I'm Just Sayin' . . . (#3)
Yesterday, being Monday, was the famous frtl mrtl's "Motif Monday," wherein all those in favor of doing so write something on the "Monday Motif," which mrtl herself assigns (she's a teacher, they can do that sort of thing). And I did do the assignment yesterday, honestly I did, but I just couldn't bring myself to post it because it was something like "Gettin' Pissy Wit It," or pissy things or things that get you pissed. And yesterday was one of my very favorite days of the year. Now you know that I don't often rant and complain here at WWIT, in fact, I've only done it twice before (or more; I really can't remember). And since yesterday was a day on which Jif, LG and I had been invited to go to Baltimore with Nana, PopPop, 2/3 of Jif's sibs and their spouses, and 5 nieces and nephews dressed in red, white and blue; and since we'd been invited, while there, to dine at the Cheesecake Factory, and then retire to Nana and PopPop's hotel room in the lovely Stouffer's Renaissance Harborplace Hotel, from which we had a bird's eye view of the harbor, which had a barge, which had fireworks . . . what was I saying? Yea, since all that, how could I, in good conscience, complain about anything at all?
I mean, what did I have to be pissed about? That is, I mean, except for the fact that after dining at the aforementioned Cheesecake Factory, my whole party, and by party, I mean FAMILY, and by family I mean my husband of 22 years, all the in-laws present, and 6 children dressed in red, white and blue, what was I saying? Oh, yea, what did I have to complain about, except for the fact that they LEFT ME.
And by "left me," I just mean that while I was in the long-lined ladies' room, they FREAKIN' LEFT ME. And by that I just mean that they departed the restaurant and WENT BACK TO THE HOTEL WITHOUT ME.
But I didn't have that to complain about until very late in the day, so I decided to save my pissy post for Tuesday. This is what it said:
Blake, at the Bob Evans on Route 100. When we are in a hurry, trading off LG (I hand her off to Jif when he gets off from work and I'm on my way in for my evening clients), we have been known to meet and dine at Bob Evans. Down on the farm. Blake is a waiter. Blake is so friendly. He has the biggest, nicest smile. And he says that thing that ALWAYS annoys me when a waitperson says it. Because it's a BIG FAT LIE.
He says, "My name is Blake, and I'm going to take care of you." Take care of me. He's going to take care of me? Does he have any idea how high maintenance I can be? Blake, it's just not true.
Just how do you plan to take care of me? Are you going to take care of me sexually? You're kinda cute, a little young, MY HUSBAND IS RIGHT HERE, BLAKE. And again, I'm high maintenance; your mouth is writing checks that your body can't cash.
Or do you mean you're going to take care of me financially? Because I will bring in my little Mary Engelbreit pocket folder full of bills. You are a waiter at Bob Evans, Blake. Have you seen the bills in those pockets? I just don't believe you.
Or do you mean that you will minister to me when I'm feeling poorly? If I have tummy trouble, will you bring me some tea and toast? Yea, OK, but will you bring it to my bed? Will you massage the back of my neck when a migraine is coming? I just don't believe you, Blake. You're not going to take care of me at all, are you Blake? You were just leading me on.
Try this: "My name is Blake, and I will bring you some reasonably priced, average-tasting food, in a timely manner, and I'll be quite pleasant to you while I'm doing it." Blake, you cannot even imagine the kind of tip you would get from me, if you would just TELL THE TRUTH.
UPDATE: Last night at the Cheesecake Factory, GUESS WHAT our waitress, Laura, promised me? She said, "I'm going to take REAL GOOD care of you." Feh! We know how that turned out. They lie.
The girl at the pharmacy cash register in CVS (the story is Jif's). Jif woke up on Saturday morning at 4 a.m. That is like me; that is NOT like him. I woke up shortly after that and came downstairs to check on him. He was in serious pain. His left ear was in serious pain. At 8:30, we called the doctor, who agreed to see him at 10:30. (Yes, we have docs who will see us on Saturday mornings. I give thanks for that, right here in the midst of this rant.)
He has a serious ear infection. Swimmers' ear, and then some. Pain. Unmistakeable left-ear PAIN. He gets a prescription for antibiotic drops. As the teen at the cash register delivers the meds into his hand, she says, as she has no doubt been trained to say, "Your doctor didn't say which ear. Did your doctor tell you which ear to use this in?"
And Jif says she said this to him in such a way as to imply, "Because I cannot give you this medicine to help alleviate your pain and halt the progression of the ever-increasing deafness that you are experiencing, UNLESS YOUR DOCTOR TOLD YOU WHICH EAR to put this medicine in." Jif is good, kind, even-tempered . . . but he was in pain. Still he maintained his composure.
"I KNOW which ear to put it in. It's the left." She was still wary; he didn't say "the DOCTOR SAID . . . "
"It's the one that really hurts," he tells her. He said that ear felt like it was on fire; there must have been enough of that fire that came through in his voice, so that the ear-drop Nazi gave up the goods at that point.
CVS pharmacy cashiers, people KNOW where it hurts on their own bodies. Some of them will even be willing to give you a demonstration of where and how it hurts, if you delay their getting their meds while you ask ridiculous questions. THINK, just a little bit, for just a moment.
Bo Bice, American Idol boy. You seem like a nice enough guy. You do have a pleasant voice and you do OK with a guitar. But I must ask the songwriters of the world to write you some songs, and in the meantime, I must ask you to cease and desist singing songs that have NO BUSINESS being sung by anyone other than the original artists. You are messing with holy pop/rock ground, Bo, and it disturbs me greatly.
The first I noticed this nasty habit of yours was when I heard you sing "Vehicle." I don't know how long you've been doing this, since I only watch American Idol the first few weeks of the competition for its comedic value. But I've heard you singing "Vehicle" recently on your TV appearances. You don't do it better than "The Ides of March" did it. Some things, including, but not limited to, perfect songs and movies, don't need to be redone. They were done right the first time. And anyway, Bo, no one really even uses the word "vehicle" anymore, unless it's followed by the words "safety" or "emissions." Who would watch a show called, "Pimp My Vehicle"? You see what I'm saying?
And it gets worse. You're killing me, Bo. "Drift Away." Dobie Gray. That song is on my short list of best songs, ever. It is darn near sacred. I am all in favor of cover bands paying tribute to great songs and great artists by performing their versions of the work. But not re-recording for profit, and not when some people have never even heard the original and will think it's your song, Bo. That one is not yours. That one is Dobie's to sing (yes, I know a number of others have recorded it as well, but surely your mama taught you that just because the other kids are doing it, doesn't make it right. Would you jump off a bridge if Uncle Kracker told you to?). Gosh, I love that song. Call me an oldies snob, but I want the real deal with my "rhythm and rhyme and harmony." To "help me along, makin' me strong . . . "
"Day after day I'm more confused . . . "
I'm just sayin' . . .