i know that i am going straight to hell in a kate spade saying this the day after my nana is hospitalized from suffering a stroke, but i could use the balmy temps and a hot little tan. let it be known that i truly despise the elderly.
don't get me wrong..not all who are prune-faced and teeter along at a tortoise's pace warrant my hatred. my nana is the definition of red-headed perfection, my papa is so cute albeit a tad senile, and i want to adopt ralf, the owner of the building i work in. i get high-fives every day from the parking lot attendant at beachmont, "hello, bella! como estai?" from joe with the missing middle finger, and small talk and weather reports from the security guard on congress street. they make me laugh and occasionally give me money. clearly, i am down with this crowd...and why wouldn't i be? they're a fun bunch. it's that other breed of fogie that i wish would trip on their orthopedic shoes and fall face first into a soiled bedpan.
old people think that they can say and do whatever they want without any repercussion, much like a rebellious teenager..but sporting depends instead of a thong. some can get away with a snide remark or dig by masking it in "what? where AM i? who ARE you?" confusion. even i, the queen of the short fuse, can let one or two comments like these slide without going bruce lee on the person whom from which it came. hard to believe, but i do have somewhat of a conscience, a few manners buried beneath years of cynicism. however, catch me on a bad day, like monday through sunday, and the once polite pretty princess is no where to be found. an example, you request? you BET.
i wake up one morning a few weeks ago and decide that the twenty-four dollars in my bank account might like some company. so, i round up some spare bills and uncashed checks, hop in the civvy, and zip on down to the bank. traffic on broadway is horrendous per usual and i am forced to listen to the oonnnntttzzzzoooonnnntttzzzoooonnntttzzzzzz vibrating from the speakers of the guido behind me. with the bank finally in my view, i put on my right blinker and prepared to turn..but what's this? an illegally parked cab and equally illegally parked truck are blocking my path, leaving approximately 4 centimeters of pavement between the two cars for oncoming traffic to flow through. not wanting to do any more damage to my ride, i wait patiently for one of them to move so i can proceed to ever so slightly increase my account balance. i was still half asleep, what with it being 10:30 and all, but i bolted upright when i heard a voice from the left. "what the fuck are you doing?" the voice croaked. i turned to see a wrinkled face scowling at me from the back seat of the cab. not wanting my first words of the day to be negative, i explained ever so sweetly that i was just waiting for him to move so i could maneuver my vehicle into the bank drive-thru. i guess i was wrong in thinking that he would nod his head in understanding and tell the cabbie to hurry along so the lovely young italian girl could get her finances in order, maybe even give me a quarter for my cause, but my explanation was instead cut short with an equally gravel-throated, "well hurry it up, mother fucker." i couldn't believe it. i honestly didn't think people that age were allowed to say that, let alone know the term at all. with the miss america smile still plastered on my face, i looked him in the eye and said, "you are so lucky you are going to die soon, or i would kill you myself you son of a bitch." guess who came out looking like the bad guy? she didn't have a penis, that's for damn sure.
since that incident came and went, the experiences i have had with the non-youngins has been few and far between, but delightful none the less. until tonight. i was again in my car, driving to my cousin's house to unwind over "confessions of a teenage drama queen" (her choice, not mine) and a fattie (a mutual and excellent decision). i was stopped at a red light at a major intersection, waiting for the light to change. john mayer quietly crooned about a split screen sadness when the light turned green and i eased my foot onto the gas. the next thing i know, winthrop avenue merged into the last lap in the indy 500 because the gray-haired gent beside me floored it, cutting me off with inches to spare. i went with my first instinct and flipped him off and continued down the busy street. i switched lanes, and father time immediately swerved his hoopty in front of me. switched lanes again moments later with the same result, except this time he tried to fast brake and make me hit him. it was only after the third escape attempt that i looked at his license plate and saw the words "disabled veteran" emblazoned across the metal. his motor skills seemed razor sharp from where i was sitting and i'm pretty certain that i was suffering more post traumatic stress than he could ever claim. at least he didn't call me a mofo..to my face.
old people are an acquired taste, a delicacy to some and utter garbage to others. personal preference is the name of this game, but it shan't be too hard to figure out where my taste buds reside on this matter. as always, i am constantly looking for a lesson to be learned through an otherwise unpleasant experience, searching for something, anything, that will help me see my surroundings from a slightly different perspective. this time is no exception: i am never growing up. EVER.
..pass the playdough, not the prunes,
lex
don't get me wrong..not all who are prune-faced and teeter along at a tortoise's pace warrant my hatred. my nana is the definition of red-headed perfection, my papa is so cute albeit a tad senile, and i want to adopt ralf, the owner of the building i work in. i get high-fives every day from the parking lot attendant at beachmont, "hello, bella! como estai?" from joe with the missing middle finger, and small talk and weather reports from the security guard on congress street. they make me laugh and occasionally give me money. clearly, i am down with this crowd...and why wouldn't i be? they're a fun bunch. it's that other breed of fogie that i wish would trip on their orthopedic shoes and fall face first into a soiled bedpan.
old people think that they can say and do whatever they want without any repercussion, much like a rebellious teenager..but sporting depends instead of a thong. some can get away with a snide remark or dig by masking it in "what? where AM i? who ARE you?" confusion. even i, the queen of the short fuse, can let one or two comments like these slide without going bruce lee on the person whom from which it came. hard to believe, but i do have somewhat of a conscience, a few manners buried beneath years of cynicism. however, catch me on a bad day, like monday through sunday, and the once polite pretty princess is no where to be found. an example, you request? you BET.
i wake up one morning a few weeks ago and decide that the twenty-four dollars in my bank account might like some company. so, i round up some spare bills and uncashed checks, hop in the civvy, and zip on down to the bank. traffic on broadway is horrendous per usual and i am forced to listen to the oonnnntttzzzzoooonnnntttzzzoooonnntttzzzzzz vibrating from the speakers of the guido behind me. with the bank finally in my view, i put on my right blinker and prepared to turn..but what's this? an illegally parked cab and equally illegally parked truck are blocking my path, leaving approximately 4 centimeters of pavement between the two cars for oncoming traffic to flow through. not wanting to do any more damage to my ride, i wait patiently for one of them to move so i can proceed to ever so slightly increase my account balance. i was still half asleep, what with it being 10:30 and all, but i bolted upright when i heard a voice from the left. "what the fuck are you doing?" the voice croaked. i turned to see a wrinkled face scowling at me from the back seat of the cab. not wanting my first words of the day to be negative, i explained ever so sweetly that i was just waiting for him to move so i could maneuver my vehicle into the bank drive-thru. i guess i was wrong in thinking that he would nod his head in understanding and tell the cabbie to hurry along so the lovely young italian girl could get her finances in order, maybe even give me a quarter for my cause, but my explanation was instead cut short with an equally gravel-throated, "well hurry it up, mother fucker." i couldn't believe it. i honestly didn't think people that age were allowed to say that, let alone know the term at all. with the miss america smile still plastered on my face, i looked him in the eye and said, "you are so lucky you are going to die soon, or i would kill you myself you son of a bitch." guess who came out looking like the bad guy? she didn't have a penis, that's for damn sure.
since that incident came and went, the experiences i have had with the non-youngins has been few and far between, but delightful none the less. until tonight. i was again in my car, driving to my cousin's house to unwind over "confessions of a teenage drama queen" (her choice, not mine) and a fattie (a mutual and excellent decision). i was stopped at a red light at a major intersection, waiting for the light to change. john mayer quietly crooned about a split screen sadness when the light turned green and i eased my foot onto the gas. the next thing i know, winthrop avenue merged into the last lap in the indy 500 because the gray-haired gent beside me floored it, cutting me off with inches to spare. i went with my first instinct and flipped him off and continued down the busy street. i switched lanes, and father time immediately swerved his hoopty in front of me. switched lanes again moments later with the same result, except this time he tried to fast brake and make me hit him. it was only after the third escape attempt that i looked at his license plate and saw the words "disabled veteran" emblazoned across the metal. his motor skills seemed razor sharp from where i was sitting and i'm pretty certain that i was suffering more post traumatic stress than he could ever claim. at least he didn't call me a mofo..to my face.
old people are an acquired taste, a delicacy to some and utter garbage to others. personal preference is the name of this game, but it shan't be too hard to figure out where my taste buds reside on this matter. as always, i am constantly looking for a lesson to be learned through an otherwise unpleasant experience, searching for something, anything, that will help me see my surroundings from a slightly different perspective. this time is no exception: i am never growing up. EVER.
..pass the playdough, not the prunes,
lex