Of course, that was on the immediate heels of my statement, “The fuck you are”, so…maybe there’s a smidge of credibility to her incredulity.
Maybe.
Of course, my statement was said as I crossed the threshold of my building’s entry and she announced coming in from the outside – as the callbox was dialing up to whomever she was on her way to visit – “Oh, great! I’ll follow you in!” as is she were doing me a favor. My full statement – sandwiching her shocked assessment of my…couth – was “The fuck you are, since I’m clearly leaving – and you can’t use the elevator unless you’re buzzed in.”
See? Context.
It wasn’t that rude.
Especially when compared to her brazen entitlement at bypassing my building’s security. That’s the truly rude bullshittery.
I heard her muttering “I thought Portlanders were supposed to be nice” loud enough for my benefit, and lamented the energy she wasted trying to offend me. Because, care…I do not.
I used to be nicer about it, but I’m done with that. Let people be offended, the result is going to be the same, them trying to get what they want regardless of what’s right.
Oooh, key word right there.
How are people so blind to their own wants that they simply ignore the reality that their want came with the assumption that rules are for other people?
You all know by now how much live music means to me. It’s a factor in my well being. One I had let go of way too soon and had somehow convinced myself that hitting up a concert once or twice a decade was…fine.
Of course, it was a source of pleasure that was partially withheld because of the musical tastes of some of the guys I dated. I mean, Slipknot…really?!?
But after I stopped dating, I never picked it back up. Half a decade or so later, no one was going to concerts for a good 30 months, so everyone was on an even footing then.
It was during my temp gig era at the company I now work for that I heard that my local radio station was reopening their Live Performance Lounge – with the last artist to play it before everything shut down. Talk about poetic.
Well, I want in on that – Me
And that was pretty much it. I cried during that performance. I remembered two things during that show:
First: live music – good live music – is a communal experience. Not to take away from the energy of a crowd of strangers, but the performative cryers who absolutely lose their shit or throw a bra or…I dunno, but it’s not about them. It’s the connection the artist makes with the crowd for me. Are they phoning it in, just collecting a paycheck? Or are they there sharing the stories behind the music? There’s a distinct difference.
Second: do not underestimate the power of a small venue. I’ve been to probably two dozen shows at the KINK Lounge since it reopened and they are incredible. Some acts are big name artists that don’t have to do it, but I think crave the same connection with their crowd I’m talking about. Not everyone can pull a Freddie Mercury at Live Aid at Wembley out of their ass. Other acts have been relative unknowns – like catching Bono’s kid’s band when they rolled through town – or even acts of the sister stations in the building. It reminded me of the Portland experience of the 90s, just being out bar-hopping on weekends and stumbling wandering into a bar with a live band and a $5-10 cover that had a band no one had ever(clear) heard of and having a fanfriggintastic experience.
Well, let me tell you…I’m me – curmudgeonly flaws and all – so I usually go to shows alone. My drinking buddy – I think we’ll just call DB from here in out in a nod to infamous Pacific Northwest characters, as he is one in his own right – actually ended up triple-booked one night last summer and gifted me his ticket to Bonnie Raitt’s show that night. His fourth row ticket. That’s when it really crystallized for me: I don’t need to have a date to a show to justify going.
Since then, I’ve gone to two shows with him and taken two former Work Wives to a total of three shows at the KINK Lounge.
But mostly, I’m on my own.
In 2022, I spent $36 total on concert tickets and saw dozens of shows. This year, I’ve already seen nearly two dozen shows and I’ve spent…$12. Why? Because I wanted to see the top 5 new bands in Portland and figured it was worth it. It was a solid 60% worth it, with partial credit to a fourth band whose music <cough, cough> Slipknot <cough> was not my style but was still well executed. And that show was still the total 90s throwback vibe.
That was last Friday and Saturday and Sunday I had tickets to two shows at a new outdoor venue way South of town. I asked one of the Work Wives if she wanted to go and she committed to Saturday and volunteered to drive – sign of a good upbringing, IMO. Later she picked up Sunday, too when her fiancé flaked on her. On s holiday weekend. To go camping alone…like fiancés do.
A little back story, this Work Wife had kind of been bouncing around trying to find the right career situation for herself. Nothing is really sticking, and some of the situations are down right shitty. One job back, she was a Corporate Sales Manager for a “local” boutique hotel. They put her in the only below grade office in the place, between the laundry room and the trash. Her body did not react well to that environment and she was some kind of sick most days. Plus, leadership asked her why she wasn’t doing more site visits – and as if her office location wasn’t enough…<waves around vaguely at Portland sidewalks>
So she quit.
Sure enough, her constant hacking and nose blowing cleared up within days of her going to work for a company whose goal-models seem to be Enron and FTX.
Until this weekend.
She coughed and hacked all the way there and back in the car both days. At one point, she coughed directly in my face while we stood in line for food. There go those points she scored for being raised right earlier. Her parents were both in healthcare for Pete’s sake!
Whatever, though. Grass allergies had been all over the news lately and accidents happen.
Until I started feeling symptomatic on Monday night.
I cancelled my plans with the fam on the 4th and spent the day on the couch.
Today, I woke up feeling feverish. I couldn’t really tell if it was fever-fever or just my body temperature rising as I woke up. However, when I mentioned it to my boss, she insisted I take the day off. I had already taken some DayQuil and was mid-caffeination, so I kind of dragged my feet on it. Plus, it’s Quarter-End, the end of the First Half and the beginning of a new month, which meant there were time-sensitive things to do.
But I logged off after wrapping that stuff up by 11 and took the rest of the day.
I mention I’m still not feeling great – better, but not great – to the Silver Fox and eventually mention I’m worried it might be COVID, even though my symptoms are different than when I did have it. I’m delivering and fetching him from a procedure on Friday morning- maybe – but he was already off to the races, insisting I take a test and self-escalating to “I’m not getting in your car without a mask!” and “I need to find another ride!”
He doesn’t need me for these episodes, but I hardly help de-escalate his situation by being…myself.
I mean, if it’s COVID, I might die, but by all means, make your procedure the big issue here. <—that’s supposed to come off ironical.
Not that doctor appointments aren’t the main reason he comes to town. Well, and haircuts. And manicures for his dog.
But I’m delusionally happily in his Top 5 reasons to visit. And I’m sure he’d make an exception to come up for my funeral. Not to visit me in the hospital, because that’s an obvious cry for attention and he’d see right through that. And he practically insisted I go to his place yesterday since my AC is out and it’s in the high 80s/low 90s. But, again, if it’s COVID and he’s coming up Thursday for his appointment..,I’m not taking my germs on the road like that.
Anyway, that snark is all to distract me from my actual frustration with the Work Wife. While the SF was…I dunno…recreating, I was also texting her. I just casually mentioned that I’d been sick since Monday night and was worried she might be, too.
Very neutral. I tried to leave the door open for her to, y’know, own anything that needed owning. I get back an “I feel fine, can I bring you anything?”
Oh-feckin’-blivious.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I knew exactly what I was doing. The Gays re-wrote obliviousness with an overdose of innocence, and if I were straight and kids really were the STI I joke about them being? Well, the Partidge Family and Osmonds would have nothing on my brood.
All I’m saying is I know how to make a safe space for honest conversation – even though The Fox would not back me up on this after the crap I pulled on him today. And it takes two. All I can do is open the door and sit at the table. If no one joins me, well, I don’t mind my own company.
But someday The Fox will back my integrity up. Maybe in my eulogy.
I was just left aghast at the obliviousness and total lack of self-awareness it would take to allow yourself to forget you basically coughed into someone’s face.
Jesus. I would have been mortified if I’d done that. I certainly wouldn’t forget it anytime soon.
Anyway, after petulantly making the SF wait several hours, I gave myself a test. Because
I certainly didn’t want COVID, any more than I wanted to spend a dozen hours over the weekend with someone whose bubble prevented them from seeing a clear causal relationship between time spent with them while they hack and cough and the onset of sickness. At the same time, I remember how COVID felt last time – the words I used were “The recovery from the vaccine was worse than the illness”.
This was not that.
Still, test I did take. Mmm-hmm.
I still don’t know if I’ll be at 100% by Friday morning, but I have also already spun myself up for wearing a mask out of respect to my friend and the hospital. That’s an easy call, because I was raised right, and mostly it stuck.
So, then I went and celebrated by buying myself one ticket to the Cowboy Junkies show next Thursday. Gotta reclaim what started this whole episode in the first place, right?
True to form, it rained passive-aggressively all day.
Not to be outdone, this year the Pride Karensmanagers moved our parade from Father’s Day into mid-July.
That’ll take care of the rain issue, almost certainly. However, when I heard the news, my question what, “What, we’re suddenly over our community’s collective daddy issues?”
The person who’d shared the news with me got a good chuckle out of that, but offered a more serious explanation. It seems with this being not just Father’s Day weekend but now also a long weekend for America’s newest national holiday – Juneteenth – plus all the other Portland summer weekend goings-on…they just felt it was the respectful thing to do.
This weekend has been both Father’s Day and summer since before Stonewall. The only new thing here is Juneteenth. Despite our community’s all-inclusive PR blitzes, I’ve not met a more concentrated population of performative supporters in my life, so the fagnanimous posturing of the move of the parade from June to July falls flat on this pair of jaded ears.
I’ll chalk it up to something likely much nearer the reality: divas don’t share a spotlight. But they can spin it however they want. I’ll just sit over here in my little corner of the Internet and fact check their spin.
But maybe it’s closer to my reality: my summer body could use another month to get ready for not being ready for being out in the streets shirtless. Not that I’m going to the parade…
Glad to get that annual denial out of the way.
I do miss the parade set up happening in front of my building. That always gives me the attitude adjustment I need for Pride.
I hate to wear mine out. Preferably, I’m self-aware enough to know when I’m no longer welcome.
TBH, though, c’mon…I’m an absolute gem. Who would want my roundness around?
Nonetheless, this past six weeks, I’ve been both on a bar(tender) embargo of my local and actually trying to be a better, less fluffy version of my own Xtopher-ness.
Think less “How long was this body lost at sea?” goals than actually aspiring to sort of physique.
But my local surprised me today by being open in a holiday – so I had to stop in.
I’d been to a rooftop gathering at the Silver Fox’s building. He was not there, because: life. But my drinking buddy was there as well as a couple of other neighbors I occasionally run into at the local bellying up place.
The occasion? My drinking buddy had driven to a family reunion in Boise and timed his Portland departure to arrive when my favorite brewery opens at 2 PM. Credit due: it’s also located in the hometown of the SF, so…it’s kind of my adopted favorite brewery. If that’s even a thing.
Rest assured, I’ve have figured it out on my own eventually.
So, there I was, bellied up. But just for one. I had planned to stop at the neighborhood Brodega for a lil snacky-snack and some backup beers after Barley Brown-on-the-roof with (most of) the gang., but since they were open…belly up, I will.
Three beers later – ok, I’m my defense after my first, the chef joined me and the the damn owner sat down, which clearly mandated a third…I mean, not as clearly as a comped drink would have, but this just is not that kind of place – there I was: leaving.
Of all the head-scratchingest things, the chef and owner both seemed surprised I was leaving. Luckily, this song just happened to be on, which made my departure an obvious and non-negotiable requirement. No one would doubt for a moment that my grumpy old ass had been directed any number of times to leave immediately for the netherworld.
I went to breakfast with MomDonna today, because: Mother’s Day, you buncha idiots.
I mentioned when she asked what I’ve been up to – after the initial flashback panic to when she’d ask me that as a kid, knowing full well that I’d been up to being a little shit – that I’d been mostly staying home, since it was a Dry Week. Which basically means I’d watched a lot of movies, including A Man Called Otto.
Me: I was actually kind of surprised that I liked it. It didn’t seem to get good word of mouth during its release.
Mom: You know, we watched that, too. But it was so sad, with all the suicides –
Me: Gotta love a movie with a warning label!
Mom: – that we had to watch another movie right afterward. Something fluffy. What was it honey? Something about taking a gigolo to a wedding.
Me: <blinks>
Mom: Who was the girl in that?
Me: Debra Messing.
Mom: I think that’s the only movie I remember her doing. Of course, your father thought it was Amy Adams, but I knew that wasn’t right. And who was that boy?
Me: Dermot Mulroney. Also, you’re kidding. Wedding Date? I watched it right afterward, too!
Which just led to an entire side conversation about why dad would watch that movie – or care that they did. Short answer: young Amy Adams. When mom heard that, something snapped into place with her and I could see the realization that she’d been outfoxed by dad’s inner Bill Clinton, which he usually keeps well hidden.
Of course, I knew the next maternally owned synapse that fired started a list of ways in which dad would slowly pay for low key tricking my mother and enjoying a movie he normally wouldn’t for reasons she would think he totally shouldn’t.
Marriage, amirite?
All of this was a welcome distraction from the potential conversation that I am Otto.
And I admit it.
Not because people are idiots – which, they totally are. Here’s how I know people are idiots: they don’t know it.
But, rather, because I never read the source material for the movie. That would be a book called A Man Called Öve.
Maybe a bunch of my gentle readers already knew that. Probably so, since I don’t just give away the honor of being excluded from the population I commonly refer to as Stupid Americans. That has to be earned by demonstrating intelligence or good taste or critical thinking skills. All things that following my blog would certainly indicate.
However, the reason I’m sure many people did not know what the source material is is because the movie originally took the book’s title, but it didn’t test well, so they changed it. Likely, said testing likely occurred with the aforementioned Stupid Americans.
We’re fighting a culture battle in this country that is not at all figuratively a battle of wits. Remember: never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups.
So, that’s how we end up with the movie’s name.
But that’s not the point. Or the full point, anyway.
The point is that I never read the book.
I had thought it looked like one I’d appreciate, but never deigned to find out. You see, I was working at the airport at the time. My business was running five news/gift shops, so I definitely saw the book. Not just daily when I made rounds to my stores, but dozens of times on the concourses being carried conspicuously by the unwashed masses that also looked like they hadn’t a clue what they were doing or where they were going. Or how that book ended up in their hand.
There they were, just careening – or more likely, moseying – down the concourses while I moved about with a determined gait and obvious focus as I navigated around them. More often than not, a close call would cause me to mutter some iteration of Otto’s frequent pejorative: idiots.
That is what struck me about Otto: his and my own righteous grumpopatomus tendencies.
Certainly, his were kinder, having limited himself to the sole label of “idiot”. Also certain, in real life those labels were likely cleaned up to allow book and ticket buyers the deniability of being included as targets of Öve/Otto’s ire.
Can’t bite the hand of the idiots that feed you, after all.
As an example of that phenomenon, here’s a few examples of how this manifests in my day to day. Most of the time, it’s fairly gentle – unless you’re the target.
If the perceived offense is particularly WTF, they’ll earn something closer to this.
But I try to reserve that for my friends and closer acquaintances. They get me enough to not be offended. Or when I’m alone in my car, which happens often. The expletive, not the alone in my car part – which should be assumed. Nowadays when I’m in my car it’s usually to take some lazy idiot his chicken nuggies.
For the rest of those fucking idiots, I keep it in my head. I know them well enough to know they’d rather go to the trouble of retaliating for my correct assessment versus accepting the feedback and working toward a better version of themselves. It’s easier to just be a problem for everyone else.
It still surprises me that none of my friends made the connection. To me, at any rate. Who knows, it’s entirely possible they saw my personality in that character but just didn’t mention it. I mean, the day after this Portlandia sketch aired I woke up to several texts and emails calling me out…but I’d missed it because the show was on too late and I was already in bed!
I went to breakfast with MomDonna today, because: Mother’s Day, you buncha idiots.
I mentioned when she asked what I’ve been up to – after the initial flashback panic to when she’d ask me that as a kid, knowing full well that I’d been up to being a little shit – that I’d been mostly staying home, since it was a Dry Week. Which basically means I’d watched a lot of movies, including A Man Called Otto.
Me: I was actually kind of surprised that I liked it. It didn’t seem to get good word of mouth during its release.
Mom: You know, we watched that, too. But it was so sad, with all the suicides –
Me: Gotta love a movie with a warning label!
Mom: – that we had to watch another movie right afterward. Something fluffy. What was it honey? Something about taking a gigolo to a wedding.
Me: <blinks>
Mom: Who was the girl in that?
Me: Debra Messing.
Mom: I think that’s the only movie I remember her doing. Of course, your father thought it was Amy Adams, but I knew that wasn’t right. And who was that boy?
Me: Dermot Mulroney. Also, you’re kidding. Wedding Date? I watched it right afterward, too!
Which just led to an entire side conversation about why dad would watch that movie – or care that they did. Short answer: young Amy Adams. When mom heard that, something snapped into place with her and I could see the realization that she’d been outfoxed by dad’s inner Bill Clinton, which he usually keeps well hidden.
Of course, I knew the next maternally owned synapse that fired started a list of ways in which dad would slowly pay for low key tricking my mother and enjoying a movie he normally wouldn’t for reasons she would think he totally shouldn’t.
Marriage, amirite?
All of this was a welcome distraction from the potential conversation that I am Otto.
And I admit it.
Not because people are idiots – which, they totally are. Here’s how I know people are idiots: they don’t know it.
But, rather, because I never read the source material for the movie. That would be a book called A Man Called Öve.
Maybe a bunch of my gentle readers already knew that. Probably so, since I don’t just give away the honor of being excluded from the population I commonly refer to as Stupid Americans. That has to be earned by demonstrating intelligence or good taste or critical thinking skills. All things that following my blog would certainly indicate.
However, the reason I’m sure many people did not know what the source material is is because the movie originally took the book’s title, but it didn’t test well, so they changed it. Likely, said testing likely occurred with the aforementioned Stupid Americans.
We’re fighting a culture battle in this country that is not at all figuratively a battle of wits. Remember: never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups.
So, that’s how we end up with the movie’s name.
But that’s not the point. Or the full point, anyway.
The point is that I never read the book.
I had thought it looked like one I’d appreciate, but never deigned to find out. You see, I was working at the airport at the time. My business was running five news/gift shops, so I definitely saw the book. Not just daily when I made rounds to my stores, but dozens of times on the concourses being carried conspicuously by the unwashed masses that also looked like they hadn’t a clue what they were doing or where they were going. Or how that book ended up in their hand.
There they were, just careening – or more likely, moseying – down the concourses while I moved about with a determined gait and obvious focus as I navigated around them. More often than not, a close call would cause me to mutter some iteration of Otto’s frequent pejorative: idiots.
That is what struck me about Otto: his and my own righteous grumpopatomus tendencies.
Certainly, his were kinder, having limited himself to the sole label of “idiot”. Also certain, in real life those labels were likely cleaned up to allow book and ticket buyers the deniability of being included as targets of Öve/Otto’s ire.
Can’t bite the hand of the idiots that feed you, after all.
As an example of that phenomenon, here’s a few examples of how this manifests in my day to day. Most of the time, it’s fairly gentle – unless you’re the target.
If the perceived offense is particularly WTF, they’ll earn something closer to this.
But I try to reserve that for my friends and closer acquaintances. They get me enough to not be offended. Or when I’m alone in my car, which happens often. The expletive, not the alone in my car part – which should be assumed. Nowadays when I’m in my car it’s usually to take some lazy idiot his chicken nuggies.
For the rest of those fucking idiots, I keep it in my head. I know them well enough to know they’d rather go to the trouble of retaliating for my correct assessment versus accepting the feedback and working toward a better version of themselves. It’s easier to just be a problem for everyone else.
It still surprises me that none of my friends made the connection. To me, at any rate. Who knows, it’s entirely possible they saw my personality in that character but just didn’t mention it. I mean, the day after this Portlandia sketch aired I woke up to several texts and emails calling me out…but I’d missed it because the show was on too late and I was already in bed!
I know I should just call this Shrinkflation: Part 2 – because you just know this ain’t the end of nothing – but I have too many numbered series on this blog, so I didn’t wanna. However, who knows when I’ll get around to being pissed enough about this phenomenon – or some random and mildly annoying aspect of it that probably only I notice – to add a third installment to the Shrinkflation saga?
Even in starting this post, two other things I should probably post about instead have caused me to almost abandon this entry. And you can rest assured I’ll probably forget what they were by the time I finish this.
Here’s the deal, though, it’s getting worse! And if you’re recreationally conspiracy theory minded, as I am, it’s simply out of control.
Now, I should note that this is undoubtedly enhanced by my Saturday night of doing nothing. I’m incensed over a potentially imagined recent offense at my local watering hole, so haven’t been there at all this weekend. Making matters worse is that the Silver Fox was in town, but had other plans for his Saturday night. Assignations, if you will.
Ergo: I was in my own.
Since I wasn’t going to Tanner Creek Tavern, and wasn’t going to risk going to any other of my haunts since they invariably lead to an expensive trip to the Reverse ATM, I decided to have a Dry Weekend.
And this brings us back to the cost of bubble water in Portland.
Before, I was mainly pointing out the difference in price a brand name can cost a consumer – cost of advertising be damned, since even the less glamorous brands I mentioned in that post advertise. The thought behind that post was enough to make me pony up for a Soda Stream and just make my own.
Sadly, just when I needed a refill, my nearest Bed, Bath & Beyond closed. A week later, I decided to order a new tank of CO2 on their website. They were out of stock on the singles and I didn’t want to order a two-pack, since I already had one empty and three seemed…fraught. I need to keep my tank rotation at two.
So I’ve had none. And truthfully, my bubble water consumption is down. I haven’t pivoted back to soda – at least not completely. I’d say the non-alcoholic beverage split is 50% soda, 35% still water (in a victory my liver and kidneys gave up on ever seeing last century) and 15% bubble water.
I’ll check that math a half dozen times before I publish this post and still get it wrong.
Why was I suddenly so resistant to buying bubble water? They committed an egregious – to only me, I’m sure – offense. The industry seemed to pivot in unison from 12-pack cans to 8-pack cans. Without lowering the price!
That’s very not ok.
A) an 8-pack is an insufficient quantity. That’s like a two day supply. Does not compute.
B) compounding that minimal supply is my retroactive offense at paying too much in the past simply by not taking advantage of the three 12-packs/$10 (or $11, once inflation started ticking up) deals because I didn’t want to make multiple trips to my car for groceries. Now I’d be making multiple trips for two 8-packs simply to have a reasonable supply on hand versus the oversupply situation of the past deals I’d eschewed in support of my inherent laziness.
Obviously, I was completely powerless in this situation that was clearly quite beyond my control. Just look at what happened last time I tried to do something: an entire Bed, Bath & Beyond closed! Obviously, challenging the system has a high price.
Nevertheless, last night I realized that the situation had deteriorated even further.
Now these loathsome 8-packs are going for $4.49. That’s $.50 more than I was paying for 12-packs a year ago!
This is not ok.
Is there some sort of cabal of bubble water producing companies I’m not aware of? An OPEC for enhanced drinking waters? The Organization of Bubble Water Producing Companies…OBWPC? An organization powerful enough to take retaliatory steps to close a big box retail location?
I do not know. But as a consumer, I will dare to speak for us all when I say that I am not down for this sort of corporate rogering.
Making this situation even more rewarding to my recreational conspiracy theorist is the timing of my realization: the very week that BB&B announced the closing of its remaining stores.
Going hmmmm at things that make you, am I.
The latest price increase is poorly-timed for an innocent industry. Although, I’ve clearly made the case for conviction in the court of public (me) opinion.
It’s enough to make me consider my options. Namely: trekking out to suburbia to a remaining – for now – BB&B for a refill cartridge or even trying a Walmart – since the Triple-B Ranch has proven its proficiency at being out of stock on these in the past, when things were only bad for them and not in their current state of cataclysm.
The Silver Fox suggested Amazon this morning during our coffee walk. And, yes, obviously. But also, no, because of all the bad. Also, I checked and shipping on CO2 cartridges is a full week, so…
Although, they do offset their corporate awfulness by offering a $15 gift card with their canister exchange program. Mind you, you got a $15 credit with the in-store canister exchanges at brick and mortar retailers, so it’s kind of same shit, different marketing. Plus, Walmart offers the same program, not that they aren’t just as bad – or worse – on a corporate level.
I just know I’m going to end up driving all over kingdom come to rectify this – and then still end up ordering future replacements through either Amazon or Walmart.
It’ll be Walmart, strictly for this reason. Fifteen bucks buys a lot of cheap Mac & Cheese. But I’m just as likely to say fuck it and go back to soda. Stay tuned.
Until then, just know my neurotic ass will be tying itself into absolute pretzels.
Also, I just had a premonition that Shrinkflation 3: The Unmitigated Gall will be about me discovering that Walmart’s $.47 Mac & Cheese – $.34 on sale! – has become $.60/box, reducing the buying power of my $15 exchange program gift card by one-third.
Goddamn, I am craving Mac & Cheese something awful now….
Crotch Goblins. This is how a friend of mine referred to the children of one of her friends. Now that I think about it, I think she told me that’s what her friend calls her very own kids.
Regardless, I can’t unhear it or unthink it now.
Crotch Goblins. How delightfully graphic. It’s also malleable enough to be mistaken for an affectionate nickname. Entirely unlike the nick that I’ve used for kids for decades: STDs.
Whatever you call them, I’d just like to share what is apparently uncommon knowledge with parents everywhere: leave them in the suburbs, will you? I live in the city so I generally only have to deal with people’s progeny once they’ve at least reached a legal drinking age. I still have no use for them at that point, but at least I can drink around them (to make them more tolerable) without feeling like I’m ginfluencing them.
I’m tired of coming across these entire families where none should be. I accept the fact that because of our current houseless problems in Portland, I have to engage in the mental exercise of judging whether the sidewalk excrement I encounter is the result of a lazy human or a homeless human. That’s really all the concession I care to make regarding my urban life extras.
When people bring their children into this environment, it’s unnecessarily taxing to grumpy old Xtopher. First, I have to weigh whether the parents are selfishly dragging their kids along on an urban adventure they wanted to indulge in but we’re too cheap to pay a sitter for or if they are simply bad parents all-around. Bright side: I would never know or even think about it if they’d just left the kids in the subs. Y’know? This is hard to have a “one rule fits all” point of view on since the Oregon Zoo is walkable from my home downtown, same with OMSI (the Oregon Museum of Science & Industry), which is a frequent field trip destination for the area schools.
Fun Fact, if you’ve ever seen this film:
Then you’ve seen one of OMSI’s main attractions:
But I’ve drifted slightly off topic, I’m just showing you that I know that the People’s Republic of Portland has some built in “fun for the whole family” allure.
However, that does not extend to my breakfasts with the parents. I am the appropriate age child for parents to bring to town. When my mother shushed my cursing at breakfast this morning and reminded me of the destination for the plate of waffles – a child accompanied by three adults at the table behind me – that prompted me to say “That meal is an open invitation for fucking diabetes!”, well…that was too much.
With the exact amount of contrition the situation warranted, I pivoted to “Fine, ducking diabetes! But if they are so concerned for the well being of their Crotch Goblin, maybe don’t bring them to a dive restaurant that is literally alongside the railroad tracks down by the river.”
Am I being unreasonable here? I mean, the guy at the other table behind me finished a beer as I was walking in, ordered another as I sat down and a couple sips later, executed an admirable three-point turn on his scooter so he could go out and smoke a couple ciggies before his breakfast came. This is where top-tier parents choose to bring their precious child?
Then, when they left, the foursome completely blocked off the aisle between tables while they failed at putting their jackets on, completely trapping a server who had gone to drop off food at the next table over. What should have been a 20-second task turned into something like trapping an opossum in a cat carrier. The look of panic and deceleration in this poor server’s eyes. The mother was completely unaware of how her “nurturing” was negatively affecting those around her or how it would likely impact people for years and decades to come because she’d just taught her kid that the world can wait for her to get her shit together. I’ve never hoped that someone end up in a “put your own air mask on first” scenario, but now I can check that off my never have I ever list. But you know this family would fail that simple set of instructions.
Sorry, I might care more about the well-being of your offspring than you do, but I will only demonstrate it at the ballot box. If you bring them within my verbal splash zone, don’t expect the water to be filtered.
Likewise, if you bring your family of four into town, you need to manage that situation. People walking their dogs in an urban environment have to leash their fur babies. I’m not suggesting you leash children, but in the last week I’ve had to navigate a sidewalk with one too many family hazards – the correct amount is zero – twice and I’m kind of done with it.
The aforementioned dog owners? Fine – and they usually have their dogs trained to walk beside them, or at least are present enough to their dog’s behaviors to be able to follow their fur baby to whichever side of the sidewalk their nose drags them. I rarely see a dog sniffing out the latest pupdates on a tree or light post on one side of a sidewalk while their owner stands oblivious on the other side of the sidewalk waiting with the leash cordoning off the throughway.
Honestly, with dogs on s sidewalk, the biggest hazard are the people who have to stop and pet them and ask them “who’s a good boy?”. Why? Because their hit of unconditional love costs everyone around them free access to a sidewalk. Can you be needy elsewhere, please?
Speaking of a group usually referred to as “needy”, then there’s “the least among us”. Those poor – usually drug addled – folks who reside on the city streets. The Urban Campers. They’re a blight and a reason to exercise gratitude simultaneously because it could happen to any of us. For them, I will tolerate the oblivion that makes their existence tolerable to them. They don’t literally bother me – aside from the mental game I mentioned earlier – so I forgive their disruptive presence.
But these fucking families navigating sidewalks and crosswalks? Pass.
At their best they can manage an organized excursion, albeit at a glacial pace. I’ve seen it, but it’s truly rare. Usually, the best I can hope for is a chaotic form of forward progress. The entire family scattered across the sidewalk traveling at different velocities and, to the casual observer, completely unaware of one another.
This would never have flown in my family. My mother did not just develop an interest in how her child’s behavior affected those around her this morning. No, I was raised with that same consideration. My parents kept me on one side of the sidewalk so we weren’t in the way of other pedestrians. There was certainly none of this laissez-faire parenting that results in enough distance between family members on a sidewalk to mistake them for strangers.
Mind you, now I’m an adult, so I can decide on my own whether some Stupid American warrants my consideration or not. A not-shocking amount of those people do not. That’s a fair middle ground, too, when dealing with me: overt disregard. When it comes to managing my own behaviors, if I’m changing them for a setting, the last thing you likely want is me sharing my opinion on your presence. Maybe you brought your Crotch Goblins into town to learn about life, get some culture. You probably aren’t expecting or open to my hot take about your parenting style or whether you are fit for the job in my estimation.
I told you that my overt disregard of your family was a good result. But, seriously, do everyone a favor and leave the kids at home if they can’t behave as well as a dog on a city sidewalk. Easy-peasy.
My doctor from my Shittatle days once referred to me as a recreational hypochondriac. He had a point, since I seemed as likely to self-diagnose with any malady I encountered as an insecure white girl from New England was to walk out of a theater showing Sweet Home Alabama with a southern accent.
Not a bad get for a med school graduate whose greatest accomplishment was probably a toss up between not dropping out and not getting expelled.
Of course, not to be outdone, I upgraded his pith to wreckreational hypochondriac.
That being the case, after weeks of failing to succumb to imaginary illness following my one forced office day each week – the best I could muster was dry sinuses and mildly chapped lips – I felt like my persistent survival was borderline immortality. Plus, whoever died from chapped lips?
Then my one forced office day became two.
This week.
Nothing.
But I’d also won tickets to The Dandy Warhols concert with the Oregon Symphony – that’s another post – for Thursday. That meant Tuesday through Thursday I was all crowd, all the time. Surely that was lethal to someone with as imaginative immune system as me.
Still…nothing.
Cut to this morning.
I’d ducked out of work for an early lunch.
9 am…that’s not too early for lunch, right?
Don’t worry, my neurotic ass started work at 730 and didn’t log off until 645. All so I could meet a former work wife for coffee.
She’s not the most…prompt of people, so o texted her at 830 to see how timing was working for her. I figured if I didn’t hear from her by 840, I’d leave at ten til for our coffee date. I normally give myself 15 minutes to make the 10 minute walk…guess I’d really show her!
Naturally, she texts me as I’m hitting the street at coffee date minus 5 – what? I got distracted by work! – to tell me she was leaving and projected to be on time.
Knock me down with a damn feather!
Twice!
Still, I wouldn’t believe she would beat me to a coffee date until I saw her there…and she beat me. By seconds. I know this because my phone vibrated in my pocket as I rounded the corner of the building the coffee shop is in and it was her, flexing her early arrival by asking what I wanted.
I might have entered the coffee shop declaring I’d like her to calm herself down.
Nonetheless, I confirm clarify my order and we start chatting while waiting for our drinks. I quickly clock her running nose, but chalk it up to seasonal affective sinuses since we had our first 60 degree day in the valley yesterday in over 90 days. This girl was leaking.
However, after deciding it was nice enough to sit outside and drink our coffee, I noticed she was blowing through napkins at a rate of about a tree every 5 minutes. Mentioning it, I’m met with a laundry list of excuses: my office at work in a basement of a hotel; by the laundry area. My fiancé was sick a few days before this started. That’s why I suggested we sit outside!
Such a giver, her.
But I left the coffee date not only mildly enraged someone wouldn’t cancel a social engagement when they are putting off mucous in Amazon River volume, but also at the weakness of her response to whether she was taking any suppressants.
No, if you were wondering.
“I just like to let my body process this junk out”, she says.
“Woman, you take birth control to stop your period!” was my instant response. Seriously, how does one not see that cough medicine and birth control pills have essentially the same function: to keep your body from producing a natural part of its biological response.
I got a demur chuckle followed by a round of hacking and another snot saturated napkin.
“You could have canceled”, I tell her.
“But then I would have missed seeing you!”
Of course I left there and felt my nose running before I was even off the block.
If I die before I wake…good.
Seriously, it seems like I dodged any the third time’s the charm BS with illnesses this week. But I’m not committing to that optimism until I wake up tomorrow.
Keep your fingers crossed for this old grumpapotamus.
After weeks of resisting – that manifested as me just clicking past the popup that wouldn’t die – I finally acquiesced and downloaded the much-ballyhooed Jetpack app.
And the first post I create is to complain about being forced to do so. That tracks for my grumpy old ass.
But, seriously…now what?
Do I delete the O.G. WordPress app or keep it?
Consult your nearest 20-something and get back to me.
atleastihaveafrigginglass 