I’m about ready to blow my stack, as my father used to say. I can feel it, like mercury inching up a thermometer.
A friend said it could be the changing of the seasons, perhaps I’m acclimating to the warmer temperatures. I don’t know what it is but I’ve had 3 fights already this morning and it’s only 9 o’clock.
Someone had dropped wet trash in the hallway and didn’t clean it up. I realized who it was because some junk mail was included in the mess. I twirled around and banged on the woman’s door truly wanting to kill her. There’s a history here since she’s the Mrs. Havisham of the building.
“My bag broke,” she said indifferently, while feeding her dog apple sauce with a gravy ladle.
“I just haven’t gotten around to cleaning it up yet. Portia needed to eat.”
I lost it, I couldn’t help it.
I demanded she come out at once and clean it. She wasn’t too thrilled but complied.
Then we had the Irish woman I see every morning in the coffee shop. I wrote about her once, she’s the one who hates rain. She can’t, for the life of her, get my name right. I’ve told her 10 times, it’s Susannah but she insists on calling me Bianca. I realize she’s getting my last name mixed up with my first but come on, do I need to wear a name tag? To make matters worse, now the young girl who waits on me is calling me Bianca too. This morning some guy piped in and said, “Hey, did your mother name you after Bianca Jagger, cause I love the Stones man.”
Bianca Jagger? Oh boy, did he say the wrong thing.
“NO SHE DIDN’T, AND DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY SHE DIDN’T, BECAUSE MY NAME IS SUSANNAH!!!” (not to mention she’s only a few years older than I am)
Something tells me he’ll be getting his egg on a roll elsewhere from now on.
Coming back from my run I encountered a doorman hosing down the canopy of the building he works in. It was like Niagara Falls on 80th Street. As I approached I assumed he’d turn it off to let me pass but instead he said in a voice that went through me like a double edged razor, “Walk in the street lady.”
Well, yes, that didn’t exactly sit well with me. It’s like he flipped a switch that sent me off to the races.
What did I say to him?
How bout, “COME OFF THAT LADDER AND MAKE ME.” Oh yes, the prizefighter in me that is normally under wraps came out in full force. It was as if I was channeling Rocky Graziano. If the on duty doorman hadn’t come out I don’t know what would have happened. The hoser’s tone of voice along with his lack of consideration is a very lethal combo testing my already limited tolerance. If he had asked nicely, I probably would have gone around, but we’ll never know, now will we?
This reminds me of a Clinton joke I like. ‘How come Bill doesn’t like when Hilary wears skirts? Because then her balls show.’
I felt mine were hanging out beneath my shorts.
The big question for me is, why am I so edgy? I’d like to blame it on spring but what exactly did spring do to me? I’m actually enjoying it. Haven’t worn socks in a week, it’s blazer weather and my windows are all wide open.
Something is bothering me alright, just can’t put my finger on it.