The worst Friday of my life, ie the day I learned that my future child died and my dreams along with him, will be written about in another blog post, my dear nineteens of readers, but suffice it to say that it was only through the support of my wonderful friends and family with their Fuck cake and alien toys for Kone that I managed to not walk in front of a truck that day. Said truck probably would have just winged me and sent me to the curb and drove on, leaving me with a broken hip or something else equally inconvenient, because that’s just how my fucking life works.
But that’s for another day. This post will instead focus on what happens when one just doesn’t give a fuck anymore. It’s really kind of glorious.
I decide to go to meet some of my Canning Posse at an estate sale, that purportedly has canning jars. Of course I’m running late thanks to the fact that coffee shoppes in Silverton open at 8AM, ie a ridiculously late hour, so by the time I get there Deirdre has snagged the jars, though I get a few of the cool blue ones. Then I’m bitter because Liesl sees the cooking pots before I do, dammit, but I manage to find some baking sheets and am walking around with them, when I turn to look at something else in the kitchen.
The pan slightly brushes against a woman, and I politely say “Oh, excuse me.” At which point she snidely says to me “It’s really tight in here, so…….,” clearly implying that I need to be more careful and apparently bumped into her on purpose.
Well. I turn around slowly and look at her with a no-nonsense incredulous look.
Me, loudly: Did I not say “excuse me”? Did you not hear me?
Lady, suddenly meek: Umm, yes…..
The room has gone completely silent. A room full of estate sale fanatics, and you could hear a pin drop, and everything is frozen in time.
Me: Wasn’t that good enough for you? Do you think I bumped into you on purpose?
Lady: Umm, no……
Me: Okay then.
I then turn around to look at a cabinet of ceramic chickens, and state to Liesl, “I can’t believe how bitchy some people can be.”
No one came near me the rest of the time I was there.
Now I ask you, fellow readers, when in the entire history of time have you seen a freaking unicorn clock, completely with a baby unicorn? Perhaps never? Shall we try never for the win? I look at it in rage and point it out to Liesl, as I’m putting my things down to get my phone out. Because really, even I can't make this shit up.
Liesl: Umm, no, you….
Me: OH no, I am most DEFINITELY taking a picture of THIS fucking kick in the teeth. What the fuck? Who does this? Since when have you EVER seen a fucking UNICORN CLOCK WITH A BABY UNICORN?????
The room has suddenly emptied out. I get my picture of this effrontery and leave before I kill someone over a chipped sugar dish or something equally inane, because stay out of my way people or you will feel my wrath.
On the way home, I decide hey, since I’m in Salem, I might as well stop at the vaunted yet secret fig tree! This is on public property, that of, well, something very much like the Oregon Dept. of Animal Husbandry and Green Things. Not quite that – I don’t want to give up any secrets of figgery – but close enough.
I get to said location, and merrily start picking figs. No one is around since this is near a government building, and of course they don’t work on weekends. The tree is monstrously huge, and the figs are plentiful. When I go to my car to get another plastic bag, as I do I see someone walking from the outside of the building to the parking lot. Because I’m still nice to people until they cross me, I call out a hello to this woman in some kind of uniform, and jokingly say “I’m just picking some figs, that’s okay, right?”
Jokingly, because who the fuck would have a problem with this?
Her: What’s that?
Me: Figs, picking, me.
Her: What? Here?
Me: Umm, yes.
Me: Umm, yes.
Her: Do you work here? Do you have permission? This is private property.
Me: It’s PUBLIC property, my taxes pay for this.
Her: You can’t just take things from here.
Me: It’s a fig tree, the figs are rotting with no one picking them.
Her: People can walk around but they can’t take things.
Me: Well. Why don’t you just go ahead and have me arrested then?
And I start walking away.
Me: I’m just going to walk around now!
Her: Ma’am! Ma’am! What do you think you’re doing?
Me: Walking around on taxpayer property! Why, and I might pick a few more figs!
Her: Ma’am! You can’t do that!
I wave my bag at her and walk back to the fig tree, and keep picking. A little later I think to myself damn, it would suck to be arrested today, I have a lot of canning to do. Plus I figure I have enough figs at that point, so I wander back to my car, where I see her talking to someone on a phone outside the building.
Me, waving at her: Are they coming to arrest me? Because that would be awesome!
She just looks at me as she keeps talking, and I can tell from the look on her face that whoever is on the other end of the phone thinks she’s a loon.
Me: What’s your name? I’m going to call and report you for being rude to the public!
I drive off, figs in hand, waving at her out the window. Because fuck her.
Sunday morning dawns with….the toilet overflowing for no reason. Seriously. I pee, flush, the fucking thing overflows for no damn reason. I view this as being my George Bailey moment, where I ask for a sign, and this is what I get in return, my version of a punch to the mouth. I’m not sure if I’m more like George or Mary, the old maid closing up the library. Maybe both.
I then decide to go to whereverthehell Oregon to get glass French liter jars I see on Craigslist, even though I don’t have a particular use for them at the time, because what else the fuck all do I have going on? Nada. Well, other than canning every fruit within a 100-mile radius of Silverton. I tell Laura I’m heading out to get more jars to add to the billions I already have, and instead of getting the usual “you’re insane you know” from her, she just nods and says “Oh yeah, that’s a good idea.” She understands.
I get to said Bumblefuck location and hand over the cash to this woman, probably in her late 20s. There are 2 decent-sized boxes, and I ponder carrying them out to my car myself in one trip, down three flights of stairs.
Jar Lady: I could maybe help you with them.
Me: Oh, I think I can manage them myself.
JL: Oh sure, because you’re a hefty one aren’t you.
Nah. I contain my wrath at this sally, because the woman seems a bit…..special, or perhaps just French. Instead I think to myself, really fate? That’s the best you can do? I’m not even insulted, really, because what the fuck. That’s like hardly even trying. And I head out with my very cool jars that will soon likely hold fruity liqueurs. Because fuck it.
As I’m driving I wonder if the unicorn clock was a sign, to not give up hope, that I’m really actually pregnant, like in some Lifetime movie where everything is all magical and shiny and wonderful.
I am definitely not pregnant. BFU is dead.
Clearly my existence is more like a cautionary tale on A&E, where life is just all about how many times one can be kicked in the teeth and stomped on and crushed and pulverized into the ground, while fate laughs, merrily. Miss Tasha, you didn’t really think anything could actually work out for you for once, did you?
That day I start decorating The Manor for Halloween.
I fear the neighbors are starting to speak of me in hushed tones.