February 27, 2008

muse

Another lesson I've learned after it's too late:

You know a rejection from a woman is needlessly hurtful and nonsensical when, just for your own peace of mind, you're desperate to hear that it's about another guy.

posted by john at 07:24 AM  •  solamente

February 14, 2008

smitten

First of all, whereas about 15% of my total hits normally respond to a survey post, some 90% of you responded to a survey about dog crap. What's wrong with you people?

Until I posted that no, it wasn't Percy, almost every single guess was a variation on "That bastard Percy put it there." Once I waived people off the P-train, the guesses stopped coming almost entirely. My favorite:

I'm not sure if I could come up with something feasible even if Ed was still alive - that's pretty high up. But I'll give it a go. Dorkass/Allie/Sarah/Beth/Somebody wanted to give you a Valentine. She knows the thing you loved most in the world was Ed, so when she stumbled across a fossilized pile in the far corner of your yard, she couldn't resist. Since you were about to do a February pruning of the bush we can see to the right of the frame, she knew you'd be getting in the tool shed soon. She shoveled it up there and stuck a little note with it, too, that said - just droppin' a note from pup heaven, love Ed.

That's fairy tale nonsense, of course. No one ever does anything for me for Valentine's Day.

No one guessed the real story. And really, who could? Who could imagine laziness like mine? For you see, a year ago, I scooped up Ed's droppings and placed them in a paper bag. Not wanting to dispose of them right away due to the aforementioned laziness, I placed said paper bag on top of that shed. Six months passed. Ed died. Six more months passed. And finally, the wind blew the bag down, leaving desiccated Ed crap atop the shed and, for the briefest moment, intrigue.

Yes, it's still there.

posted by john at 08:39 AM  •  solamente

February 11, 2008

fuckity returns

Every office has that preening dimwit, oblivious to their own ineptitude, with whom everyone else is forced to cope. In my office, I'm pretty sure it's me. Sarah says that in her office, it's Rhiannon. Her family owns the business, and naturally she's in charge. She drips her fetid slime on everyone's work, which brings us to last week.

When Sarah needs to vent, she sends me the advertising copy Rhiannon writes. To say it's written at the eighth-grade level is invite a class-action defamation suit from 13 year olds. Cute characters, all caps, underlining, exclamation points—IT'$ ALL THERE! Once when Rhiannon wrote that there were "to many" of something, I changed it to "too." Rhiannon changed it back.

You get the idea.

So last week, I was reading some particularly vile copy and was inspired to bust out my favorite editorial expression of utter frustration. I wrote: "WHAT THE FUCK? I MEAN, WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?"

When Sarah replied, she said that she particularly enjoyed the "fuckity" comment.

I realize this is a pretty lengthy preamble for a link, but now read this chestnut from six years ago. What are the odds?

• • •

I called Katrina, long a fan of the Annette story, to share this latest chapter. She was delighted. She also shared that she, just the day before, had used the term "fuckity" and thought of me. I suppose I'd be flattered...if I'd ever in my life used this word. The words I like to think I made up, like "Yoko" and "McMansion?" No credit. "Fuckity?" It'll probably be on my tombstone.

posted by john at 06:36 AM  •  solamente

February 05, 2008

we

I am, like most, delighted that the Giants spoiled the smug Patriots' tainted bid for perfection. It's God's work they did.

I was explaining the nature of the Pats' evil to Sarah when, resigned, she uttered, "I don't think I'll ever be the fan of a team. I'm just not wired that way."

Then we talked about the nature of developing fandom. She suggested that people don't start following a team at her age. I disagreed. As a challenge, she asked how I'd feel if she suddenly became a Steelers fan. I chuckled. There is no such thing, I said. You can suddenly start watching games. You can suddenly wear a lot of team-themed crap. You can suddenly start using "we" to refer to the team, as in "We won big today." But none of that makes you a fan. Girlfriends, especially, have seem predisposed to that route; I've always looked away in utter disgust.

"When they break you heart and you come back for more, and then they break it again and you come back for thirds, and then they break it again and you come back for fourths, then maybe you can use 'we.' Until you suffer, until you put in your time, not so much." I said. On the other hand, when they're good and advance deep into the post-season, you don't much enjoy that either. It's just nauseating, really.

She didn't see the upside. Smart.

posted by john at 07:09 AM  •  solamente

January 22, 2008

cloverfield

When I bought my movie ticket yesterday, I was confident that Sarah would not call. She was deathly ill, and I was on ambulance duty. "Call me if you need a ride to the doctor," I'd said.

"Okay."

"Seriously. Don't be proud."

"Okay."

We both knew she would be exactly too proud, and shortly after I got my morning phone call ("Even though talking on the phone for 20 seconds utterly exhausts me, I'm well enough to drive a car for an hour"), I was sitting in a movie theatre. Bring on Cloverfield!

For the first twenty minutes of the movie, nothing happens. Just-too-cool, pretty 20-somethings Babble Importantly about the fluffy drama of their lives, as if any of them will even know one another into their 30s. And then a monster attacks New York City. This is the exact moment Sarah called for a ride. She'd changed her mind.

On vibrate, my phone felt remarkably like a noisy, yet-unseen monster decapitating the Statue of Liberty. As if in response to the events on screen—no one told me this was a monster movie!—I stood bolt upright, without bending my knees, and I dashed from the theatre, never to return.

"Oh, go finish your movie," wheezed Sarah.

"It's okay," I said, suddenly overcome with concern for her well being. "I really wouldn't mind if those people never saw me again."

posted by john at 08:14 AM  •  solamente

January 07, 2008

stan: making the world safe for adults, one screaming brat at a time

The first time the AW and I ate at Holly Hill Gardens, we, like everyone, were dazzled by the beauty of the landscaping and the warmth of the restaurant area. Lousy with doilies, mood lighting, and $9 jars of jelly, Holly Hill is the quintessential Best Places to Kiss kind of restaurant.

The kitchen is closet-sized and nestled in the corner of the seating area. If you want, while you dine you can watch the cook pivoting from sink to stove to cutting board. Perhaps the best of the cooks is the owner, Stan. Stan looks like a jovial hippie burnout who, more to his surprise than anyone else's, somehow managed to survive ingesting truckloads of drugs in the 60s and 70s. And not flatbeds, either. Big rigs.

On our first visit there, the AW and I sat outside in the gardens. She ordered an omelet. It was bland. Not finding salt and pepper on the table, she asked the server for some. Stan stormed outside to our table, sans salt and pepper, and demanded to know what was wrong with her eggs. "Eep," said the AW.

The waitress apologized and explained that Stan is, in fact, pretty much an asshole. He had screamed at her for trying to sneak seasoning out the door. She is banned from putting salt and pepper on the tables, as he's already seasoned the food perfectly for all possible palettes.

"Can you get me some ketchup?" I asked her.

She shuddered, hoping this was just an unfunny joke. "N-N-No."

• • •

Book in hand, I was dining alone at Holly Hill one day. Sarah was there, ignoring me so that she could attend to the party of 8 behind me. Stan was in the kitchen, positively enraged that nine assholes presumed to give him money all at once.

At the large table was a child, maybe 5 years old. Old enough to know better. He soon started making bratty noises, and slowly but surely he crescendoed into a full-on, bratty wail. The kid's cry was piercing, obnoxious. And then Stan blew. Everyone in the restaurant leaped in their seat at the sound of Stan's scream. It was an explosion of pure, malevolent rage.

"OH, HELL NO!" he bellowed from the kitchen, pointing a bloody 10-inch chef's knife directly at the child. "NOT IN HERE!"

I'll give Stan this: the child immediately shut up. As did the parents. And Sarah. And me. I was deliberating whether Stan was a hero or villain when I glanced at Sarah. She looked back meaningfully, then buried her face in her hands in the international sign for "Fuck me. I just worked today for free."

We look back on this as the day we bonded. We're war buddies now. Terror and violence do tend to have a cohesive effect. And Stan? He doesn't remember the incident. Maybe it's all the drugs. Or maybe it just wasn't unusual enough to make bar. Wistfully, I choose the latter.

posted by john at 06:52 AM  •  solamente

December 28, 2007

good santa

From the other end of the spectrum comes Sarah's graphite drawing of Ed. Someday I hope to be able to look at it without getting all weepy and disgusting.

That's a 2x3 parchment. Sick talented, isn't she?

posted by john at 09:08 AM  •  solamente

December 19, 2007

desecration

Every Christmas, I bake loaves of kolachi for a few folks. Kolachi is a Polish pastry; the recipe is my immigrant grandmother's. You slice its loaves into one-inch slices, each of which is a spiral of dough, pecans, sugar, butter, and cinnamon. I tell you this so that you can be properly horrified by the following.

Sarah told me last night that she likes her kolachi best when covered by a fried egg, its runny yoke oozing into the pecans, cinnamon, etc. Positively vomitous. And I thought Sue was weird for putting hers in a toaster.

Grandma is spinning like a lathe.

posted by john at 10:08 AM  •  solamente

October 02, 2007

critical mass

I just had a visit from Amy. No, the other one. (Having given considerable thought to what the opposite of Fucking Amy would be, I've settled on "Fuckless Amy.") She was visiting from Maine for training at her new job. In fine fashion, Microsoft repeatedly stepped on its own dick and rendered her trip utterly pointless. Except for seeing me, of course. Cough.

Sarah, Fuckless and I loitered around a bit. When the social fabric of your life is composed almost entirely of critical women, an unfortunate phenomenon happens. They meet. They drink. They compare grievances against you. They drink some more. And then, worst of all, they start planning your life for you. In this case (after I told the old last-time-I-saw-my-dad story), they very much agreed with one another that John should write a book of whiny reminiscences. They were insistent.

"No one wants to read that crap," I objected. Then they brainstormed a list of best-selling whiny reminiscences.

"Okay, maybe I don't wanna read that crap."

They made me a reading list.

posted by john at 11:04 AM  •  solamente

September 18, 2007

fun with racists

A fake graphic designer, Sarah created some marketing materials for a client. They liked what she'd done, came the response, but could she please use another picture? She thought it odd that they didn't provide more specific feedback. She asked what exactly they didn't like. "Just use another picture, please," they replied.

She examined the picture she'd used. It was of a guy in a suit. A black guy. Nah, she thought. It couldn't be that.

To disprove her theory, she gave them another picture of another black guy in a suit. And they asked for another picture, for unspecified reasons again. And so it went. Sarah antagonized the client until she exhausted her supply of minorities and had to use a white guy.

"This is great," they said. "Thanks!"

posted by john at 05:43 AM  •  solamente

August 15, 2007

mixed messages

Sarah and I were walking across a parking lot when my turning head got me into trouble. I was ogling a Saab convertible. Sarah groaned.

"John, don't get a penis car."

"Saabs are penis cars?"

CUT TO: THREE MONTHS LATER

"If you want a convertible, there's only one you should get," she held forth haughtily. "A Porsche."

I leave it to you assembled trolls to try to deconstruct what her criteria are for "penis car" status. Good luck to you.

Exhibit A, the Saab:

Exhibit B, the Porsche:

posted by john at 09:17 AM  •  solamente

February 15, 2007

happy birthday

Normally I only post about rudeness I've personally observed, but this one was just too ripe not to publish.

Sarah and a group of co-workers went out after work to an elegant restaurant. At a neighboring table, a man quietly sat alone. He ordered a dessert, which came with a burning candle. One of the women, upon seeing this, drunkenly declared that "We need to sing Happy Birthday to him!" His mouth full, the man held up his hands in protest, but the drunk ignored him. He had to interrupt the song with pleas for them to stop.

He showed them the picture on his table. It was a photo of his dead wife. It was her birthday, he explained. She was recently killed in a traffic accident.

"THEN LET'S SING TO HER!" the unflappable drunk squealed. And then, over his protests, she boisterously sang to the dead wife, butchering her name.

• • •

Nested rudeness: when the man ruefully said that his wife's death was the reason for a new local traffic light, another member of the party felt compelled to point out that "See? Some good comes out of everything."

posted by john at 08:22 AM  •  solamente

March 26, 2006

consistency of character

After some solo boating, I visited a restaurant that the AW and I used to frequent. Dining alone with a good book is one of my favorite activities. I find reading and having food brought to me to be incredibly relaxing. And thus was I deep in a don't-talk-to-me trance, engrossed in my book, when the server shattered my peace and quiet. She set her tray down on my table and assumed an alarmingly meaningful tone, looming above me, so near that her waist was all I could see. Utterly mortifyin'.

"I just have to thank you!" she gushed nervously.

I tried to remember even making eye contact with her. "Pardon me?" I said to the waist.

"I have to thank you. On my first day here, a really horrible day where I almost quit, everyone was awful to me and you were the only person who was kind."

That certainly didn't sound like me.

"That certainly doesn't sound like me. I think maybe you're confusing me with someone else?"

"No, it was you. I remember. You were here with a blond woman, seated right at that table over there. You were on your way to the Film Festival."

Oh. That was me. That was me three years ago, but it was me.

"And you saw that everyone was pissed off at me, and you told me that I was doing great, to go ahead and neglect you two so I could help everyone else, and then you gave me a tip that was big enough for the whole room—practically the only money I made that day."

"Anyway, um, thanks. My name's Sarah." And then she got flustered and left.

I thought back to the original incident. Even though she was clearly set up to fail, even though she was obviously hustling her ass off, the other customers—a great mass of preening assholes—bitched about the service when she was absent. That, I remembered. I never forget a preening asshole. But what on earth had possessed me to do the right thing?

As I contemplated my inconsistency of character, the waitress came into full view. I actually stopped breathing. She's utterly gorgeous. And when she turned her head to smile at someone, a silky, bouncy brown ponytail whipped around her neck.

Ah. Order to the universe, restored.

posted by john at 02:01 PM  •  solamente