Mom gets the last laugh and other feminine wiles
No fall-out ever came of the argument with my mom. I left the house; she called a little while later to apologize. We ignored it for the rest of the visit. But on Sunday she decided to clean out my car, which apparently is an activity she claims to enjoy. Finding blotches on my floormats and front seat, she employed her handy stain-busting formula: laundry detergent mixed with vinegar. Some friend of hers passed it along, and, lo, it works — but, damnit, my car fragrantly stinks right now. I don't know how else to describe scent of dryer sheets soaked in vinegar. She told me it should wear off "in about a day," but it was stinking away well into tonight. That's the thing about moms, it's hard to be mad at them: they're just trying to help.
Later, a lady friend put me in an awkward public situation of striking banality. While waiting outside the co-op for the light to change, I see a pretty girl standing under an umbrella on the opposite of the street point at me. I don't recognize her, so I figure she must be gesturing to someone in my vicinity. I pretend like nothing happened. Then she waves. Now I'm stuck. I squint. Nope, I still don't recognize her as she waves again. I casually, but obviously, glance at the people around me, but they're all as still as statues. I look again. Maybe it's my friend Larissa, but . . . nah.
I spend the next thirty seconds or so noticeably not looking at her. Sure enough, as we cross I see it's Larissa; she just changed hairstyles. So in order to avoid looking like that doof returning a wave that wasn't intended for him, I instead looked like that guy who is trying to avoid looking like that doof returning a wave that wasn't intended for him.
To wrap up the night, I went to World Beat Cafe for the first time. The waitress was tall and cute. I did my best to play it cool, you know, didn't want her think she was getting some kind of special treatment because she looked good. Or something. Anyways, she's friendly enough with me during the course of my meal. We exchange a laugh over such raucous situational humor as the door that keeps beeping even though no one is walking through it. The check comes, ten bucks even. I've got a ten and a five. I see another guy pay at the counter, so I set my money on the table and get back to finishing Louis Black's Chronicle article. While I'm in the middle of chewing a bite of my tongue-burning jolla rice, she sneaks up and scoops away the cash. Mouth agape, food unchewed, I stop and wonder, Is she gonna bring me change? She goes back to sweeping the kitchen.
Aw, shit. Now it looks like I just dropped a 50% tip — exactly the kind of lame flattery I was supposed to be above. Do I let it go? Man, that was my last five bucks. All right, I was gonna give her three anyways, and I need at least a dollar to buy a soda at work on Wednesday, so . . . I'll compromise and go ask for one dollar back. Yeah, that'll salvage my dignity.
Well, for better or . . . okay, worse, I got my damn dollar back. That's right, missy, you're not the pie in the sky. I only tipped you 40 percent. On the plus side, when I mentioned . . . hmm, that the spicy sauce was too hot for me and, uh, that I should have ordered the mild . . . well, she laughed at least. Whatever, I'm gonna enjoy the shit out of my Dr. Pepper on Wednesday. It's all I've got left.
No fall-out ever came of the argument with my mom. I left the house; she called a little while later to apologize. We ignored it for the rest of the visit. But on Sunday she decided to clean out my car, which apparently is an activity she claims to enjoy. Finding blotches on my floormats and front seat, she employed her handy stain-busting formula: laundry detergent mixed with vinegar. Some friend of hers passed it along, and, lo, it works — but, damnit, my car fragrantly stinks right now. I don't know how else to describe scent of dryer sheets soaked in vinegar. She told me it should wear off "in about a day," but it was stinking away well into tonight. That's the thing about moms, it's hard to be mad at them: they're just trying to help.
Later, a lady friend put me in an awkward public situation of striking banality. While waiting outside the co-op for the light to change, I see a pretty girl standing under an umbrella on the opposite of the street point at me. I don't recognize her, so I figure she must be gesturing to someone in my vicinity. I pretend like nothing happened. Then she waves. Now I'm stuck. I squint. Nope, I still don't recognize her as she waves again. I casually, but obviously, glance at the people around me, but they're all as still as statues. I look again. Maybe it's my friend Larissa, but . . . nah.
I spend the next thirty seconds or so noticeably not looking at her. Sure enough, as we cross I see it's Larissa; she just changed hairstyles. So in order to avoid looking like that doof returning a wave that wasn't intended for him, I instead looked like that guy who is trying to avoid looking like that doof returning a wave that wasn't intended for him.
To wrap up the night, I went to World Beat Cafe for the first time. The waitress was tall and cute. I did my best to play it cool, you know, didn't want her think she was getting some kind of special treatment because she looked good. Or something. Anyways, she's friendly enough with me during the course of my meal. We exchange a laugh over such raucous situational humor as the door that keeps beeping even though no one is walking through it. The check comes, ten bucks even. I've got a ten and a five. I see another guy pay at the counter, so I set my money on the table and get back to finishing Louis Black's Chronicle article. While I'm in the middle of chewing a bite of my tongue-burning jolla rice, she sneaks up and scoops away the cash. Mouth agape, food unchewed, I stop and wonder, Is she gonna bring me change? She goes back to sweeping the kitchen.
Aw, shit. Now it looks like I just dropped a 50% tip — exactly the kind of lame flattery I was supposed to be above. Do I let it go? Man, that was my last five bucks. All right, I was gonna give her three anyways, and I need at least a dollar to buy a soda at work on Wednesday, so . . . I'll compromise and go ask for one dollar back. Yeah, that'll salvage my dignity.
Well, for better or . . . okay, worse, I got my damn dollar back. That's right, missy, you're not the pie in the sky. I only tipped you 40 percent. On the plus side, when I mentioned . . . hmm, that the spicy sauce was too hot for me and, uh, that I should have ordered the mild . . . well, she laughed at least. Whatever, I'm gonna enjoy the shit out of my Dr. Pepper on Wednesday. It's all I've got left.
posted by Matt at 12:32 AM
|
<< Home