But I was alone yesterday and weird bad suff happens when I’m alone and, well, I threw my back out. My side back. My side. Yeah. What is that? My lats? I pulled a lat. Is that how you say it? “Yo. I pulled a lat, mannn.” And it kinda hoits. I was moving a large bookcase by myself — because, of course, MB was not home and I do weird and/or stupid things when he leaves me, like a puppy that shouldn’t be left alone or something — and, anyway, all was going well and the bookcase does look better where it is now, but an hour after that, in minute 26 of my trampoline workout, to be precise, something went Uhm, OWWWWW! and I was hobbled and crippled and collapsed in a bouncy sweaty lump on top of the mat. So now I’m lying here on the sofa hopped up on Doan’s back pain pills — which really must be just for the BACK back because they are doing nothing for my SIDE back, my lats, yo, and really, the picture on the Doan’s box of the topless dude holding his painful painful back doesn’t inspire much hope. “Take these pills and grab your back in sudden, clutching pain. Also, be constipated. GOOD LUCK, yo!”
So since I’m on a whiney roll here and MB is gone again — after having given me strict orders that I’m allowed to do nothing, absolutely nothing — may I vent, please, about some recent niggling incidents and comments at Boheme? Because it’s always the small stuff that pushes you over the edge.
All right. Commence venting:
The other day, I was bringing an ashtray out to the patio for one of my regular customers. So, you know, thank you, and words like that, right? Nope. He looked at me and said, in front of the whole table, “Oh. I see more grey in your hair now. Is this job that stressful?”
I just stared at him. A not-nice stare, actually. A glare. I could feel it in my eyebrows. And I couldn’t think of anything to say. I think I always expect people to behave better than they do and I’m perpetually shocked when they don’t, so it paralyzes me. Or something.
Finally, I said, drily, “Oh, gosh. Thank you for noticing.” I plopped the ashtray down, turned on my heel, and got back to work.
The next day, Ginger Pervy — remember him? — who witnessed this exchange attempted to apologize for his friend, because Ginger Pervy is a Southern gentleman from Georgia with that smooth molasses drawl they have and oh, besides, he “doesn’t want to die an ***hole.” So he says to me, “I wanna apologiiize for my friennnd. I don’t thiiink he meannnt to be offensivvve about your haaair. It’s not noticeable at all in the shaaaade, but it’s realllly noticeable in the sunlight.”
Oh, gosh, Ginger Pervy. Thank you for that apology. I mean, it really means, well, absolutely nothing to me. First of all, I think that people should make their own apologies; just not a fan of apologies by proxy. Also, dude, that wasn’t an apology. I mean, why dontcha, while the knife is still in there, go ahead and give it a nice ginger-gentlemanly twist?
*****
Continue venting:
Dude came in, ordered a parmesan bagel, toasted, cream cheese AND butter. Fine. There was only one parmesan bagel left because they are yummo-licious and MB and I eat most of them, frankly. (There’s that ol’ business sense of mine rearing its ugly head again.) So this last lonely parmesan bagel had the pastry tag stuck in it, a little metal pronged dealio with the name and price attached to it. Because that’s the way the reeeal classsy places do it, you see. And when I took the bagel out, I took the tag out, and the bagel had two teeny holes, as if it had been bitten by a bagel vampire, but no big deal. I mean, I did not wipe my nose with the bagel or shove it in my armpits or my underpants, tho’ I do fight that temptation daily. Still, the dude looked at the bagel, wrinkled his nose, and said, “So you’re gonna give me the one with the holes in it?”
“Well, most likely. It IS the only one left.”
“Oh.”
“Do you still want it, holes and all?”
Heavy sigh.
“Okaaay.”
*****
And end venting, for now:
See the little rat dog in this picture?
(Never mind the long-haired dude squatting down with the dog; he’s not the dog’s owner and I prefer never to speak of this person. Although I’m sure I will at some point. Blech. BLECH.)
But the little devil rat dog is now regularly POOING out on the bamboo patio. Yup. Leaving tiny milk dud dookies out there, amongst the bamboo — which her owner does not clean up. No, he leaves them behind for us to discover, like last year’s Easter eggs, all shriveled and brown and stinky.
We hates her and her owner.
On #1 – even before the hair comment, I have to say I have REAL ISSUES when someone asks you to do something, you do it, and then they don’t thank you.
Yeah, I know. It’s one of the little ways in which I am judgey. But I so often (not just in my teaching career) see people who ask for some kind of special treatment, and then when they get it, they act like it was their Divine Right to make the other person go and do that thing for them.
(I REALLY hate it in a busy restaurant, where the waitress is already being driven crazy, and some person who is apparently blind to the crush of humanity that’s already in there needs to special-order fifteen different things, and then ask for his table to be moved because the light’s in his eyes…)
And also on the “oooohhhhhhkkkkaaaayyyy.” Dude – be happy that you got there in time to get the last bagel!
As for the devil-dog, I’d suggest a fast-acting poison, but that would probably cause trouble. (For two years one of the neighbor’s cats used to come and have – uh, the trots – in my yard. It was nasty and horrible and impossible to clean up. Normally I feel bad when I see a cat hit by a car, but I have to admit in that case, when that cat got creamed, I didn’t feel it so much.)
Perhaps Dookie and the Rat Dog ought to be gently reminded that the Health Department could fine you for their misbehavior – something along the lines of, “If we get fined for what that dog does, I’m billing you for it.”
Either that, or some yummy chocolate macaroons that just happened to accidentally and not intentionally drop next to Rat Dog in the most unfortunate happenstance.
Bagel dude needs to chill. Bagels already come with a hole, so what’s two more little ones?
And my cat could beat up that ratdog. With one paw tied behind her speckled back.
I hope your back feels better soon, tracey!
ricki — Yeah, the fast-acting poison. I’ve thought of that. I could be like Jerry from “The Zoo Story,” who has an epic monologue where he talks about poisoning his neighbor’s dog. And wouldn’t that be neato!
NF — Great idea!
Kate — Thank you so much. And I would so enjoy watching your cat beat up stupid Lola, the rat dog.
ricki, schadenfreude is its own reward in’it? *contented sigh*
milk dud dookies [heh] are the worst. Collect them all in a little baggie and give them to the owner next time he/she poops — er, pops — in. “Excuse me, I think you left something on my patio.”
P.S. As soon as I read the title of the post… I knew. You’re a mess, girl! (That the Southern way of saying, “You loveable little scamp, you!”) I love these stories. Something just gets in your brain and says, “Hmmmm…. I could take all the furniture and turn it upside down and cover it in homemade paper. Yeah…”
And have you noticed how many escapades involve furniture? *chuckle* What’s that about? Too funny.
argh, trace, where do you find these people? they need a smackdown.
WG — I’m a total nutjob. It’s like I act out or something when left to my own devices. Really, just bolt the furniture down and move me into the nursing home NOW. I’m a total wiener.
But a funny wiener… 😉