Summer Doldrums

​Welp. Time flies whether you’re having fun or not. This summer was a combo of drama at the golf course, drama at the other golf course, drama at the restaurant, and drama in my personal life. I like my tales to be dramatically told and embellished as I see fit, not to actually live them out, most of the time.

On the plus side, it’s been a summer of growth, in many ways. My yard is looking infinitely better than it was last year, and my brown thumb has turned at least light green, as indicated by my incredibly bountiful tomato plants, and my at least alive, if not thriving, baby lilac and raspberry bushes. Also mint. While the hurricane of tomato plants choked out most of my basil, the mint held fast and is looking like a robust forest. I’ve also found that hostas perform well in the shade, and thrive under neglect, which usually isn’t the case with me (I tend to overwater everything, but managed to stymie the urge this year), so they’re hard at work filling in the bare areas left by the removal of concrete bullshit and other debris.

The summer started with the release of Hecate. After our adventure out West in April, I was ready to let her go, as she wasn’t getting the use I had envisioned, and the busy work season was about to start on the Peninsula. So I got the gullwing panels permanently sealed so there’d be no more leaks, a new Goal Zero installed, took her to a dealer to have the dashboard lights fixed, and found her a new home. I figured now was as good a time as any to sell her, being that she still had some warranty left, and it was the beginning of road trip season for most of America.

Due to a number of contributing factors (my general anxiety and depression acting up, the fact that my father still didn’t have a trial date 18 months after he killed my mother, knowing that my sister and I are going to be subpoenaed when he did get the trial date set, some domestic follies of my own, etc.), my patience wasn’t as extensive as it usually is.

I decided that I was not only ready to revisit therapy (I’d stopped last summer because my therapist just kept asking how I was doing, and we weren’t actually progressing with any of the issues. I know that with everything that was going on, it probably wasn’t the time to be digging deep; surviving, not thriving if you will, but it just seemed like a waste of time), I was in dire need of therapy. Luckily, the VA really is getting better about these things (or maybe it was the fact that I was bawling when I called them to ask them to find me a new therapist and get me started and so they bumped me up on the priority list), and when I had my first meeting with my new guy, I realized they had really listened to what was going on, and matched me with the right therapist. I won’t say that I look forward to working with him, because anyone who’s ever done therapy knows how difficult it can be (also how fucking worth it it is), but I look forward to making progress in my personal growth and mental wellbeing.

Back to the issue of patience. There were/are too many Chiefs and not enough Indians at both golf courses, and drunk people suck. I’ll just leave it at that. Also, there are/were some lazy ass motherfuckers who think they’re too good to clean, and patrons who should learn how to wipe their asses better. I’m not kidding. One of the days at the golf course, I had to clean up shit off the OUTSIDE of the front of the toilet bowl. How does that even happen (I refer you back to drunk people sucking)?!

My restaurant hosting job really got the better of me this season. Mind you, I didn’t love it last season, I just happened to be very good at it; it started and remained a favor, but I really liked the people I worked with and for. This season it was a good thing I had already established relationships within and really cared for my fellow employees, or I wouldn’t have made it more than two weekends.

We had new people in charge, and it got off to a rough start. It got better as the summer went on in some ways, but really went to shit in others, literally and figuratively. I think it’s figurative anyway; I haven’t entirely mastered that vs. metaphoric, I just know that people misuse ‘literal’ all the time, and that one goes up my ass sideways.

The literal part is that one Saturday that I was working, a woman and her (I’m going to ballpark 7-9 year-old, but I’m really bad at guessing kids' ages) daughter at a table that I already disliked vehemently (due to the fact that they had opted to ignore both the sign saying, “Please Wait To Be Seated,” and me calling across the restaurant, as I was seating a large party, that I’d be right with them, and go seat themselves out on the patio) went to the bathroom together. I thought nothing of this until I went in after them to grab some hand lotion, and there was shit ON the toilet seat. Okay, I get it – maybe your daughter isn’t the best at wiping her own ass yet, although I feel like you should have it down by 7-9, but it’s a single toilet situation, and you have to turn around and damn near face the toilet (that doesn’t have a lid, so it’s not like that was obstructing the view) to wash your hands. You were both in there. You saw the fucking shit on the seat, lady, and just like the “Don’t Seat YourFuckingSelf” sign, chose to ignore it. There are Clorox wipes in plain view for you to use, but by all means, I’d love to enjoy another biohazard situation and clean up your kid’s feces for you. I almost clocked out that moment with the intent never to return.

I was only working Friday and Saturday evenings. One of the bosses is up here full-time, and the other comes up on the weekends, so is only around for my Saturday shift. Weekend after weekend after weekend, I would start feeling crabby and pissed off starting on Friday, just knowing that I was going to have to interact with him in any capacity the following day. I have a couple things to say about this, and I can only speak for myself on the specificities, but I was not the only employee who felt something resembling loathing; largely everyone did.

1) I’m a less-is-more kind of gal, and don’t like to be cheerlead-ed. (When I was in the Navy, I distinctly remember one PT test where some A-hole who’d finished earlier than everyone else looped back around to cheer his fellow Sailors on. Nice idea, but the reality of it was that I was doing just fine, and someone telling me I could do it made me want to kick him in the shins and fucking sit down). I know I can do it. Shut up, go away, and just let me do it. I digress. As this pertains to the restaurant, I don’t need a boss (especially one who knows less than jack shit about restauranting) yelling across a crowded restaurant thanking me for doing a job, let alone expecting me to answer him back. You don't need to show every patron that you're 'such a good guy' because you keep thanking everyone for everything they do. I don’t need to be thanked multiple times in a shift for doing my job. If you want to thank me once, at the end of the shift, fine. Otherwise, unless you have something that you want me to fix about how I’m performing, I’m going to assume that I’m doing a good job (because I know that I am), so I’d like you to shutthefuckup and leave me alone.

2) Don’t be THAT GUY. You know, the one who has to be 'on' all the time. Needs people to laugh at him; think he’s funny. The one who has to have a comment about Every. Fucking. Thing. That’s. Going. On. Around. Him. Stop saying rhetorical bullshit just to hear yourself speak and then actually expect your employees to answer and give you attention. Particularly when we’re busy getting our asses handed to us while you stand in the way. If you need attention that much, may I suggest finding a community theater and auditioning there. Also, try having a thought in your head and let it stay there instead of it constantly coming out of your piehole in a word salad.

3) I don’t usually have such strong feelings of dislike for someone, but once I do, it’s fairly obvious. At this point, maybe just stop trying? The more you try to get me to like you (I can smell the inauthenticity a mile away), the less I do. Less. Is. More.

But he never really got that. So every Friday, I’d begin getting cantankerous about Saturday, which also isn’t the way I like to operate, but that’s what happened. Glad the season is over. Maybe by next season, he won’t be there anymore. Maybe then I’ll go back to work. Maybe I’ll have moved by then, who knows? I kid, I kid; da Yoop is the place to be in the summer, hey.

Onto tales of our wingnut neighbor. To fully paint this picture, I must take you back a couple of years to when I first moved here. This neighbor across the street, for the longest time, would absolutely go out of his way to avoid eye contact with either of us. For the first 6 months, at least. Then,  one spring day out of the blue, he came running after us as we were leaving to walk the dog, hollering that he wanted to meet the dog. We introduced him to Gatsby, and then introduced ourselves. We’ll give wingnut a moniker, and call him Chip. Chip looked at Jack’s extended hand like he was holding a pile of crap in it, but when I went to shake, I did the usual one-pump, and tried to retrieve my digits, but he wouldn’t. let. go. He held onto my hand for an incredibly awkward amount of time. Seriously, it was about 40 seconds, and I had to physically wrench it away. After that, we heard nothing from him again, until this February.

We’d just gotten back from our Panama Canal cruise, and I was suffering from both the dysentery I’d picked up on the ship, and also a wicked sinus infection, so I’d put myself down for a nap. Maybe 20 minutes into said nap, I got up to use the bathroom. I walked out of the room, and got an eyeful of Chip. He unfortunately also got an eyeful of me, since I was napping in my birthday suit. I made haste back to the bedroom, and wondered whatthefuck he was doing sitting in my living room with Jack. I gave it about 10 more minutes, thinking that this HAD to be a brief visit about something specific, but when I heard him trying to regale Jack with a tale about deer apples, I got dressed, went out to the living room, and announced that I was sick and my medicine was ready at the pharmacy, could Jack please take me to get it? Chip just sat there and cracked open another one of the Busch’s that he’d brought over (I think he brought a 6-pack). Then he got up, helped himself to using our bathroom, with the fucking door open, and sat right back down in our living room, until I specifically told him to get out.

Since then, about once a week, maybe every other week, he comes by the house. It peeves me to no end that he comes to the back door (that’s private space, and I really shouldn’t have to worry about walking around in the buff in the sanctuary of my own house) even though I’ve told him to use the front door.

My personal fave was one of the times that he came over when Jack wasn’t home. Gatsby was out dicking around in the backyard, I had the back door open, and was swanning about doing kitchen things and laundry things. I heard someone talking outside, so I popped my head out, and there was Chip, in the backyard, petting the dog. I said hey to him, but didn’t step outside, because quite frankly, by this point, I don’t want anything to do with him. About 5 minutes later, as I’m back to folding laundry, Gatsby comes tearing in, and Chip fucking follows him into my house!

I say to him (as he was swaying drunkenly in the kitchen…..his daily routine seems to be to drive his moped to the corner gas station every morning, pick up a case of Busch, and start pounding them. Rinse, repeat.), “Chip, you can’t just walk into people’s houses,” to which he slurs, “You shouldn’t have the dog’s collar on that tight.” Cool. I’ll totally take that into consideration, now get the fuck out. I escort him over to the backdoor, where he seems unable to figure out the magnetic screen that he just came through, and stands there flailing at something unseen on the left side of the door. I give him a shove through the magnets, and slam the door.

A couple of days later, he comes over again. Knock, knock, knock on the backdoor. I ask what he wants and he says he wants to speak with Jack. I personally love this, because it means he’s not speaking with me. Their conversation goes something like this:

Jack (blocking the doorframe so he can't just come in): Hey man, what’s up?

Chip (who’s probably on his 16th beer, since it’s about 2 in the afternoon, swaying): Nothing, I just wanted to hang out.

Jack: Sorry man, we’re getting ready to head into work.

Chip: Oh, okay. (Stands there, staring blankly for a minute). Yeah. (is having a hard time getting himself down the ONE step from our back stoop onto the driveway, so Jack gives him a hand and helps him down). Thanks, man, I really had a good time. Do it again soon.

Like, he seriously was so blotto, he thought that he’d spent some time hanging out and had thoroughly enjoyed it. Let this be a cautionary tale, people. Ration your drinks and grab some water every now and again, because, again, drunk people fucking suck.

To say that he doesn’t understand social cueing is an understatement.

Summer hasn’t been all bad. After June’s monthlong monsoon ended, we’ve had glorious weather with lots of golfing and beach days, many Aurora Borealis sightings, Gatsby has been learning not to be such a dick (now that the house next door has a lady with a couple of Border Collies living there), and I had a cousin visit not long ago. Also, AS I WAS TYPING about Gatsby not being a complete prolapsed rectum, he just about flew through the window at the golf course because another dog was out there taunting him, so maybe I rescind that sentiment. It’s cute with the Border Collies Neighbor Dogs though, because he likes to just stand there and gaze lovingly at them, sometimes let out a happy bark, sometimes run back and forth with them, and sometimes bring out toys from his inside toy bin to show them. Clearly, the lack-of-dick is reserved specifically for them.

I have some travels coming up, so maybe there will be some entertaining fodder either on my upcoming California trip, or maybe my VT trip, or at the very least something worthwhile should come up during our transatlantic cruise. I had a fun tale typed up for you, but it seems that, for legal reasons, it will have to wait until a later date for publishing.

Until then, Ciao!