The Writing

22 January, 2012

many littles make a much

My mother asked me today how my week had gone today. And I had to say, on the whole, it was pretty good. Began with a kickass teaching evaluation from one of my favorite professors. Ended with a kickass concert from my very favorite band. In between, there were some slingshot moments. So I said--well, little dramas. What do you mean? she asked. So I told her. And I'm telling you, too.

Thursday, delivery day for the farmer's co-op, I get a call. They delivered to the wrong address, they say. No box this week for us, sorry, account credited, delivery next week. This is annoying, but not the end of the world. I was a little sad to miss out on the butternut squash (listen. my ambitions are small), but hey. Then, Friday, I'm on the way home from meeting a friend and lo! in the middle of the sidewalk--the delivery box, sitting in front of the building to which it must've been delivered. I took it home. The lettuce did not survive its exposure, and a couple of the satsumas looked as if they had been stunt doubles for a hockey puck, but the rest of it was okay. I mean, cauliflower does not wilt, and radishes... radishes are strange red evil bundles of 'what the fuck do I do with this?', but they don't go bad overnight. And I got my butternut squash. Nyah.

Then Saturday, morning of the Much Anticipated Concert, Nous and a plate had a parting of ways. The plate hurled itself at the floor and burst. You know how sometimes plates just bounce? And sometimes they split and fall into neat broken halves? And how sometimes they combust on impact, throwing shards like a ceramic frag grenade? Yeah. Fortunately, none of the cats were in the kitchen at the time. Fortunately, none of the cat dishes were struck by the plate-bomb.  I, however, was not so fortunate. Of course I was barefoot. I caught a big piece of something sharp on the joint of my big toe, where it connects to the foot. At first, I thought it might've broken something. It was that kind of pain. And as I was hopping around, mindful of the rest of the shrapnel, securing a broom for Nous, the fairly deep cut made by the impact decided to bleed. Wet clean-up, aisle one! Two bandaids later, the bleeding had stopped. Managed to get the damn thing into a boot (concert. Not missing it. Fuck that.) and off we went. But it hurt the whole night, and really hurt whenever there was any pressure on it. But today, the swelling's down, the bruise has revealed itself as localized (kinda like a goose-egg. About that size, too), the cut is scabbed, and walking is okay. So there. Bullet (and urgent care) dodged.

And then today, which is technically a brand new week, we had The Incident In The Parking Lot.

We're walking to Trader Joe's for the weekly grocery run and we spot this asshole in a hot-rodded Camero. He guns past a car on a two-lane residential street. Asshole, we think. Then we watch him blast into the TJ's parking lot and do the same thing on one of the access streets. Clearly a man with a deathwish. Unfortunately, the dead party would be whoever he hit. That parking lot is full of elderly folks from the housing complex across the street, and moms with kids, and just people. It's also super narrow and stupid-twisty. Anyway. As we're making our way across it, who should come blasting up our aisle? Yes. Camaro-dick. He whipped into an open space maybe 5 feet in front of us, cutting us off very nicely. He showed no indication of having noticed two people crossing the aisle. Okay. We angled away from him, as if he were a rabid rhino on meth withdrawal.

At that point, he decided he'd fucked up his entry-angle and slammed his car into reverse to try, try again.

He missed me by 4 inches. I kid you not.

You know how some people get fight or flight? I'm pretty much always fight. I yelled at him, which penetrated the super loud music coming out of the open windows. Then I came around the driver's side.

"Goddamned motherfucking asshole watch where you're going what the fuck you almost hit me!"

Got my first look at the guy. Uncharitably, it kinda looked like this car might be his prosthetic masculinity. And his eyes got egg-sized when he grokked that I was yelling at him and coming at him and holy shit. 

Then Nous came around behind me--long hair, black leather jacket, beard, looking every inch the old-school black metalhead, yelling his own stream of invective. I believe it was "learn to fucking drive, you asshole."

Guy held up a peace sign, two fingers, looking scared. Right, guy. Peace. What the fuck ever. But by now, the brain reasserts itself: You are yelling profanity in a public place. It does not matter how scared and angry you are. Stop it.

So we walked away. As we're going toward the Trader Joe's (and the adrenaline slammed home into shakes and chest pain), the car next up the aisle rolled down its passenger window. Great.  I'm about to get chewed out for public profanity by some mom with kids. But the woman stuck her head out and said, "Good for you! Yes! You tell him!" and I realized that's the car Asshole burned past on the residential street.

I expected my mother to scold me for the whole public profanity thing. Instead, she laughed out loud. "You said that to him?"

"I did."

My father, when told the story, sighed and chuckled. I could imagine him shaking his head. "You know, your mother yelled quite a stream of swear words in German at a guy in Germany who ran into me. She really chewed him out. Made him apologize. Really embarrassed him."

Like mother, like daughter.

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I miss the Livejournal 'what's playing' feature. So, what's playing: Kidneythieves, "Taxicab Messiah."