Engagered Checkout Clerks

I loathe the Self Checkout machines at my supermarket. Because I live in a highly populated area, they are usually the only lanes without 15 people already queued up in them every time I visit the grocery store. (Why I bother shopping at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday when I still have to wait behind a half-blind old woman paying with 47 coupons, I'll never know...)

I hate the invention of the Self Checkout for many reasons:

1. These machines are not more convenient. Even if I have only three things to purchase, invariably one of these items "Does Not Have a Barcode" and I have to call over the Self Checkout Checker to punch in the mysterious produce code that only they have memorized. 
2. The weighted bagging system (meant to deter the theft of organic Fuji apples, I'm sure) is always yelling at me because I either have or haven't placed my items on the scale at the appropriate point of the checkout procedure. Today, for instance, I placed my bunch o' bananas on the scale, and the machine said, "Would you like to skip bagging for this item?" Well, this made me very confused, since I had already placed said bananas in a bag. So, I removed them from the scale and into my cart, upon which the machine rudely yelled, "Item removed! Wait for assistance!" I had to look around abashedly for the Checker to come to my aid for the second time in one transaction...
3. I have no clue how to efficiently bag my own groceries. Pimple-faced teens have been joylessly doing this job for me my entire life, and as a 30-year old, I have no desire to replace them at this task. Even with a college degree, I cannot seem to figure out how to pack my groceries into any less than 17 plastic bags. And even with my perishables carefully separated, my gallon of milk will invariably break half a dozen eggs by the time I get them home. (I think it may be collaborating with the jarred pickles and canned corn, ganging up on the defenseless tomatoes as soon as I shut my trunk...)
4. I enjoy receiving good customer service. I especially like my neighborhood Vons for the excellent customer service the Checkers provide. Most of these people have worked at this same store for the entire 5 years I've shopped there, and they are always extremely helpful and pleasant. I even got a free pineapple once because the Checker thought I would like to try it first to make sure I liked it!

In conclusion, it's not Self Checkout if you need to call over a Checker at least 3 times during your transaction. Today that's exactly how many times Ed, the Self Checkout Checker (get the oxymoron?), had to type in his top secret management code for me to finish my transaction. And imagine if I was buying booze! For the love of Ed, let's do away with these ridiculous machines, and put in another good old-fashioned Checkout Lane! It will provide more jobs for wonderful, trained supermarket employees. And I can go back to spending my time reading gossip magazines. Because what else are you to do while waiting for that damn woman in front of you to cut out all of her coupons... By the way, did you hear that Courtney Cox and David Arquette split up?

You never take me dancing anymore.

It was like standing on the brink of a pit full of snakes. You couldn't tell one from another, just writhing bodies--heads, arms, hands, mouths--one blending into another like a huge, rabid organism. And this thing was hungry. Starving. Grooving, spinning, pumping, needing to be fed. You are helpless to disobey. It sucks you in, and your arms, hands, head, mouth become entwined with others. You lose yourself, but gain thousands of mismatched parts. Your left hand, once slim-fingered, now boasts heavy gold rings. Your right leg now wears fishnet while your left is sheathed in shiny black leather. Your torso is hard, black skin, muscles flexing under a straining ribbed t-shirt. Your hair remains your own, now stringy and slick with sweat. A hand constantly moves in front your eyes (you think they're still your own), though they serve no purpose but to spin colors into your brain--a crazed kaleidoscope fucking with your balance. Luckily, hands, biceps, six-packed stomachs thrust against you and keep you upright. Your rhythm is its rhythm, kept going by the master, the man with the music. A pause between songs could kill this thing, so one beat flows into the next, through and around each other, flirting & twisting, so you keep dancing. Though by now, you haven't been dancing for hours. You've been fucking. It's a barely-clothed, sweaty, gleaming, gnashing its teeth & grinding its hips orgy. It doesn't stop until the music stops. And then, not silence...

Breathing. Loud, wet panting. A deep guttural sigh of satisfaction.

Taking Flight

My pits are damp before they even open the door of the plane to throw us pasty white sun worshippers out onto the sticky tarmac. I didn't talk to anyone the past two hours, reveling in the flight's half-emtiness. I am a recluse on an airplane--my aluminum sanctuary. No one can touch me up here. At 30,000 feet, I am unclaimed. Not employee, not girlfriend, not roommate, not daughter.

I could be anyone.
Just Seat 16A.

Romance with a bass beat

How do you spend Valentine’s Day when you’re in your 20s (mid-20s technically…for another 11 days)? You go to the biggest, loudest club in town to see a world-renowned DJ (obviously).

A far cry from last year's candle-lit corner table in an Italian restaurant, I instead ventured downtown to Stingaree to spend the evening grinding to eardrum-busting beats by Paul Oakenfold. Although working in the club has gotten old, the perks do come in handy—velvet ropes mean nothing when the doorman comes over to your house to watch football every Sunday.

At one point during the set, I must have caught Oakenfold's eye because he winked at me. I gave him a slight nod, then walked back to my boyfriend at the bar (as the men and women crushed next to the DJ booth swooned).

It always amazes me how people will drool over anyone with the slightest bit of fame. Oakenfold truly knows how to get a crowd riled up, but unfortunately his talents to not extend to the fashion department. This uber DJ looks like a troll who’s in dire need of a haircut (and a lengthy shower at that). I doubt any stylist received a heart-shaped box of chocolate from this man today.

For Bionda, the beat goes on...nnz nzz nzz.

On hiatus...

For all 1 of you who religiously read this blog (thank you Uncle Carl) I wanted to write an apology of sorts for not contributing to this glorious effort of literary wit more often.

I'm sorry I don't write more often.

There... I hope this makes up for months of vacuous space instead of a fabulous recount of my fabulous life. Like the tale of my redneck Christmas spent shootin' guns and blazin' trails in the woods of New Hampshire. Or tips on how to hypnotize a lobster before murdering it in a fiery pot of death (Maine lobsters, they truly are more delicious!). Or how I should be writing 3 articles for the next issue of San Diego Premier Magazine instead of typing away on this blog as act of attrition to my loyal fan(s).

Until next time, please find the byline in the masthead a stimulating substitute.

Yours,

Bionda