The Joy of Ordering In

So, I ordered a pizza and the guy on the phone was like, “Oh everybody from there is ordering tonight.” Apparently I’m the third person in my complex to order.

When I got off the phone, I started to worry that the pizzas would be all mixed up, which led to this conversation that never fucking happened.  

Me: Excuse me, but this isn’t mine, I ordered cheese and mushroom.

Pizza guy: Ugh. God lady, can’t you just eat that one?

Me: I can’t. I don’t eat meat.

Pizza guy sighs in a put-upon manner, snatches the pizza from my hands and stomps off down the stairs. He returns two minutes later.

Pizza guy: Here.

Me: Um…

Pizza guy: This is your pizza.

Me: Where was it?

Pizza guy: It was at your neighbors.

Me: Could I have a new one, please?

I would probably forget to actually say "please," because I’m prone to doing that, but the please is implied.

Pizza guy: Lady, it’s fine. They didn’t touch it.

Me: Did they open it?

Pizza guy: Lady, you opened the one you had.

I’m not sure why he keeps calling me ‘Lady.’ I hate imaginary Pizza guy.

Me: Exactly. So we should all have new pizzas.

Pizza guy: They’re your neighbors. What’s the problem?

Me: If they opened it, then they breathed on it, and I really don’t know my neighbors that well, so the thought of them breathing on my food kind of freaks me out.

It freaks me way the fuck out.

Pizza guy: The guy who cooked on it breathed on it.

Me: I try not to think about that. And I’ve never seen the cook, so I don’t have a mental image of him breathing on my pizza. At least, I didn’t.

Pizza guy: Look lady, they’re nice people. They didn’t do anything to the pizza. Just eat it.

Me: I didn’t say they did anything to it. I would just like a nice, fresh pizza that hasn’t been passed around my apartment complex.

Pizza guy: You’re a crazy bitch, you know that?

In most of my imaginary arguments someone ends up calling me a bitch. That probably means something. I’m not sure if it’s something bad or good, because in my real life arguments, I get called much worse things.

Pizza guy: Fine. I’ll be back.

But at this point I just want to cancel my order, because I’m convinced that either someone is going to spit on my new, fresh pizza, or Pizza guy is just going to drive this pizza around the block and bring it back. With spit.            

P.S. It was a really stressful forty-five minutes to an hour, but as it turns out, the correct pizza was delivered, and the pizza guy was completely pleasant.  

But I Didn't Throw the Poop

Walking with three dogs is a slow business thanks to the generally unsynchronized sniffing, and lifting, and squatting. While we were stopped for a squat, a woman messing around in the trunk of her car shined a flashlight in my face. I tried to assume it was an accident, but then she did it again. And again. We had to pass her to get home, although to be completely honest, we would have gone over there anyway, because I was really annoyed, and because it’s everyone’s duty to stand up to inappropriate flashlight behavior when they see it.

And as we approach she shines it in my face again. Now, we are not out in the country. There is the ambient light that one gets in any city, not to mention the actual streetlamps. It is not that damn dark.

Me: “Could you not shine that thing in my face?” I’m thinking: What the fuck is your problem?

Her: “Sorry, Ma’am, I couldn’t see who was there. It looked like you were hiding behind a tree.”  Although she technically said the word “sorry,” it was not in any way an actual apology. And in case you missed it, she called me Ma’am.

Me: “I’m just walking my dogs.” This is a phenomenon she should be familiar with since there are probably almost as many dogs as people in my neighborhood.

Her: “Well, I’m sorry, Ma’am.” (Again not being sorry at all.) “I have bad eyes and I can’t see at night.”

Me: “Well, maybe you shouldn’t be out at night.” Grown women who are afraid of the not-really-dark should stay inside always.

Her: “Do you know how many times my car has been broken into?” Probably never while you were guarding it with that wicked flashlight.

Me: “Well, it wasn’t me any of those times.” Is she implying I’m a car burglar?

Her: “And did you pick up your dog shit?” Not that it’s any of your business but…

Me: “Yeah. Do you want to inspect it?”

Her: “Ugh. No, I don’t think so.”

I’m thinking:  Are you sure? Because I’d be happy to throw it at your head.

Her: “I can tell just by looking at you that you’re the kind of person who doesn’t pick up their dog shit.” That is so judgmental. And so incorrect, since…

Me: “I’m holding a bag of dog shit right now.” Don’t call her a cunt. Don’t.

Me again: “Why don’t you stop being so judgmental and fat?”  Dodged the C-word. Good for you.

Her: “I’m pregnant.”

And now we’re in a bad sitcom.

Her again: “Why are you such a cunt?” It’s called the moral high ground, lady. Come join me.

            Me: “It’s too bad that whoever knocked you up doesn’t care enough to come help you with that box.” There was a box. It was big. She dropped it, which was probably really embarrassing. I may have enjoyed that part.

            Her: “Your dogs are ugly.” Which is ridiculous. My dogs are beautiful. She was projecting.

So that was my night. And I hope she’s still fighting with her husband or whatever about how he didn’t help her with the box. Other than that, I’ve let it go. 

With the Greatest of Ease

Saturday morning I will be flying through the air with the greatest of ease; or else I’ll be dying, probably also with the greatest of ease. Trapeze school is finally upon us, and no, you didn’t miss anything, I haven’t mentioned it. I imagine myself doing flips and catches and whatnot, and in my mind I’m suddenly endowed with the grace and coordination that is noticeably lacking in my usual interactions with the physical world.

 Hopefully that actually happens because apparently (according to the terrifying release I’m supposed to sign) in the world of trapeze there are consequences for physical ineptness, “…could result in physical or emotional injury or death. I understand that such risks simply cannot be eliminated without jeopardizing the essential qualities of the activity.” Ok. I get that they can’t guarantee no injuries when they’re letting you swing around like monkeys and the only thing keeping you from falling is the untrained and sweaty hand of another trapeze school newbie, but I have to question the idea of emotional injury being unavoidable. Are they going to make fun of us if we don’t do well? Post photos of us fearful and sprawling on the internet? Surely, some restraint could be shown there. Falling on your ass is bad enough without the professionals making fun of you for it. And if I do fall on my ass it will be because I wasn’t properly instructed, so heal thyself, trapeze guy.

And there’s not just the danger of me falling; there’s the possibility that shit will fall on me. “The risks include…being struck by objects dislodged or dropped from above.” Well, perhaps we don’t need to keep so much clutter on the trapeze platform. Seriously, what the fuck do they keep up there? And dislodged could be accidental, but dropped? Sounds like someone up there is out to get me. 

Then there are the trapeze people. “…employees have difficult jobs to perform. They are not infallible.” Ok, that’s kind of a given, albeit not something I necessarily want emphasized right before I literally put my life in their hands. But even though they’re not perfect, they are surely highly trained and as close to infallible as is humanly possible.

Except for the part where they’re not particularly observant. “They might misjudge the weather or other environmental conditions.” Really? Because the trapezing actually takes place outside. In the weather. What I’m hearing is, “If we don’t kill you by flinging bricks at your head from 100 feet up, the lightening will finish you off because we’re not properly trained to look at the sky.”

And it seems that’s not all they’re not properly trained to do. “They may give incomplete or inaccurate instructions or warnings.”  You’re starting to sound lazy, guys. How about taking a little pride in your work. Consider how nice it would be to go home and say to your wife, husband or cat, “No one died today, and there were only a few close calls, because I had the initiative to tell people to hold on tight.”

“The equipment being used might malfunction.”  How much can a new trapeze cost? It’s essentially a rope and a stick. Maybe I should bring my own. Except I don’t know where to get a trapeze on short notice. But, I might know where I can borrow a sex swing.* Those things are pretty much interchangeable, I believe.

“I certify I have adequate insurance to cover any injury or damage I may cause or suffer while participating...” I wish I could, but I’m sure they won’t check. At least not until after one of the aforementioned unfortunate incidents has occurred.

In spite of the eager specters of death, paralyzation, and embarrassment, I’m excited. I’m a little worried that the trapeze people will see this and not let me on. But I can’t post it after, well, maybe I could, but it’s not certain. And because I’ve gone to the trouble of writing it, I don’t want it to be a wasted effort if I die. Speaking of dying, if I don’t make it back, would someone please feed my dogs?

*I absolutely do not know where I can borrow a sex swing.

Sweat the Small Stuff

Last night at the grocery store, I noticed that the sign above the speedy checkout lane that used to say, “Fifteen items or less,” now says, “About fifteen items.” As far as I can see, this can only mean one thing, and that thing is that people are douchy enough to count other people’s items and yell at them if they have sixteen items. Or seventeen.  Sometimes, twenty. Not that I haven't been tempted to comment shrilly when someone has eighteen items, because I have. But I make an active effort to be less of a douche than the person who has nineteen items when they should have fifteen, in fact, that’s my goal in life.

So I don’t yell, because yelling about it seems slightly worse. It’s possible that some of these people just can’t count. But I love that others are not so restrained. I really do. I love that the store had to change it to, “about,” to prevent bloodshed. Because there’s nothing better than living amongst people that are prepared to come to blows over that sixteenth item. I’m not judging. I’m not so entertained by this because I would never do such a thing. I’m entertained by this because I can barely restrain myself from doing such a thing.

 We (you) have to act now. Time is running out. Soon all the grocery stores will cave in and replace their set in stone, enforceable checkout rules with guidelines. I’m not a lawyer, but I feel like fewer checkout altercations would go to trial if the victim could be accused of breaking a rule, a grocery law if you will, instead of merely having committed a shopping faux pas. Also, there’s nothing like a good brawl in the checkout line. So raise hell about that extra item. Be righteously indignant. Take action. Speak up. Throw things. Throw a punch, throw an apple, throw your own sixteenth item, (how the hell did that get in there?) so you don’t look like a hypocrite when it’s your turn to checkout. It makes no difference what you throw as long as you get involved.

And if someone has fifteen items and tries to add a pack of gum at the last minute, don’t let them get away with it. These bougie assholes need to know that the rules (or polite suggestions) apply to them. Let them know that their aspirations to minty breath don’t make them better than everyone else. Go forth and make your mothers proud. 

In Case of Possession, Do Not Break Glass

I’ve been contemplating an episode of Lost Girl because it’s just that kind of show. If you are not aware of it, what you need to know is that there is a succubus and crime fighting. Obviously, there is a lot to think about here, but what I was specifically mulling is a recent episode (SA!) where somebody had something evil invade their body and promptly asked to be killed, so that the evil would die with them. If it seems like I’m making fun, I’m not. It’s awesome.

However it did raise the question, why do people always ask their friends to kill them just because they’re a teensy bit possessed? When I hear anything along the lines of, “You’re going to have to kill me, it’s the only way,” I think, Really? Is it the only way? Was I not paying attention to the part where every other possibility was exhausted? Yeah, it may be sensible as a last resort, but there’s no reason for, “Oh shit. I just realized there’s evil inside me! Somebody kill me now.” Once in a while I’d like to see something along the lines of, “Oh shit. There’s evil inside me. Get it the fuck out!” Or perhaps, “Please restrain me temporarily while we consider our options.”

I guess if you put some deep thought into it, you could come up with a metaphor for the evil in humanity, or in the world, and how there has to be self sacrifice in order to finally rid ourselves of said evil, and ok, that wasn’t that deep, but it is a metaphor. But screw metaphors, because I really just want to think about this on a knee-jerk, surface, kind of level. And on that level, it’s ridiculous. Because what if the evil is something with which our hero (or throwaway character) could coexist? Because some bad shit is really bad, but some bad shit you can kind of live with. And I think that needs to be discussed before anyone jumps to please kill me.

If it was me with the evil inside, I’d certainly take a moment to think it through. I’d want to know, is the evil really awful or is it just mildly annoying? Is it the kind of evil that does things like put the juice carton back in the fridge with one sip left, a sip it purposely didn’t drink so the carton would technically not be empty because the trash is full and the evil didn’t want to start a horrible chain reaction that would lead to the evil having to take the trash out right now? In that case, I’d have to sympathize with the evil because I do that anyway. I’d have to say to the world, “Sorry, live with it. I have many other fine qualities in spite of being currently full of evil.”

                And on a more practical note, if the thing inside me was so evil and so strong that the best option was asking a friend to skewer, behead, or shoot me in order to get rid of it, then wouldn’t it be able to overpower and prevent me from raising the alarm in the first place?  And if I did get the initial warning out because I managed to catch it by surprise as it was settling in, wouldn’t it simply counter with a casual, “You know what? I’m fine. False alarm. The evil is totally under control. In fact, I think the evil actually left. Anybody want to grab some breakfast? I think I saw some tasty orphans running around outside.”

However, if the evil was so easy to override that I could speak up to request a preventative killing in spite of the fact that the evil has gone to a lot of trouble to take me over by climbing either down my throat or up my whatever, then I could probably keep it in check until someone could work out a less drastic cure. And I would definitely want the chance. To keep it in check, that is. Because having a friend kill you is pretty final. And hard on the friend. One would assume. Of course, in a world with succubi, werewolves, and possessing fae, it is possible that death wouldn’t be completely final. But it might be. Especially for the mortal.

Of course, if I’m ever possessed by Cathrynn Brown I’ll have to reconsider.

At Least They Didn't Stone Me

           That was a spoiler, I know, but I needed a little reassurance. Today I finally, after a month, got up the nerve to go down to this local bookstore to see if they want to carry my book, because it’s a book and they’re a bookstore and it all seems very fitting. And ok it wasn’t a month, it was months, many of them, because it takes a while to work up the nerve to go someplace where they’re going to laugh at you and throw rocks. Yeah I know that’s an unlikely scenario, but it’s not an impossible one.

           But I’ve been putting this off and off, and I have decided today is the day. I take a shower and I put on the new perfume I got for Christmas. I’m wearing my best bra and my lucky, Hello my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die, tee shirt so now I smell good, look adorable, and feel only mildly nauseous. I manage to get myself down there with my promo postcards, and a copy of my book for their consideration. I end up parking right in front of the store, which is not ideal because someone might see that my car really needs a wash, and decide they don’t want to carry my book based on my automotive sloth, but there’s no place else because it’s busy downtown. And of course, I park poorly because I’m nervous.

           No one throws rocks at me. No one laughs. They are closed for inventory. For four days. Maybe it’s a sign. A sign that everything is topsy turvey and vice versa. That my lucky, Hello my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die, shirt is not lucky at all. It may even be unlucky. I wish I had a better idea about the shirt, but it’s new and it hasn’t done anything really spectacular for me yet. I can say I've never been exsanguinated while wearing it, but that’s true of all my shirts.

           It’s hard to tell if this is a sign, or if it’s just something that happened. It’s probably just something that happened, because I usually don’t believe in signs. But there are times when I want to, times when it seems so obvious and reasonable that when a door that should have been open is not, it’s because that door is not meant to be gone through; ever. I resist, because I know if I start officially believing in signs I’ll be three steps away from becoming young William Shatner stuck in a diner with narration by Rod Serling.

           The problem is this seems a little bit like a sign. Plus there was an actual sign. On the door. Which seems like a sign that this is a sign. Although the sign (on the door) did say when they would be open again, so maybe that’s the real sign. That I should go back. The metaphysical sign, not the paper sign, which it indisputably is. If you don’t think this paragraph makes sense, just skip it.

           If it is a sign it seems like a bad one, but I can’t know for sure. Maybe if the store had been open a conniving employee would have thrown rocks at me, taken my book while I was crying, and kept it for his own nefarious purposes, never passing it along to the owner. So maybe it was an amazing cosmic intervention, saving me from the mean employee so that my delicate spirit remains unbroken, that I may someday venture out once again to the bookstore. But it’s hard to say. I do think that if the universe is going to go to that much trouble on behalf of my delicate spirit, it might find it easier to just have the mean bookstore guy step in front of a bus. Or see the error of his ways. (Now that I’ve written that I can see it's probably easier for the universe to have me drive to the bookstore an extra time than to completely transform or kill an imaginary someone.)

I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I’m referring to the lack of stoning. But by now, I was supposed to know how it turned out. I was really hoping to secure a, “Yes, please!” or a “Fuck you. Bitch.” (I don’t know why imaginary mean guy had to call me a bitch, I was already leaving.) But no. Inventory is my undoing. Curse you thieves! And people who can’t subtract! (I believe those are the two main causes of taking inventory.)

           In a few months, I’m going to have to do it all over again. Unless I take this as a sign. 

In Defense of My Mess

I don’t clean. Not literally, but certainly in spirit. And I probably come as close as one can to literally not cleaning while still avoiding the evil eye of the health department.  

On the table beside me are roughly twenty books stacked four or five high. Some of the stacks are askew and everything else is piled on the books or clinging to the edge of the table. Everything else includes but is not limited to, the ear buds for my phone, my election booklet (still trying to figure out if I did the right thing, but only through osmosis), three remote controls, some pens, a chip clip, a folder of cd’s which I still use because I am technologically challenged, a folder of papers, a composition book, the price tag from the last bra I bought, a pet dental pamphlet partially chewed by a wayward pet who was either trying to destroy the pamphlet so I couldn’t make the appointment, or trying to prove that his teeth are healthy and capable so I wouldn't make the appointment.

It’s not that I hate cleanliness. That would be weird. It’s just that I have better things to do than waste a day (or more) cleaning. Because I have trouble just giving a quick tidy to the kitchen sink. It starts with wiping down the kitchen sink and then twelve hours later I’m on my hands and knees, wedged between the toilet and the tub trying to scrub the grout with a sponge that is falling to bits because it’s also having a really bad day. (Yes the sponge. In theory I have more, but in practice I fall short. Don’t worry, it always starts on the dishes and ends with the toilet.) The whole time I’m desperately trying to talk myself into stopping. Phrases like, You’ve done enough, Who cares? This is stupid, and The cleaning chemicals are eating your hand skin, inundate my thoughts. But the rebuttals are just as prevalent. Stop crying. You don’t clean enough. Other people clean practically every month. You’re almost done. All you have left to do is polish all the power cords and dust the books. And maybe scrape all the melted wax off the candle holders; that seems pretty necessary. I said, STOP CRYING.

When I finally finish I get to shower, and it has to be a long shower because I’m so grimy, but that's ok because it feels great. Until I get out of the shower and find that there’s something I missed or something I forgot. I’m clean now, I just got out of the damn shower and I don’t want to touch more grime, but almost everything is spotless, and I'm so close to perfection that I can’t leave one random dirty thing, which means I do have to touch more grime and my shower is ruined and now everything is horrible again. Also, once everything is clean, I don’t really enjoy the cleanliness. The first five minutes are nice, but then I get caught up in the torment of not wanting to touch anything or use anything because it was such a nightmare to get it this way. When I’m in this state I totally understand why they used to put plastic on the furniture and leave the pets outside. Sorry pets, and don't worry, I'll never be that person, I just understand.

The last time I cleaned everything it took me an entire week. I mean, I pried myself away to go to work, but every day before and after I cleaned, and I still had to spend my whole day off finishing. I did this because I was expecting company. Who was here for fifteen minutes tops. It would have been worth it, it was for my first interview ever about the book, and I didn’t want the reporter to be so appalled by the mess that she decided the real story was, “Crazy Woman Lives in Pigsty, Claims to be Author.” I don’t know why I was so convinced she was going to want to Woodward and Bernstein me, but I was. And if she wasn't trying to expose me for something dire surely she'd want to do a ten page spread of my entire apartment. Of course, it was option none of the above. She never saw anything but the living room, and I cleaned everything else for no good reason.

It’s not as bad as it sounds. I do dishes all the time. I don’t keep food that’s growing new parts, and if I do, it’s quarantined in the back of the fridge until I have time to walk it out to the dumpster. I clean the toilet regularly. True, I have to set myself up by flinging comet all over it so that the next time I’m there I have to clean it in order to pee, but so what. Not wanting harsh chemicals on my ass is valid motivation. But I try not to bother with the non-essentials. I haven’t made a bed since the last time my mother made me, and I was caught in an avalanche of books just this morning. And now I’m kind of hoping that someday, that’s how I’ll die.