Blog: Shoulda Stayed In Bed

(originally written 4/28/14)

Saturday, April 26 started well enough. I awaited a morning/afternoon of muddy, yet sunny softball with my child's passionate cheers providing the ultimate soundtrack. The UVerse (cable) man was due to arrive by nine but sure to be gone by ten, much to the chagrin of infielders citywide. 

 

Then, in the afternoon/evening, Josie and I would get our "art" on; she's big on crafting these days and the perfect project awaited us.

 

Before any of this commenced...I needed caffeine. To our local FoodMaxx we trekked.

 

If you've ever read my notes before, you're well versed in the thorough disdain I carry for bums in general (again, not homeless people—there's a difference.) One such varmint in particular rises above (below?) the rest. I've dealt with him several times; he's pushy, snarky and there is absolutely nothing about him that evokes sympathy.

 

We'll call him A, because he is simply an A-hole. I once overheard him pressing a woman for 75 cents after she'd already let him sucker her out of $3! But I'm not here to talk about the past.

 

My daughter and I happily bantered as we approached the Maxx entrance, and I didn't let A's bellow of "Sir?" interrupt said banter.

 

He bellowed again. I ignored him again.

 

The f***er bellowed a third time. I lost it.

 

"CAN'T YOU SEE I'M WITH MY KID? LEAVE ME ALONE!" (barely remembering to omit the "goddamn" before "kid")

 

He was about ten feet away, close enough to feel my rage through the chilly air but, sadly, not close enough to be doused with errant expectorant.

 

"Sorry, sir."

 

Just what I needed to start my day.

 

Returning home, the UVerse man was setting up outside. I told him to call when he needed gate entry to come inside. This was at 9am sharp, and he said he needed just a few minutes.

 

When 9:45 rolled around with no call, I stepped out and found him, still locked out. Apparently he did call, repeatedly—the incorrect number. Even though I'd verified it with him at 9 when we first met.

 

The 40 lost minutes would prevent me from making my game on time. The ensuing complications with routing the new cable line would prevent me from making my game at all. He didn't finish until around 2pm. My softball gear remained by the door, like a dog waiting patiently to be walked.

 

Activate: pout mode. 

 

The Uverse man was very professional otherwise, and likable. Under different circumstances I'd have joked with him and probably even tipped him. But anytime he spoke, all my brain could hear was, "Hi, I'm the guy who's keeping you from playing ball on a day when your back and legs feel better than they have all year."

 

He tells me about the 300 channels, the DVR options, the remote labels (kickass). He tells me about how he even programmed each remote to its' respective TV and disconnected/collated all the Comcast equipment. He tells me to call him PERSONALLY, rather than the 800 number, should issues arise.

 

All I hear is, "Hi, I'm the guy keeping you from interacting with cute girls in shorts in sunny weather. Would you like a punch to the lung, too?"

 

Frown.

 

Eventually I had to get past it—Josie would not stand for a prolonged pout. Many sunny hours lay ahead so I gathered the kid up for a combination bike riding/basketball session at a local park. If I couldn't get my sweat on at the diamond, I'd do it on the court while Josie continued mastering her brand-new bicycle.

 

Adjacent to the hoop court is a large patch of grass, behind which a family and small dog played about 100-150 feet away from us. I missed a shot, the ball caroming into said grass and coming to rest.

 

What happened next will sound like complete and total fiction. While I don't have video to support my story, I can assure you it isn't.

 

No sooner than the ball stopped and I began walking toward it than the aforementioned canine sprinted toward it at about 500 mph, all the way from its party over 100 feet away.

 

It beelined for the ball, stopped briefly to dodge an infatuated Josie, resumed its' dash, and arrived at my ball just before I did. It was at that moment that I suddenly computed what was about to happen, and went into my own six-foot sprint.

 

It briefly eyed the ball, lifted up its' leg AND BEGAN TO PISS ON IT.

 

I yelled and swatted the ball away before more than a splotch landed on it...but still. This f****ng beast ran all the way across a park just to piss on my errant basketball. Then it ran back to its' own family, who despite hearing me yell out in disbelief uttered nary a word of apology to me or a word of disapproval to the pet. Shocker.

 

Josie has been angling for a puppy for weeks. I've told her to ask her mother. I understand people love them and all their benefits outweigh all their faults in the eyes of those people. But I want no part of one...not even for Josie. Moments like that one only cement my stance.

 

This wouldn't be my final four-legged irritant of the day, unfortunately. That evening we patroned our local pet supply store in search of goldfish stuff. It was there we were privy to the following exchange:

 

DOG: Woof!

IDIOT FEMALE CUSTOMER: Shut up!

DOG: Woof!

IDIOT FEMALE CUSTOMER: Shut up!

DOG: Woof!

IDIOT FEMALE CUSTOMER: Shut up!

 

They were in line and mercifully close to leaving.

Only they weren't.

 

When Josie and I finished our shopping/zoo experience (anytime we go there she just HAS to "visit" all the pets for sale), IFC and dog were still there. Now, however, the deep, piercing barks were no longer confined to the storefront—the duo had moved to the center of the store, where no one's ears were safe.  Some random kid was being allowed an open-ended petting session while the rest of us grimaced and searched for aspirin.

 

It's unclear if the IFC was waiting on some product to be brought from the back, but it sure didn't seem like it. This seemed to be a person hard up for any attention from anyone, other customers' hearing be damned. The dog was clearly letting her know it didn't want to be there on display, but its' feelings wound up collateral damage in IFC's bid to be noticed. 

 

As did my "game", or whatever you want to call my attempts at charming cute girls.

 

Finally reaching the checkstand, our cashier was a tall, enorgeous girl I've never seen before—but would certainly not mind seeing again. Pretty smile, personable: exactly my type.

 

TEG: Hi there, how are you guys tonight?

What I would have said, if not annoyed beyond reason:

"A little down on my Warriors but overall pretty good. Yourself? Grreaaat. Don't usually get such big smiles so close to closing time. That's why Petco is my #1 store for all my goldfish needs!"

What I did say:

"(Grunt)"

 

TEG even attempts to thaw me with a compliment to Josie, to no avail—this bad mood has planted roots inside me. Now I'll be forever known to her as "creepy weird grunt dude". Just great.

 

So ended quite the long day—not a bad day, just a difficult one rife with annoyances.

At least I didn't get punched in the lung.

2009 Topps #116 Omar Infante, Braves