. Just like you're thinking) My high school gym shorts peeked out from beneath my XXL t-shirt which bore the words "Delta Chi Beer Traffic" with the three Budweiser frogs emblazoned beneath and my massive stomach poking them out further. I won't even mention the lack of make up and jewelry, with the exception of the green band of stain which encircles my wedding finger from the cheap fake ring I bought. As I checked my face for chocolate remnants and rubbed my hand thoughtfully along the patch of leg fur that I missed shaving, I decided it was a day for the ghetto grocery, not the Kroger.
I slipped on my flip flops with the band of flowers hanging off one side. (The string came dislodged at a football game about a year ago and I affixed them with a wad of chewed gum. It's losing its stickiness.) Upon arrival to the grocery store, I trotted inside and procured my bounty: Saltines, baked beans, and apple cider vinegar. It was while standing at the cash register awaiting my turn that I thought of something I wanted to write about on my blog: older people who believe that are using cool jargon, but really said jargon is about ten years old.
Now, I know this is becoming a rambly post because now I'm intermixing my white trash self with my ghetto grocery store and defending my right to call it that all while slandering old people with dumb jargon, but bear with me.
From the register beside mine, I heard a decidedly older voice declare loudly, "Oh girl! Been there, done that, got the t-shirt!" and laugh uproariously with herself. I quickly imagined what I thought she might look like before peeking over that way. Femullet? Yup. Sweat pants? Check. Muffin top peeking over band of sweats? Absolutely. The one thing I didn't peg was the impressive advanced stage of her femullet: it also had a descending rat tail at the bottom of the mullet part. Wowza. I rolled my eyes inwardly at her statement and turned back to my cider/cracker/bean venture. It wasn't five seconds before I heard a high five slap behind me and and loud "You GO girl!" accompany it. Argh. My cringing was reaching painful levels.
I'm trying to think of other phrases that fall into this category that bugs me. I don't know why it bugs me. Why should I care if Mullety Muffin Top wants to say these things? I can't explain it. It's just the way I am.
Other phrases that come to mind are:
Don't have a cow, man.
Way! (no way)
It's your birthday!
If you can think of more that fall into this category, please humor me. In the meantime, I think I have significantly established my right to call my grocery store ghetto, as I live right by it and seem to fall into place seamlessly while shopping there. So, please, no comments about my use of ghetto.