If they don’t want me to tango in the market, why do they play the music?
And why do they think it’s necessary to call the authorities?
The audacity. How can one not boogie with our basket when the music moves us?
I once met a man in the fresh produce department, and we disco danced over to frozen foods. If it wasn’t for that uptight sheriff, we’d still be defrosting together.
It’s difficult to dance to the “Saturday Night Fever” theme song in handcuffs, as my former partner and cell mate can attest and knows better than anyone since the hand movements are essential to our choreography.
I’ve switched to food delivery after my incarceration and (not to brag; please do not be envious of my status) I am a Prime member. I know, I know; life isn’t fair, but I happen to be extremely prime.
So usually I dance as soon as I see the Amazon delivery guy, but he drives away too quickly. Why I bothered to wear my glittery bodice top hat and tutu is a good question. Frustrating!
Perhaps when I become a celebrity and then start to fade into semi-oblivion, I’ll go on “Dancing With the Stars.” If I win, I will thank or demean Vons, Stater Bros, Ralphs, Sprouts, Mothers, Whole Foods, but not my one true love, Trader Joe’s, the only market, thus far, that has not had me arrested. And they have free food samples I need after my extraordinary performance in the spice aisles. Bless T. Joe.
Usually, my delivery guy makes his getaway quickly and leaves all the packages next to the door.
Except for that one time when he knocked. I thought at last I’d have an in-house dance partner. Alas, no. Apparently, because I had ordered a liter of champagne as a gift for my friend’s anniversary, he ridiculously needed my ID to prove I wasn’t underage and too young to purchase alcohol.
Aside from the fact that I live in this restricted senior community, where the minimum age is 55, and my face has more wrinkles than a shirt left in a dryer for decades, he…
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