I am sitting at my local Starbucks realizing I have just become the person I hate. You know that person. It is the person who doesn’t have to be at work and makes a request for an item not on display – in this case the discount card – that requires a bit of investigation on the part of the cashier while the line of people trying to get their Monday morning java fix for work plot thousands of painful deaths for you. I am mortified. Still it doesn’t suck the joy out of my triple venti soy latte and butter croissant like hearing Isaac Hayes singing Shaft before 9 a.m. does. At least the annoying barista, hasn’t started singing along.
As one of my resolutions for the year is to express more gratitude, I am grateful that I have arrived at January 5th without causing anyone severe bodily or psychic harm despite grave provocation to the contrary.
I had all these wonderful intensions of how I would begin the year. I would be a different person and learn not to indulge the sarcastic and out there part of myself so freely. I would be mellow. I would let people have their idiotsyncrasies without comment. I would not feel the need to point out when I had been pushed beyond all human endurance. This intension burst into flames and evaporated into smoke and sulfur on January 1st around 4 p.m.
It occurs to me that people who make crazy New Year’s resolutions regarding their eating habits should not be allowed to shop alone. Furthermore, people who make resolutions to drink the milk of only certain breeds of goats or only drink that cat poop coffee should not be allowed out of doors on January 1st when the rest of us are trying to cope with hangovers and an empty fridge – not that I had an alcohol induced hangover, but I sympathize with those who did. Additionally, said people should not be allowed to interrogate the beleaguered grocery staff person who is probably hungover and looked to be stoned as to the veracity of the organic labeling and does it mean just organic or are the goats free range on aforementioned goat milk and if said goat milk is from the same goats that they make mozzarella with while preventing 7 others of us from accessing any of the other milk products with no hope of ever being able to put that gallon of 1%, organic cows’ milk into our cart leading to a severe calcium deficiency to the point that our bones turn to brittle dust right there in the dairy section only because we trust that organic means organic and truly don’t give a damn if the milk is from a Jersey, Guernsey, Holstein, Bastard cow, or a combination there of.
Although I am grateful to discover that people appreciate it when one of the group being held hostage by the goat milk fascists (GMF) takes it upon themselves to inform the GMF that they can’t taste the difference between organic and non-organic goat milk, that perhaps they should write down the brand names of the goat milk, GO HOME and do some internet research so that the rest of us can, please for the love of god and all that is holy, liberate the poor, organic cows’ milk and allow it to be free range in our home refrigerators instead of being held hostage by someone who doesn’t realize that true Mozzarella comes from water buffalo and that goat milk is used to make feta and chevre, and that the crunching sound that they hear is our backs breaking as we have developed a severe case of osteoporosis while standing here while someone has been wasting our time torturing some poor bastard who never once thought that today would be the day she would have to verify the provenance of the goat milk sold in the grocery store and that we would appreciate it if they would move their cart to the side so that we could get on with our lives.
I probably would not have been in such a craptastic mood if it had not been for the fact that the lady’s boyfriend – I am only surmising those two were together. I am Darwinian that way. - hadn’t also decided that he needed more fiber in his diet and doubled up at breakfast, causing the rocket moving through his colon to arrive at countdown to blast off at the precise moment I am in the bathroom recycling a litre of water and three cups of coffee. (No, I am not giving up caffeine this year. I have my limits.)
Apparently, ingesting mass quantities of fiber make it physically impossible for one to read the sign above the handle that says in capital red letters, OCCUPIED. Apparently, ingesting mass quantities of fiber make it physically impossible for one to hear a woman screaming “occupied, occupado, someone is in here!” Apparently, ingesting mass quantities of fiber imbue one with near super human strength, leaving my modesty and dignity guarded only by the structural integrity of the doorknob. The fact that it held made me praise German engineering as I have found no American engineered and installed doorknob that would have withstood Gorillaman.
What a way to begin the New Year. I will admit, though, that once one has so thoroughly and supremely blasted through their primary resolution for the year before the first day is even over, leaving poor little resolution shredded and pathetic on the page, it kind of takes the pressure off.
The first two projects I finished in 2009 were fabulous. One was the man’s gaiter from Knitter’s and showcased on the cover of their pattern compilation for men that I knit for my dad. The other was the first pair of legwarmers for my dad. They fit and look good, which is probably better than I deserve after the way I greeted the New Year. Spurred on by such good fortune, I am knitting myself a pair of silk socks. Perhaps the little luxury will keep me in a better mood. Until then, I will follow the example of the Anonymous Zen Diva and wear my iPod while shopping.
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