St. Patrick's Day Outrage

I’m at a bar on St. Patrick’s Day; needless to say, it is mobbed. I’m waiting an understandable eternity to order a drink because there are about 50 people trying to get a drink at once. Ethan gives me some money to get an Amstel Light for him. I finally muscle ahead to a point where I can touch the actual bar. I see there are two female bartenders, and one guy who seems not to be a bartender; he’s hauling coolers of ice and boxes of replenishing stock, but isn’t taking drink orders and seems to be avoiding eye contact with the people craning their necks to place an order. But then he nods towards me and asks “What can I get you?”, still giving the impression that he’s not a bartender, but will help out anyway because the place is a loony bin.


I order one Amstel Light and one Fuzzy Navel. He hands me the beer, and I pass it back to Ethan. Then he asks me to repeat the second drink order. I have to yell into his ear because it’s so noisy. He looks awfully confused, but reaches down and pulls up a jug of Tropicana orange juice. He still looks confused, and before pouring any orange juice, he goes over to the blonde bartender, and asks her questions while pointing at me. She looks at me and points to me as well. The guy walks to another part of the bar, then carries some empty boxes away, and when he comes back, he has completely forgotten about me.


The blonde bartender notices I’m still waiting and asks, “What did you order?” I tell her a Fuzzy Navel, and she nods. She hands out a few more bottled beers that people had ordered, and starts making something with cranberry juice and vodka. She places the cranberry vodka in front of me. I say, “No, that’s not mine.” She holds it up high and yells to everyone in the area, “Who ordered this?” No one responds. She dramatically chucks it in the garbage, points her finger in my face, and asks, “What did you order?” Again, I tell her a Fuzzy Navel. She yells at me “THAT’S WHAT I JUST FUCKING MADE YOU!”, and as I start saying, “No, it’s orange juice and … ” she storms off.


So the guy who is not a bartender still has a better idea of what a Fuzzy Navel is than the actual bartender. And both of them forgot to ask me to pay for the Amstel Light. Suckers.

Stupid Things That Make Me Mad -- I Hate Them So Much!

Apparently age 25 is the tipping point between wanting to seem older and wanting to seem younger. I’m nowhere near feeling old. Sure, my metabolism has gone to shit, and I recently had my very first “back in my day” moment: I saw some Girl Scouts hawking their cookies in a very obnoxious manner, standing in people’s way and yelling “BUY GIRL SCOUT COOKIES!” I was immediately offended, because back in my day we were specifically instructed not to be bothersome sellers. We were to ask people once, nicely and politely, on a one-to-one basis. Or, we were to set up a card table with a colorful poster that did the talking for us. We were not to get in people’s hair like those “Jesus Saves” people, or “Save the Children” people, or “Save 25% at Penny’s” people, or “Jesus Saves 25% of the Children” people, or whoever it is I’m dodging every day on the street corner. It’s a shame, too, because I want to support the Girl Scouts, as the only gender-specific Scout program that isn’t paranoid about The Gays being in their ranks.

Yet still I find myself wishing I looked older.

Yesterday, some white-collar solicitor showed up at my place of work, telling me he can offer my company savings on office supplies, and giving me his business card. I’ve never gotten a straight answer from anyone in a position of authority on what to do when these annoyances show up. I know I’m not supposed to say yes to anything, but I’m not sure if I’m supposed to talk them down or just take their business card to make them go away, and chuck it in the recycling bin after they leave. I despise having to verbally joust with a salesperson who has been so thoroughly brainwashed to Talk the Talk, so I usually go the latter route. So I’m trying to make this guy go away with some non-committal “I’ll pass along your business card” bullshit, when he pulled something far worse than any of the other tools who bothered me at my desk have ever pulled. He smiled a well-oiled smile, reached into his coat pocket, said, “You know what? This is for you,” in the condescending tone of voice one should reserve for talking to 5-year-olds, and handed me a chocolate bar with his company’s logo on the wrapper. He gave me a fucking piece of candy. I’m surprised he didn’t try to pull it out from behind my ear.

I was in a department store and one of the roving salesman asked me, “Can I help you with anything, young lady?” Young lady! A “Young Lady” is a female child who has just done something wrong. I’ve been called “Young Lady” for not eating my vegetables, or taking something without asking, or any number of scold-able offenses committed … when I was a fucking child. Even homeless people do it to me: A guy selling StreetWise making a plea to each person who walks by will say “Ma’am, Sir, Ma’am …Young Lady” as I pass. Do I look like a damn child? Today one of the bosses at my place of work called me “Missy.” That word goes at the end of the sentence, “You’re in big trouble,…” It seems people can’t just address someone younger than them as a regular, fellow human being; there must be some sort of qualifier that immediately identifies them as younger, of lower status. Why is that?

Oh, shit. I know why.

Because there are women who will go apeshit if you call them “ma’am.” Damnit.

There’s just no winning that conundrum. But why do people have to be immediately categorized? Why does a person have to make a judgment on another person’s gender and/or age in order to speak to them?

I wonder where the cut-off is between which personal characteristics are appropriate to use as a form address for a complete stranger, and which are inappropriate. For instance, let’s say you are an obnoxious, not-in-my-day Girl Scout who is pestering people on the street to buy cookies. If you see a male person walking by, you might say, “Sir, would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?” No problem there. If you see a person in police uniform, you might say “Officer, would you like to buy some Girl Scout Cookies?” Also harmless. But if you see a guy walking by wearing a yarmulke, and say, “Hey, Jew, would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?”, that would not be acceptable. Oh, the peculiarities of manners!

New England-ier Than Thou

In honor of avoiding this god-awful thing I'm typing at work, here are some pictures of Connecticut I have recently taken:















The Green in New Milford. I've been to many a town fair on this lawn. Where I probably crapped in many a diaper.





















The Warner Theatre in Torrington. Saw it for the first time last year. Nifty old building.
















The Yankee Pedlar Inn in Torrington. I stayed there last year. There were so many quaint sights, I ruptured a few blood vessels in my eyes.
















Greenwood Avenue in Bethel. The town motto is: "Bethel -- A Pleasant Surprise!"
















Fairfield County Courthouse on Main Street in Danbury. Where my grandfather and his first wife got divorced!

















The New Milford Library. I looooved running around this building when I was little. And also last Christmas.















The Town Hall on The Green in New Milford. My marriage record is located here. And it was a former home of a signer of the Declaration of Independence. That's Connecticut for you.





















St. Peter's Church on Main Street in Danbury, where all family weddings, funerals, baptisms, first communions, confirmations, etc took place. Let ye who enter fear its holiness.



That was my guided tour of the adorable yet insufferably boring place I grew up. Come back soon!

Entertain Me, Please

Do you have any weird sleeping habits?
I have long, vivid dreams that often end with me screaming and/or punching and kicking in my sleep.

Would you rather sleep with someone else, or alone?
Given my answer to the previous question, sleeping with someone else can be dangerous. But I do, and I love it. Every once in a while it’s nice to have the whole bed to myself, though.

Do you consider yourself creative?
Not lately. What the fuck, brain? Where’d you go? Was it something I said?

Do you know how to play poker?
F.P. tried to teach me to play some kind of poker while I was half asleep. Eventually I began weeping into my cards, and possibly fell asleep on my pile of chips.

Have you ever been awake for 48 hours straight?
That will never happen. A couple months ago I was awake for almost 24 hours, and I was falling asleep in the middle of sentences.

What's your favorite commercial?
Commercials are evil. Which is why it’s so vexing that the Wes Anderson credit card commercial is so fucking awesome.

What type of food do you eat the most?
Marinara and mozzarella. I put them on everything. On my ice cream, in my coffee…

Boston Red Sox or New York Yankees?
Don’t you have any non-partisan jerseys? “May the better team win”?

How often do you remember your dreams?
Most often. Especially if I’m asked, “Honey, who were you punching last night?”

Can you name 5 songs by NSYNC?
Mmm Girl You So Fine
I Wanna Get All Up in Your Bidness
Baby Baby Baby Oh Baby
Honey Shake That Thing
Girl, You’re the Only Girl For Me, Girl
(One of those has to be real, right?)

What's the one thing on your mind now?
I NEED A NEW JOB I NEED A NEW JOB I NEED A NEW JOB

Do you believe in love at first sight?
Not at all. Everyone I have ever loved, I hated first.

Do you like bananas?
I have bananas! Come on, have a banana, honey, it’s good for you, you need fruit. How about a sandwich? Grandma make you a sandwich? What kind of sandwich you want? I have ham, Grandma can make you ham?

If you could sleep with one famous person, who would it be?
Jim Halpert or Michael Bluth. But alas, they do not exist.

Have you ever sung in front of the mirror?
How do you NOT?

Why do you fill out surveys?
Because long-form creative writing doesn’t really happen at work. And I’m so bored I could cry. And I need a new job.