Thursday, September 18, 2008

Heat on a Day Off

Is there anything so depressing as that mid-September day when the heater kicks on for the first time since early March? The WHOOSH of the unit as the flame catches. The stink of disuse that lingers for several hours. Of course, it usually happens the evening after you pull out the heavy bedspread from its summer storage. *sigh* Wearing socks around the house again. Ah there, it went off. Thirty minutes. I really don’t want to do anything today.

*sigh*

I didn’t sleep in all that much. But, to quote the great Roy Orbison, I did have “beautiful dreams.”

Day's Off Eve

Why is it that the whole work week you’re tired and tired and tired and then you come to the eve of your day off and you can’t sleep? Anticipation of sleeping in? Can’t wait to do nothing? Looking forward to watching Charlie Rose tonight?

I think it’s a combination of all of these. I have my to-do list right here: Drop off gift for a friend. Maybe stop by for a coffee at this place with an incredibly beautiful barista with an amazing body. Lunch at Long John Silver’s. Send out bills. Do laundry. Prep G.U.R.P.S. for Saturday.

That soreness I’ve been feeling is going away. Earlier in the week, at this time of night…lessee…lemme look…9:45PM Pacific time, I could barely keep my eyes open. On more than one occasion I would be startled awake by an especially loud commercial before snapping awake, sitting up groggily and absentmindedly wiping the sideways drool trail from my cheek.

I'm on my way home

I had an epiphany today. Regardless of whether you live 1 mile or 39 miles from work or school, once you’re done for the day, you just want to go home. You might have errands to run, your nose and stomach might be directing you attention towards Burger King, but the soreness in your shoulders hits the big red Override button and sets your cruise control for home.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Gas Station vs Me

So what the fuck is up with this?!?

I go to fuel up my car this foggy morning. I happen to stop at a 7-11 which has a gas station. First off, the pumps look weird. They’re low slung. Low to the ground. Second, the nozzle seems short. About 6 inches shorter than I’m used to seeing. I set it and prepare to forget it. I start walking to the squeegee bucket hanging from the side of a nearby pump when I hear the clank clank of metal on concrete. I turn around and see the hose and nozzle assembly on the ground, a small amount of gasoline dribbling out. I whisper a curse and re-set the nozzle. It takes this time.

I resume my trek to the squeegee station. As I’ve seen at other stations in recent months: the bucket’s filled with water…no soap, just water. And, as has been my luck lately, no paper towels. So I clean my windshield sans towel and I’m reminded of a move I’d seen a family friend make while making some household repairs some years back. He needed to blow his nose and had no hanky around so he squeezed a nostril and launched a nose goblin to the ground. You do what you can with what you have.

At this point, I hear the click of the pump indicating it has completed the fueling process. I approach my car. The hose and nozzle assembly chooses this moment to test my reflexes as it jumps from my car’s refueling port and drops to the ground. Of course, I get splattered with gasoline.

Then to top things off, I go to gather my receipt when the automated pump smiles it’s LED smile at me and says, “See attendant for receipt.” So I go inside. I was planning on getting a cuppa coffee anyway.

I first stop at the counter. Two clerks are putting away inventory, each trying to avoid eye contact with me in hopes of having the other one help me. One of them, a dumpy, double-chinned, inbred clerk, finally gives in and approaches me. I ask her for my receipt and tell her my pump number. She looks at me and asks, “Uh…how much was it?” I tell her that I was unsure of the amount. I seem to remember telling her the pump number sometime in the not to distant past. She looks at the console and rattles off a number, in the form of a question, which sounds about right. I look at her and, after a pause, I say “…sure.”

I go to get my coffee, pay for it and the gasoline and make my way onto work. Just my luck. “Alex, I’ll take Pump #2 for $1.95.” Oh, wait, I meant to say was “What is $1.95?” That’s it’s. That’s what I meant to say.



Idiots.

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Encounter on the Way Home From Work

Okay, okay, so it’s been a while since I’ve written. What can I say…I’ve been busy.

Well…to the job at hand.

Humans never cease to amaze me. Please notice that I didn’t say surprise. I said amaze. I chuckle when I see something like this anecdote I am about to relay to you.

So I’m driving home from work. I’m in the slow lane and signal to turn right. I have the green light, as does the traffic going in the opposite direction. So there’s this American made piece of shit Bigfoot type truck (I think it was a GM) that’s signaling to turn left and therefore going the same way I plan to. He keeps inching and inching into my path and the moustachioed, sunglass wearing homo gives me a look like I just kicked his puppy. He glides into the lane and I raise an eyebrow. Then, 2 Flips in some Honda or Toyota follow RIIIIGHT behind him, all the while avoiding eye contact with me.

The first one sees me as being in the wrong. The second one apparently believes that her time is more important than mine. Each has their own way of rationalizing their actions. They can sleep at night because even though I had the right-of-way, THEY, through some divine right handed down to them from a burning bush atop a nearby mountain, were fated to make that turn and I was in THEIR way.

Amazing.

There was an error in this gadget