I enjoy breakfast at a good dive every now and again. I don’t need linen napkins, ceramic coffee cups, or an attentive wait staff. Periodically I can endure the “uncivilized” for a good piece of bacon. One of my favorite spots to hob nob with the “plain folk” is the Double Barrel. On a recent pop in, it seemed the patrons were more colorful then usual. At the table behind my boyfriend sat a mother and daughter, the daughter carrying a baby basket with a new human in it. From what I could overhear, they were arguing about what a loser the baby daddy was. To the right side of me was a table of old guys who looked like Lyle the chicken farmer from Napoleon Dynamite. (Please go the the Lyle link for the perfect visual.) They were hygiene challenged, missing many teeth, as well as leathery and weathered. Their booming voices suggested they were all hearing impaired. They were having their own version of coffee talk, and enjoying their chat. Up trots the waitress with her side-swept eighties ponytail held together with a green scrunchy, and the appropriate amount of flair for the upcoming St. Patrick’s Day celebration. She poured the group of “Lyle’s” a fresh cup of coffee and asked if they would like to hear a joke. She made no attempt to mute her brazen voice so she didn’t offend any of the surrounding customers, but proceeded in full bravado. “What do you call a homosexual in a wheelchair?” The Lyle’s look puzzled. “Rolaids!!!” She laughs at her own joke. Before the Lyle’s had a chance to digest the homo joke they just heard, she started joke number two. By that time I was in full on, red faced, throw down the napkin, offended mode. At the same time I was questioning if humor from 1991 was funny, or completely ghastly, I hear the punch line of the second joke. My rage made me foggy when the words “butt-load of semen” came out of her mindless chapped lips. The Lyle’s had not a clue what the jokes meant, and didn’t even offer up a courtesy laugh. But, our unpolished waitress was proud of herself.

I am not the demographic that Hot Topic is aiming towards. But, once in a while I have to venture in there to get my Hello Kitty fix. I was rifling through the bargain bin, trying to block out the noise of the music. There was a girl next to me with piercings and colored hair. (I am not the kind of old lady who is offended by the floppy haired punks.) I hear this girl say, “I can’t wait until Sunday.” I ignored her, and went on with my business of ransacking the sale items. She says it again, “I can’t wait until Sunday.” I dismiss her again, hoping I can avoid a conversation if I don’t look directly at her. She decided to try another route, “I like your shoes.” Dammit, she got me. I said, “Thank You.” Then like a broken record I hear, “I can’t wait until Sunday.” I take the bait. “What is on Sunday?” She proceeds to tell me it will be her 14th birthday, and she is getting her tongue pierced. My thought was, “Wow, your Mom is going to let you do that?” She said, “My Mom is paying for it.” I had to wait until I was 16 to get my ears pierced. Even then my Mom thought I wouldn’t take care of them, they would get infected, fill with pus and fall off. This was a little girls tongue we are talking about! Our little rap session continues with the 13 year old telling me her boyfriend was mad at her. I ask why. “Because I think I am pregnant and he wants me to keep the baby.” Ahhhhhhhh, I see. That could be a problem. Her friend from the dressing room yells, “You are keeping the f***ing baby!” To which my new little friend said, “Yeah, but you were older when you had your first one.” I soon found out that the 19 year old trying on the whore corset was on her 3rd kid.

Lesson is, never ask somebody why they can’t wait until Sunday.

I was making one of my weekly stops to the local St. Vincent De Paul store. I always seem to find a treasure there. It is expected that you have to file through alot of smelly, dirty things before you find the prize that you want to take home. The hunt is part of the fun. When I entered the side door, I was surprised to see the staff in hustle mode. (No offense, but they are never in high gear.) I looked around and noticed that glasses were aligned on the shelf, clothes were straightened, and things were organized. I couldn’t stand it, I HAD to ask. “Why is everything looking so uncluttered and fresh?” The woman told me they were cleaning for the people who will be traveling here for the C.M. Russell Art Auction. At first I thought, that is smart for a business to freshen up for tourists. Next thought…are people who fly here from cities to don their Stetson hats, Tony Lama’s and Wrangler’s for one weekend a year going to run to the local Vinny’s store? They come here to spend thousands on works of art, yet they want to touch all the second hand, chipped merchandise from a junk store? It is nice the crew at St. Vincent’s were making the effort, but c’mon, really?

Admittedly, I am not sure why I started a blog. I’m not trying to sell anything, I don’t have a target audience, and I don’t have any special talents with secrets that I would like to share with the world. What I do have is a big mouth and an opinion. You don’t get 50 hours of detention in 9th grade for sitting quietly at your desk and being attentive in class. I figure if people can write about what they ate for lunch, how to knit a sweater, or their screaming children, I can share my own musings. I was talking to somebody who dropped the hint that I might want to tell my close friends how to locate my blog. Hopefully, they will show up here, and with any luck leave some smart ass comment. It felt like the “hint” should have been accompanied with a special pat on the head. They were quietly saying, “Awwww, poor newbie, nobody will ever visit your blog.” I got the same look from my Mother when I was dressed like an ear of corn for an ice skating show. When she gave me a pat on the head it was saying, “Awwww, poor honey, you will never make the Olympics, but it was a nice effort.” Just for that, I am determined that somebody, ANYBODY will drop by here and read my ramblings. I might eventually find my niche. If not, it will just be another thing in my long list of stupid that I have attempted. To the Master Blogger with the hint, you know who you are, with attitude I say, “WHATEVER!”

Out of support for a fellow Montanan, I thought I would give Zipfizz Energy Drink a try. My first shot of the Citrus flavor made me pucker. My only justification for finishing the drink was out of necessity. I was fighting off the burn of super duper hotty sauce on my burrito. I can safely say my Zipfizz experience was tainted by my flaming hot sauce lips. So…I gave it another crack. This time in Berry. I was awaiting the euphoric, energetic feeling I had read about. Wait for it…wait for it…nothing. My best descriptive word for the taste is ick. It has a slight medicinal taste, with a hint of kool-aid (minus the sugar). I couldn’t finish it without making a face every time I sipped. On the positive side, I don’t hate their packaging. It is admirable that a local boy is making millions and can now afford new teeth, a Hummer, and a wife with big fake boobs. More power to him. I wish I could say that I was endorsing the product, but I can’t give phony approval. I won’t be trying it again, no matter how much B-12 I can get out of it.

I have been watching commercials for the new Fox TV show “Unhitched.” I was eagerly awaiting the premiere for one very specific reason…a monkey. There is NOTHING in the world that makes me giggle more than a hairy primate dressed in Baby Gap. In every “Unhitched” commercial they featured a cuddly Orangutan. They knew exactly what they were doing, they got me to watch. I sat through a painfully horrible show to see a few short minutes of the monkey! On top of that, I am quite sure that the fuzzy orange creature is never to return! Without him, I don’t think there is a reason to watch a less than mediocre show. I am going to stick to my Friday night favorite Orangutan Island. They don’t wear clothes, but they certainly have personality. Gone are the days of my all time TV monkey fav BJ and the Bear.