I had to make a late-night dash to the grocery store (why do these stores have to close the entrance I always manage to park by? Why can’t all entrances be open at 10 p.m. when I arrive?) and I’ll tell you, I didn’t realize it but I started grooving in the aisles when I heard Stevie Nicks come on over the loudspeaker. Damn, I forgot how good she can make a girl feel.
I have a history of grocery-store groovin’. Mom was dating a store owner/manager/pussy boy one time, and I hated him. He looked like something Buster Poindexter and Frankenstein had given birth to. He drove a little red Corvette, which he loved almost as much as he loved himself. Community members speculated that he’d probably be buried in it.
He was so cheap, a date with him would mean splitting a salad. Which is probably why he never invited me along on any dates with my mom, not that I could look at his bouffant with a straight face. I swear, he had bolts in his neck. His name was Bill — I always called him Buster, Billy Bouff(ant) and Billy Bolts. My grandmother used to just call him Cheap Motherfucker. That worked. 😉
Anyway, when we were in his store, I think the song was “Marry Me Bill” that came on over the loudspeaker. And I dropped everything (I might have been 16 or 18 at the time) from my hands and started doing fan kicks down the aisle in time to the song. All I know is that somewhere, there’s a videotape of me dancing, and everyone looked at me funny everytime I went in there.
Didn’t bother me a bit. Mom was mortified, but admittedly,
I’d never seen her laugh so hard. Hopefully the audio caught me singing, “DON’T Marry Her, Billllllllllll!!!!” because that was the best part!