Scotti went to a Bar Mitzvah today. I wanted to go too : ( but it was way too early, I didn't have anyone to watch Beau, and there was no way I was going to get my sick little monkey boy up by then, and I so want to be an honorary Jew. It's a Catholic Girl thing, my friend Monique would understand. Besides Jewish men are the best lov, ummm, companions on the planet. There may be some better lovers on Planet X in Dimension 4 but I'd have to meet them first and compare.
My bladder is moderately painful today. Hmmm, maybe I should report my bladder condition in here the way people report the weather, relatively stable but with a slight chance of pain.
I've just learned that I won't be taking any crap, from anyone, anymore. Sorry but I've reached that flood level, the one you indicate with your hand that says, I'm up to here, and if the water gets any higher I won't be able to breathe? That one. I mean I don't think I've attained that Michael Douglas in Falling Down level of fed-upness, but I'm definitely in a different kind of place. Suddenly I'm not as concerned about being sweet to everyone who treats me like dirt.
Watch out bitchy salesgirls, I won't be letting you get away with even the tiniest of infractions. Case in point, just minutes ago I called my pharmacy to order two prescription refills (you can pretty much count on accumulating quite a few of these as you age, much fun, and if you're creative you might be able to figure out what to do with all the empty bottles when you're through, I had to throw mine away, because I was beginning to hoard them and, well, it didn't look good for me,) and I got someone new, oh joy. I tell her the first prescription number and tap tap she enters it into the computer.
"There's no refill for that," she says curtly.
"Well, would you mind looking a little further down, I was just at my doctor's and I'm pretty certain there is."
"Oh, well, here it is, you gave me the wrong number."
Okay, now here's where the old Jacqui would have said, "Oh gosh I'm sorry about that, what's your name, you seem like such a lovely person, what's your favorite flower?" The new Jacqui counters with,
"No, I don't think so, I'm holding the bottle here in my hand and I can read�"
She interrupts with a,
"Yes, yes I'm sure, well we'll just go ahead and use this other number."
"No," I say getting defensive,
"I did not give you the wrong number. This is your label, so if there's a mistake, it must be on your end," after which I read her the number again and she reluctantly admits it was her misunderstanding. I'm loving this new me.
Last night at the cheap and crummy pizza restaurant, (you know maybe they should just call it that, Cheap and Crummy Pizza, how may I help you), I ordered two slices of thick crust with fresh tomatoes and onions. Hours later when the surly, hairnet wearing cook, if you could call him that, finally tossed my paper plate up on the counter I staggered over (this was fresh from my encounter with the monsters at the vet hospital) and came eye level with two slices of sausage pizza.
"This is sausage pizza." I said, to anyone who might want to take an interest.
The cook glared at me as if he wanted to say, "I aint making this again."
The little over-made-up Latin girl behind the counter, who had been busy making big flirty eyes, at the married, Persian, restaurant owner, sort of gave me a cursory glance.
"Yes, sausage pizza. Thas what you ordered."
"Oh no I did not."
"Oh yes you did, sausage pizza!"
"I'm a vegetarian, I would NEVER order a sausage pizza!"
Catching the angry glance of the cook I decided to resort to friendly pleading Spanish.
"Yo soy vegetariana, no es possible que me orden una pizza con carne. Lo siento, pero no era mi culpa."
Finally flirty girl said,
"Okay, we make you another," like she was doing me a huge favor, and told the chef, who furled his big sweaty brow.
Then just when she thought she'd gotten away with it, I saw her print out the tape from the register, and right in front of her Persian love factory, I asked to see it, tomato and onion, why lookey here.
The cook looked so pissed I worried he was going to spit on my food.
Well, to be honest I always worry they're going to spit in my food. I speak from experience as the soon to be, (Lord let it be soon), ex-wife of a waiter with a family full of Mexican and Italian restaurant owners. You don't ever want to piss off the cook. He will literally spit or pee in your soup if you give him any reason to. "Ummmmm this salsa is way to hot, is there any way I could get something milder." "Sure guerra (white girl), let me just take that back to the cook, I'll have him give that a little pee for ya."
Do you think this is how New Yorkers got to be the way they are, so fed up with taking other people's crap that their overloaded nervous systems switched into a kind of hyper-defendedness mode? Not to bore you with a cliche, but you know what I mean, the whole Robert Deniro, "You talkin' to me," kinda thing? Nothing against New Yorkers, wish I could afford to be one, but you know you're kinda brusk and rude. Now I think we're following suit, maybe it has something to do with overcrowding or competing for goods and parking spaces.