Yeah, it's a continuation of the other post. And it is creeping me out. Seriously.
I've been thinking about it, and I think it's more the fact that people were deliberately coming to talk to me--about good things, and offering to give me their real names and phone numbers. That's NEVER happened before, not in 41 years. I've never BEEN the person others seek out(seek to avoid, yes. seek out? never.) I always figured nobody would ever volunteer to line up to see me unless I was dead, and they were in line to be sure that I really was.
And now, it seems that I am one of those people that others actively seek out.
It's a crazy little head-rush, it is.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
This Is What a Month of The Snots Does
My Sweetie and I have both been sick since just before Christmas. If it weren't for being alive, we'd be feeling better by now.
I've already ranted about HIM, so let me tell you about US.
Friday, I was so tired I couldn't focus my eyes. I was crumpled on the couch, trying to watch (and hear) the TV. I don't watch much TV, because, well, most of what interests me does not interest my beloved, and he has this delightful man-way of making it impossible to watch anything.
Which is, after all, a good thing, because most of what is on TV is drivel.
But when you're miserable sick, and too tired to focus your eyes, the TV is a beautiful thing. It's distracting, especially if you're watching a Lifetime sapfest or a drivelly sitcom.
The Howler who very much understands grumpy sick Mommy was kind enough to not be shrieking and whining. My Sweetie, who is stressed from work, decides that this would be a good time to pick up the 500 thousand billion pieces of clutter about the house.
The Howler decides she needs the skin peeled off her apple (it was cuter when she would ask us to "cut the crusts off" her apples, but I digress.) I state, loudly, I'll do it on a commercial. He was in the room when I said it.
My Sweetie, who demands a lot of attention, especially if I'm involved in something that he does not find interesting or fulfilling (TV, computer, reading) decides that this is the PERFECT time to ask me about a box that is sitting under the corner shelf--it's been there for 2 solid weeks, and he hasn't thought about it in all that time, either.
So I get mad. Mostly because my head hurts and like any wild animal, pain puts me into claw and bite mode over everything.
I get the crustful apple and take it to the kitchen for decrusting. He follows me, saying repeatedly, "Honey, I said I'd do that." I ignore him, because everything I can think to say to him involves imbedding the decrusting knife somewhere in his body while reciting the F-bomb over and over.
(I should explain here that on the disagreement/fight thing, we do pretty well. If angry, we wait until the anger has subsided a bit, and ALWAYS remember that words, once out, can't be taken back. Even with unpleasant, personal things, we are always careful to treat each other respectfully and lovingly. We BOTH protect our relationship diligently--especially carefully when one, or both, of us is angry. We're careful, but we're honest. There's no silent, submissive, handle with kid-gloves partner here, though.)
A short time later, we discuss this, and being adults, we come to the conclusion that the TV has got to go. It's drivel, and it's a problem. We, the people paying for it, do not get to enjoy it, and therefore, it must go. (We're only half serious in this.)
We discuss how, in the past 8 years, I have been "allowed" to watch exactly ONE TV show regularly whether he liked it or not. Since the end of that, I have been allowed to watch zillions of hours of Spongebob and the Fairly Odd Parents (which I mostly hate, btw) without censure, but if it's a grown-up program of any sort, or worse, a sitcom that amuses me for any reason, I am not to watch it. (and if I get to actually watch it, I'm not allowed to hear it.) He and the Howler are in cohoots on this. It's been HER diabolical plot since the day of her birth. (The funniest part of that is then, Saturday evening, he announces that he's going to go buy an HDTV. While complaining that he doesn't get to watch the TV we currently have. Go figure.)
My Sweetie (bless his heart) will go so far as to get on the phone and have a very loud conversation with his hearing-aidless father while sitting right next to me. He will decide to clear out clutter, rearrange furniture, discuss budgetary issues, question the filing system, and make grocery lists all while in the room with me.
If I remove myself from the main living area room TV, and relocate to a more private, less accessible room in the house, he will FOLLOW ME THERE. He will increase his volume and the need for my vital input. And it's all done DURING THE PROGRAM. Play a jingle or flash to a logo, and WHAMMO! He's silent. Most of TV viewing is of commercials (the drivelliest drivel.)
Then he will be offended and confused when I finally shut off the TV and commence doing something else (usually, when I'm totally angry, cleaning--mostly filing and throwing things out--is a really good release.) He'll then try to placate the angry beast confronting him.
In time, he has improved on his use of the telephone during these times, but what that really means is that he relies, instead, on his unfailing need to clean, straighten, or otherwise purge the house of clutter.
I will admit that it is, in part, my fault. Especially if I'm on the computer, trying to write something (for a blog, or my pleasure, or even as part of my mission from God.) I was in a slump when we met, and began this thing called us, and in all honesty, until recently, it hasn't been all that important.
It's become important again, and even by repeatedly trying to explain and share, because it's not HIS interest and not important to HIM, it's relegated to NON-IMPORTANCE.
Quite honestly, I resent that HIS interests are important, and vital, and mine are, well, classified as "dicking off." I acknowledge I do quite a bit of this "dicking off" anyway, but at the same time, he cannot, even if I spell it out for him, using brightly colored visual aids and charts, determine that what I'm doing is important to me.
I love him, and I can't say it often enough: I have it really really good with him. I don't have to do much by way of housework. I don't have to do much by way of laundry. I work parttime. I get to "dick off" several hours a week, no questions asked. Whatever I want (within reason and budget) I have--including unnecessary office supplies like white-out and multicolored markers, paper and paperclips.
But I do resent what feels very much as if my interests--if they are outside of his interests--are secondary, and are always considered part of my "dicking off." Even if it's the mission from God stuff--which means that if it involves a book, or the computer, it's "dicking off."
No, he doesn't beat me. No, he doesn't verbally abuse me or belittle me. He doesn't really belittle what interests me. He just can't recognize it, see it, accept it as important.
Like I said, eight years ago, there were things about me that weren't important at the time. Now, they're growing in importance again, and he can't seem to wrap his head around the changes.
I don't want to fight with him, but I don't want to give up those things (again) and I really don't believe that I should have to make this kind of choice.
I've already ranted about HIM, so let me tell you about US.
Friday, I was so tired I couldn't focus my eyes. I was crumpled on the couch, trying to watch (and hear) the TV. I don't watch much TV, because, well, most of what interests me does not interest my beloved, and he has this delightful man-way of making it impossible to watch anything.
Which is, after all, a good thing, because most of what is on TV is drivel.
But when you're miserable sick, and too tired to focus your eyes, the TV is a beautiful thing. It's distracting, especially if you're watching a Lifetime sapfest or a drivelly sitcom.
The Howler who very much understands grumpy sick Mommy was kind enough to not be shrieking and whining. My Sweetie, who is stressed from work, decides that this would be a good time to pick up the 500 thousand billion pieces of clutter about the house.
The Howler decides she needs the skin peeled off her apple (it was cuter when she would ask us to "cut the crusts off" her apples, but I digress.) I state, loudly, I'll do it on a commercial. He was in the room when I said it.
My Sweetie, who demands a lot of attention, especially if I'm involved in something that he does not find interesting or fulfilling (TV, computer, reading) decides that this is the PERFECT time to ask me about a box that is sitting under the corner shelf--it's been there for 2 solid weeks, and he hasn't thought about it in all that time, either.
So I get mad. Mostly because my head hurts and like any wild animal, pain puts me into claw and bite mode over everything.
I get the crustful apple and take it to the kitchen for decrusting. He follows me, saying repeatedly, "Honey, I said I'd do that." I ignore him, because everything I can think to say to him involves imbedding the decrusting knife somewhere in his body while reciting the F-bomb over and over.
(I should explain here that on the disagreement/fight thing, we do pretty well. If angry, we wait until the anger has subsided a bit, and ALWAYS remember that words, once out, can't be taken back. Even with unpleasant, personal things, we are always careful to treat each other respectfully and lovingly. We BOTH protect our relationship diligently--especially carefully when one, or both, of us is angry. We're careful, but we're honest. There's no silent, submissive, handle with kid-gloves partner here, though.)
A short time later, we discuss this, and being adults, we come to the conclusion that the TV has got to go. It's drivel, and it's a problem. We, the people paying for it, do not get to enjoy it, and therefore, it must go. (We're only half serious in this.)
We discuss how, in the past 8 years, I have been "allowed" to watch exactly ONE TV show regularly whether he liked it or not. Since the end of that, I have been allowed to watch zillions of hours of Spongebob and the Fairly Odd Parents (which I mostly hate, btw) without censure, but if it's a grown-up program of any sort, or worse, a sitcom that amuses me for any reason, I am not to watch it. (and if I get to actually watch it, I'm not allowed to hear it.) He and the Howler are in cohoots on this. It's been HER diabolical plot since the day of her birth. (The funniest part of that is then, Saturday evening, he announces that he's going to go buy an HDTV. While complaining that he doesn't get to watch the TV we currently have. Go figure.)
My Sweetie (bless his heart) will go so far as to get on the phone and have a very loud conversation with his hearing-aidless father while sitting right next to me. He will decide to clear out clutter, rearrange furniture, discuss budgetary issues, question the filing system, and make grocery lists all while in the room with me.
If I remove myself from the main living area room TV, and relocate to a more private, less accessible room in the house, he will FOLLOW ME THERE. He will increase his volume and the need for my vital input. And it's all done DURING THE PROGRAM. Play a jingle or flash to a logo, and WHAMMO! He's silent. Most of TV viewing is of commercials (the drivelliest drivel.)
Then he will be offended and confused when I finally shut off the TV and commence doing something else (usually, when I'm totally angry, cleaning--mostly filing and throwing things out--is a really good release.) He'll then try to placate the angry beast confronting him.
In time, he has improved on his use of the telephone during these times, but what that really means is that he relies, instead, on his unfailing need to clean, straighten, or otherwise purge the house of clutter.
I will admit that it is, in part, my fault. Especially if I'm on the computer, trying to write something (for a blog, or my pleasure, or even as part of my mission from God.) I was in a slump when we met, and began this thing called us, and in all honesty, until recently, it hasn't been all that important.
It's become important again, and even by repeatedly trying to explain and share, because it's not HIS interest and not important to HIM, it's relegated to NON-IMPORTANCE.
Quite honestly, I resent that HIS interests are important, and vital, and mine are, well, classified as "dicking off." I acknowledge I do quite a bit of this "dicking off" anyway, but at the same time, he cannot, even if I spell it out for him, using brightly colored visual aids and charts, determine that what I'm doing is important to me.
I love him, and I can't say it often enough: I have it really really good with him. I don't have to do much by way of housework. I don't have to do much by way of laundry. I work parttime. I get to "dick off" several hours a week, no questions asked. Whatever I want (within reason and budget) I have--including unnecessary office supplies like white-out and multicolored markers, paper and paperclips.
But I do resent what feels very much as if my interests--if they are outside of his interests--are secondary, and are always considered part of my "dicking off." Even if it's the mission from God stuff--which means that if it involves a book, or the computer, it's "dicking off."
No, he doesn't beat me. No, he doesn't verbally abuse me or belittle me. He doesn't really belittle what interests me. He just can't recognize it, see it, accept it as important.
Like I said, eight years ago, there were things about me that weren't important at the time. Now, they're growing in importance again, and he can't seem to wrap his head around the changes.
I don't want to fight with him, but I don't want to give up those things (again) and I really don't believe that I should have to make this kind of choice.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Sickos
For Christmas, my True Love blessed me with a cold. The Gift That Keeps On Giving.
Of course, what it means is that he gave me snot. Lots and lots of snot.
At this point, I'm tired. Tired of being sick. Tired of being tired. I'm TIRED. And sleep isn't something that I get much of, what with my Sweetie being who he is.
He'll be mortified (yet again) when I explain that he has been known to hump my leg in his sleep. He also touches me. And sometimes, when that's not annoying enough, he'll smack his lips and whimper in his sleep too. (In his defense, he likes me--really really really likes me, and that's good, but I'd prefer that he didn't like me so much when he's asleep. I feel guilty slugging him upside the head then.) He tells me I snore. Like that is justification for annoying the crap out of me when I'm sleeping.
Do you know how hard it is to sleep when someone is pawing at you? No? Well, it's really hard to get rest AND fight off the octopus, just so you know. And I'm grumpy when I wake up on a good morning--how grumpy, exactly can you imagine me? Yeah, well, add about 20 points to that, and that's what I am like on a not-good morning.
So, back to the Gift That Keeps On Giving. He gives me this cold. He starts to feel better, and we go to visit his parents. Mom the Saint and Dad of the Wood Burner and Sauna Temps. It's impossible for me to breathe there. And since I ain't breathing, I ain't sleeping well, either. So, I'm sick and miserable.
Then I start to feel better. And my True Love infects me again. Great, right? At least that means that I'm not ignoring him.
Yeah, well, I'm about to petition the courts for a reprieve. What crud do I have this time? Stuffed up head--mostly sinuses--that won't clear for DayQuil nor Robitussin. Cough that makes my stomach hurt and my eyes go blurry. My brain in a constant fog. And that's a good day. Vicks Vaporub is now my best friend.
This is about how much my True Love loves me.
Last night, I go to bed early (for me) and get comfy. I just start to drop off to sleep, and the stupid cat decides now is the time to come snuggle up. Once she gets settled, I start to drop off again. My True Love realizes in his sleep that I am there--and he rolls over, and ever-so-gently finds my face with his hand.
He gently places his hand over my one open sinus.
Sure, it doesn't last long (apparently his *DANGER* sensors work in his sleep, too.) But, my moment is now ruined.
I am awake.
So, I carefully shift positions (to not encourage above mentioned sleep touching) and I find that I have EXACTLY the amount of space my body, minus arms, would take up.
Between the cat, who ain't moving with a severe kick (and she'll be back, oh, yes, she will) and my True Love who has apparently decided that if the mucus doesn't suffocate me, he will.
He now has his boniest bone (and not the good one, btw) jammed into my spleen. To say I am uncomfortable is the epitome of understatement.
I get up. I wait 30 minutes, then stagger back up to bed.
He asks me if I'm okay. "Yes, I'm okay."
He asks me if I went to take something for my cold. "No. I did that before I came up to bed the first time."
"Were you looking for a stick to beat me with?"
"You AND the cat both, yes."
He tells me tonight that I am very bitchy.
Geez. I wonder why.
Of course, what it means is that he gave me snot. Lots and lots of snot.
At this point, I'm tired. Tired of being sick. Tired of being tired. I'm TIRED. And sleep isn't something that I get much of, what with my Sweetie being who he is.
He'll be mortified (yet again) when I explain that he has been known to hump my leg in his sleep. He also touches me. And sometimes, when that's not annoying enough, he'll smack his lips and whimper in his sleep too. (In his defense, he likes me--really really really likes me, and that's good, but I'd prefer that he didn't like me so much when he's asleep. I feel guilty slugging him upside the head then.) He tells me I snore. Like that is justification for annoying the crap out of me when I'm sleeping.
Do you know how hard it is to sleep when someone is pawing at you? No? Well, it's really hard to get rest AND fight off the octopus, just so you know. And I'm grumpy when I wake up on a good morning--how grumpy, exactly can you imagine me? Yeah, well, add about 20 points to that, and that's what I am like on a not-good morning.
So, back to the Gift That Keeps On Giving. He gives me this cold. He starts to feel better, and we go to visit his parents. Mom the Saint and Dad of the Wood Burner and Sauna Temps. It's impossible for me to breathe there. And since I ain't breathing, I ain't sleeping well, either. So, I'm sick and miserable.
Then I start to feel better. And my True Love infects me again. Great, right? At least that means that I'm not ignoring him.
Yeah, well, I'm about to petition the courts for a reprieve. What crud do I have this time? Stuffed up head--mostly sinuses--that won't clear for DayQuil nor Robitussin. Cough that makes my stomach hurt and my eyes go blurry. My brain in a constant fog. And that's a good day. Vicks Vaporub is now my best friend.
This is about how much my True Love loves me.
Last night, I go to bed early (for me) and get comfy. I just start to drop off to sleep, and the stupid cat decides now is the time to come snuggle up. Once she gets settled, I start to drop off again. My True Love realizes in his sleep that I am there--and he rolls over, and ever-so-gently finds my face with his hand.
He gently places his hand over my one open sinus.
Sure, it doesn't last long (apparently his *DANGER* sensors work in his sleep, too.) But, my moment is now ruined.
I am awake.
So, I carefully shift positions (to not encourage above mentioned sleep touching) and I find that I have EXACTLY the amount of space my body, minus arms, would take up.
Between the cat, who ain't moving with a severe kick (and she'll be back, oh, yes, she will) and my True Love who has apparently decided that if the mucus doesn't suffocate me, he will.
He now has his boniest bone (and not the good one, btw) jammed into my spleen. To say I am uncomfortable is the epitome of understatement.
I get up. I wait 30 minutes, then stagger back up to bed.
He asks me if I'm okay. "Yes, I'm okay."
He asks me if I went to take something for my cold. "No. I did that before I came up to bed the first time."
"Were you looking for a stick to beat me with?"
"You AND the cat both, yes."
He tells me tonight that I am very bitchy.
Geez. I wonder why.
Imagine This
This story is one that is better with a visual, but as I am am a techno-dummy sans video equipment, I won't be seeing you on You Tube with this.
Muttley. Do you know who that is? The dog that raced Penelope Pittstop. He'd giggle this weird little giggle and his shoulders would go up and down. Now, keep that image in your head, and times it by three.
Saturday was also the day of Muttley, Muttley & Muttley. I'm still at Returns, and these three small men (more like half-men than dwarves or elves) walk in. They stand in the aisle, staring this way, then that.
One approaches me. I can only assume he's in charge because he's the tallest--and that ain't saying much for him either. He mutters something about "chains and oil." and I ask him for more information. "My car, my car" he mutters.
M: We don't carry automotive supplies. Try KMart (points with right arm); Walmart (points with left arm) or Sears down at the Mall (points over back with right arm)
#1: Yeah, yeah. My car.
M: KMart (right arm); Walmart (left arm); or Sears down at the Mall (over back)
#1:
His cohorts stand in place for a full 5, then the next one walks up to me.
#2: Oil and chains?
M: For your car?
#2: nods head.
M: We don't carry automotive supplies. Try KMart (points with right arm); Walmart (points with left arm); or Sears down at the Mall (points over back with right arm)
Are you seeing the patterns here yet?
#2: Yeah yeah. My car.
M: KMart (right arm) Walmart (left arm) Sears down that Mall (over back)
He and the final cohort Muttley giggle some more then wander off. I see them hook up with #1 down by the self checkouts, and the approach someone else--someone I have not contacted in any way, and who, while sincere in his efforts, doesn't strike me as overly confident or brilliant in his job. Anyway, while I watch, I see his right arm, and his left arm going in much the same dance step I was doing just a few minutes ago.
How do I unsticky myself and stop this?
Muttley. Do you know who that is? The dog that raced Penelope Pittstop. He'd giggle this weird little giggle and his shoulders would go up and down. Now, keep that image in your head, and times it by three.
Saturday was also the day of Muttley, Muttley & Muttley. I'm still at Returns, and these three small men (more like half-men than dwarves or elves) walk in. They stand in the aisle, staring this way, then that.
One approaches me. I can only assume he's in charge because he's the tallest--and that ain't saying much for him either. He mutters something about "chains and oil." and I ask him for more information. "My car, my car" he mutters.
M: We don't carry automotive supplies. Try KMart (points with right arm); Walmart (points with left arm) or Sears down at the Mall (points over back with right arm)
#1: Yeah, yeah. My car.
M: KMart (right arm); Walmart (left arm); or Sears down at the Mall (over back)
#1:
His cohorts stand in place for a full 5, then the next one walks up to me.
#2: Oil and chains?
M: For your car?
#2:
M: We don't carry automotive supplies. Try KMart (points with right arm); Walmart (points with left arm); or Sears down at the Mall (points over back with right arm)
Are you seeing the patterns here yet?
#2: Yeah yeah. My car.
M: KMart (right arm) Walmart (left arm) Sears down that Mall (over back)
He and the final cohort Muttley giggle some more then wander off. I see them hook up with #1 down by the self checkouts, and the approach someone else--someone I have not contacted in any way, and who, while sincere in his efforts, doesn't strike me as overly confident or brilliant in his job. Anyway, while I watch, I see his right arm, and his left arm going in much the same dance step I was doing just a few minutes ago.
How do I unsticky myself and stop this?
Case In Point
Okay, so I really do attract the weirdos. And I can't, off hand, think of a movie (or book) that showcases the odd things that really do happen to me.
I had a boss once who said, "Mumple, your life is really weird. I don't know anybody else who has weird things happen to them like you do." She was right.
And seriously, I've tried to make this stuff up, and I can't.
Onto the points that make this case:
Saturday, I swapped with someone for about an hour. I was at Returns, which is Weirdness Hell. (It's also usually a Liar's Free-For-All, but Saturday was pretty quiet.)
I answered the phone. A non-familiar Voice says, "Are you open?"
Me: Yes. 7am to 9pm today.
V: Oh, I was wondering.
(Let me interject here that Saturday we got hammered by Mother Nature with snow and winds. We got somewhere between 8 and 12 inches of snow in about 12 hours. Not fun.)
M: Yes, we're open regular store hours: 7am to 9pm.
V: I'm blah blah blah and I work at blah blah blah next to you there. I was trying to decide if I should go to work or not. If you're open, they're probably open too. *sigh*
M: Yes. We're Open.
V: Okay, then. Thanks, bye.
Am I the only person on the planet who thinks this is weird? If I wanted to know if where I worked was open, I'd call there. Not a few doors down.
It reminds me of a few years ago when I answered the phone one morning at work and this idiot calls and wants to know the store hours--of the video store nearby. I patiently explain that she didn't call the video store, and she cuts me off and says, "I know that. They're not open yet. I wanted to know if you knew their hours."
Color me stupid, but at 7:30am on any given morning, I am not the most awake nor the most aware person on the planet, so I told her that I wasn't even sure there was a video store there. She didn't know the name of it either--apparently that was my job that day too.
And along those lines, but not involving the phone, several years ago, I also had a man asking me questions about what the dollar store carried. I told him several times, "I don't know. I don't work there. I never worked there." He was offended, because apparently, I look like someone who spends a lot of time taking inventory in stores I don't work at.
Where do they find them, and why do they keep sending them to me?
I had a boss once who said, "Mumple, your life is really weird. I don't know anybody else who has weird things happen to them like you do." She was right.
And seriously, I've tried to make this stuff up, and I can't.
Onto the points that make this case:
Saturday, I swapped with someone for about an hour. I was at Returns, which is Weirdness Hell. (It's also usually a Liar's Free-For-All, but Saturday was pretty quiet.)
I answered the phone. A non-familiar Voice says, "Are you open?"
Me: Yes. 7am to 9pm today.
V: Oh, I was wondering.
(Let me interject here that Saturday we got hammered by Mother Nature with snow and winds. We got somewhere between 8 and 12 inches of snow in about 12 hours. Not fun.)
M: Yes, we're open regular store hours: 7am to 9pm.
V: I'm blah blah blah and I work at blah blah blah next to you there. I was trying to decide if I should go to work or not. If you're open, they're probably open too. *sigh*
M: Yes. We're Open.
V: Okay, then. Thanks, bye.
Am I the only person on the planet who thinks this is weird? If I wanted to know if where I worked was open, I'd call there. Not a few doors down.
It reminds me of a few years ago when I answered the phone one morning at work and this idiot calls and wants to know the store hours--of the video store nearby. I patiently explain that she didn't call the video store, and she cuts me off and says, "I know that. They're not open yet. I wanted to know if you knew their hours."
Color me stupid, but at 7:30am on any given morning, I am not the most awake nor the most aware person on the planet, so I told her that I wasn't even sure there was a video store there. She didn't know the name of it either--apparently that was my job that day too.
And along those lines, but not involving the phone, several years ago, I also had a man asking me questions about what the dollar store carried. I told him several times, "I don't know. I don't work there. I never worked there." He was offended, because apparently, I look like someone who spends a lot of time taking inventory in stores I don't work at.
Where do they find them, and why do they keep sending them to me?
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
More From the Weirdness Files
So, this blog is a lot of proof that I attract weirdos. And weird things happen to me. And this just proves that a new year does not mean a lack of weirdness.
Last Friday, the Howler and I were running some errands, and ended up at the grocery store. This grocery store has self-checkouts.
When in this store with the Howler, you have to balance how much stress you have in a regular check out as opposed to the stress of letting the Howler scan and bag. I usually opt for the letting the Howler scan and bag stress (I admit that this is one fight I do not choose to have with her.)
So, I stack the stuff up on the side shelf and let her have at it. I make sure I don't end up with pretzel crumbs and bags that explode, and that required staying with her, not wandering over to the newspapers or turning my back and perusing the cheap-o movie selections.
A woman carrying one item in each hand approaches me and says in a snotty tone, "Excuse me."
I move from right to left, still with the Howler. The Howler, oblivious, continues scanning and bagging.
This woman then says, in a more snotty tone, "Oh, are you with her?"
All my years in retail have trained out most of my sarcasm when in public, and I smile and tell her, "Well, yeah. I am her ride home, after all."
She HUFFS at me. Huffs. Like a pissed off cat.
She stomps past me to the next self-checkout, which was not available. I caught her, out the corner of my eye, trying to shove past the elderly man who was still scanning and bagging his own stuff.
What upsets me most is that the guys at work are disappointed that I couldn't do better--but they did helpfully suggest that next time, I phrase it "Well, yeah. SHE's my ride home. I'm too drunk to drive."
Last Friday, the Howler and I were running some errands, and ended up at the grocery store. This grocery store has self-checkouts.
When in this store with the Howler, you have to balance how much stress you have in a regular check out as opposed to the stress of letting the Howler scan and bag. I usually opt for the letting the Howler scan and bag stress (I admit that this is one fight I do not choose to have with her.)
So, I stack the stuff up on the side shelf and let her have at it. I make sure I don't end up with pretzel crumbs and bags that explode, and that required staying with her, not wandering over to the newspapers or turning my back and perusing the cheap-o movie selections.
A woman carrying one item in each hand approaches me and says in a snotty tone, "Excuse me."
I move from right to left, still with the Howler. The Howler, oblivious, continues scanning and bagging.
This woman then says, in a more snotty tone, "Oh, are you with her?"
All my years in retail have trained out most of my sarcasm when in public, and I smile and tell her, "Well, yeah. I am her ride home, after all."
She HUFFS at me. Huffs. Like a pissed off cat.
She stomps past me to the next self-checkout, which was not available. I caught her, out the corner of my eye, trying to shove past the elderly man who was still scanning and bagging his own stuff.
What upsets me most is that the guys at work are disappointed that I couldn't do better--but they did helpfully suggest that next time, I phrase it "Well, yeah. SHE's my ride home. I'm too drunk to drive."
I Am Obsessed
With this PTA thing. It's sad, and it's sick.
Over the weekend, I was back at work, and Crafty Woman was in with her two snot-nosed kids. (and no, I'm not being mean, they were grubby looking, and the younger one looked like he'd been wiping his nose on his coat.) She was all chipper and happy to see me.
I got a great big smile, and a "Hi there!" in the happiest of tones. Then later, when she came through my line, she was all happy-happy to see me then, too.
A year ago, this woman looked at me like she wished I was dead. And now, she's all happy to see me. I suppose if I were a less paranoid person who liked people, I wouldn't be so creeped out by this.
Although, in my own defense, it's difficult to go from being Inviso-Girl to being greeted cheerfully by snobs.
Over the weekend, I was back at work, and Crafty Woman was in with her two snot-nosed kids. (and no, I'm not being mean, they were grubby looking, and the younger one looked like he'd been wiping his nose on his coat.) She was all chipper and happy to see me.
I got a great big smile, and a "Hi there!" in the happiest of tones. Then later, when she came through my line, she was all happy-happy to see me then, too.
A year ago, this woman looked at me like she wished I was dead. And now, she's all happy to see me. I suppose if I were a less paranoid person who liked people, I wouldn't be so creeped out by this.
Although, in my own defense, it's difficult to go from being Inviso-Girl to being greeted cheerfully by snobs.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
More Photos! More Photos!
Now, seriously, what do these pictures make you think of? They're not staged, I found these poor people like this.
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