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pigs feet, boobs Just now in grocery store: me leaving tuna aisle, an old man. "Excuse me? Excuse me? Could you help me?" I walked to him. "Could you help me find the pigs feet?" I wasn't sure I'd heard right. "Pigs feet?" "Yeah, pigs feet. Some of us eat them. I've looked and looked and can't see them. They should be here, this is the canned meat aisle, isn't it?" I looked at the shelves, didn't see any pigs feet. "Pigs feet in a can?" "In a jar, in a glass jar, it should say Hormel." I spotted the jars of pigs feet on the bottom shelf, reached for one... I was holding a jar of pigs feet. I handed it to him. "Ewwwww." "Oh stop that." We laughed. It was a good-humored exchange. I began to worry that he'd felt like I was criticizing his choice of food. I wasn't, I don't care if he eats pigs feet - what else are they going to do with the feet? Throw them away? I'm glad the pigs feet get put in glass jars for old men to buy and eat. - I just don't want to eat pigs feet myself. I hope he didn't go home to his old man house sad. He seemed jovial enough. I was wearing all black. In other news, I may have to tape my boobs for the half marathon this weekend - I got in the shower Saturday morning after the running group (nine miles, very nice) and discovered that it had happened again - sort of - not a blister but almost a blister. It happens when I go more than eight miles, I guess. Sports bras suck - my boobs aren't even that big. In fact they're quite notbig. Stupid.
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