Sorry, but my inner-pill has returned three-fold and she’s in a really, really bitchy mood. I’m even considering re-subtitling my blog “Life and other fucking annoyances.” Yep, that feels right.
I’m not just grabbing these feelings out of the air willy-nilly either. I’ve got a list! Yea! A frigging list! And remember folks it really is all about the little things–and that includes the annoying things too.
1) I had to go to two different post offices today (Sat) to find one open. The line was out the door. No seats at this one, no, so everyone is standing: people on crutches, old folks, kids and ME. Would it kill them to get a few folding chairs? Really?
2) My least favorite postal worker was there, chatting up every single solitary person in the vast line in front of me. “I see you’re from Denmark. Tell me ALL about it.” “You’re a cute little girl, do you know what day tomorrow is?” Kid is lost in thought, picking her nose, we are grinding our teeth. “It’s a holiday. . . . about someone you know. . . . it starts with an ‘M’. . . ” Oh. My. God. Forget about postal workers going postal. It’s the people standing in line that are going to bring out the oozies.
3) There is finally one woman left in front of me: One. Single. Person. She decides to look through ALL the pretty stamps. She goes back to the case, looks some more, back to the clerk. They chat. Clerk goes in back to look for other hidden/locked away/secret/non-existent stamps for her. He is gone FOREVER, taking a lunch/cigarette/pee/coffee/laughing-at-us break. My eye starts twitching. I want to register with the NRA after all. I WILL vote for Bush, or any other sadistic, incredulous Republican if this woman will just leave/vanish/disintegrate. Pact with Satan? Bring it on!
4) It is finally my turn. I am precise, succinct, have cash, am all properly addressed/ signed/filled out. I slide the box across the counter a bit too forcefully. “Would you like stamps w/that?” If I needed stamps, I would have ASKED for stamps. No.
“Do you need this insured, tracked, signed for, specially delivered w/a singing telegram?” No. No. No. just this, PLEASE. “Is there anything flammable, fragile, breakable, combustable, corrosive, explosive, implosive, contagious, viral, epidemical in this package . . . I can no longer think. I may, in fact, implode myself. (The irony, right there in the PO.) I shake my head from side-to-side, more a nerve-induced tick. And then, finally, finally it is done.
5) I drive directly to my little cafe. I need food/water/coffee/a distraction/a lobotomy. I get almost all. I find a nice quiet table. I am decompressing. I have my eyes closed. I am Buddha. (Okay, I’m obviously not Buddha, but I’m trying.) I suddenly need to pee. I ask the woman next to me, “would you please watch my things?” No problem.
I come back, maybe 4 minutes later (I pee fast) and all my stuff is gone. My coffee/paper/clippings/stuff and new people are sitting at my table. What the fuck? “Oh, she says. I didn’t notice.” YOU DIDN’T NOTICE? My table is two feet directly in front of her line-of-vision. I want to scream/pull out my hair/dump her table/throw a tantrum on the ground/cry.
My body/psyche/soul/whatever just can’t take . . . people, that vast all encompassing designated word for THEM, “them” acting like “that.” (No. I am not schizophrenic, although I know someone who is and it sounds right, but no, I’m just tired. . . and way too tightly wound genetically. But like I’ve said before, if you’ve been reading this for any length of time. This is not a surprise.)
I am home now. I took my bagel order and left. It is quiet here. I’ve disconnected the phone. I have drawn the shades. Even Zephyr is asleep somewhere and that’s fine with me. I am declaring this a people-free weekend–no phone, no visitors, no unnecessary outings, no nothing–it may last longer, but we’ll see.
Okay, now back to whatever else you were doing and leave me alone. You’re bothering me. But, hey! Have a nice weekend!
d.
