Saturday, 30 August 2014
... perhaps I should elaborate. I'm convinced that I have two brains, or at least two separately functioning parts of my conscious brain, only one of which is under my control. The larger, consciously-controlled brain - for the sake of the argument let's assume there are two - is a polite (mostly), intelligent (arguably), caring thoughtful sort of brain that knows about things like professional demeanour, and logical thought, and verbal restraint. And then there's the other one. The one that's funny but more often than not gets me into trouble with things like shlong-handled squeegees and snails (more about that later).
As my last post probably more than illustrated, I'm somewhat prone to those moments. You know... those moments. The ones where my mouth wrenches itself free of any remaining vestiges of neural control and just freewheels to the point when my own eyes, in desperate defiance of anatomy and, indeed, the basic premises of both time and space, point themselves down through my nostrils to stare directly at my mouth and go "what the fuck are you DOING, dude?!" THOSE moments.
I had one yesterday.
Took my cat to the vet, regular checkup, nothing out of the ordinary. Vet waiting room setup is fairly standard - semi-circular desk immediately opposite door, plastic chairs lining front wall and right hand side, pet food and kittens for adoption on the far left. I'm sat at the far right corner, facing the desk and door. I've been there awhile and since daytime TV is boring as shite I'm amusing myself by idly people watching. To my left is a young guy with a puppy and we start sporadically chatting. People are coming in carrying crates with cats and rabbits and suchlike, or leading dogs on strings. There's not much conversation. Pretty much what you'd expect from a vet's waiting room.
I'd been there maybe an hour when the door opened and in stepped a woman with her left arm extended out behind her. I'm sure I heard everyone in the room think "dog that doesn't wanna come in". It's what you'd expect, after all.
She takes a couple more steps in and we see that rather than a pet she's leading (dragging, really) a reluctant and recalcitrant toddler.
Now, in my defence, my good brain immediately thought "oh she's obviously picking up a pet, or maybe buying medications, or pet food, or shampoo, or just booking an animal for surgery, or maybe she wants to adopt a cat..."
Somewhat unfortunately perhaps, while my good brain was busily thinking this, the bad brain was clearly off picking flowers and admiring the pretty scenery and it must have loosened its grip on the reins of my mouth, because I was suddenly aware of an all-too-familiar voice saying quite audibly to the waiting hush of the entire room:
"Surely a paediatrician would have been more appropriate?"
Cue 2 agonising seconds of slightly stunned silence then uproarious laughter while the mother looks around to see who'd said it. I'm sure that even if everyone else in the room weren't looking directly at me, the radioactive glow of my ears and face would have given her a clue. I was hoping the vet nurse would distract her but she was no help at all, she went poker-faced and escaped out into the back office. Didn't help because I could still hear her snorting with stifled giggles.
Whatever gods may be were (belatedly) smiling on me though because the lady clearly had a sense of humour and laughed along with everyone, although I'll be honest I totally expected to go outside to the car park and find my tyres let down and her waiting with a Tickle-Me-Elmo baseball bat and a snarl.
It's so disheartening because the larger of my brains really DOES try but that other one? *sigh* ... political correctness really is just a random collection of syllables...
Tuesday, 22 July 2014
The thing about me (she says, breezily refusing to acknowledge almost a year of inactivity) is that my embarrassing moments are usually staggeringly public. I never seem to have the good grace to humiliate myself in the privacy of my own home with a few close, compassionate and understanding friends.
And the people who know me know this and are gently sympathetic when it happens and are, it must be said, remarkably tolerant of my many bad habits (I suspect because the entertainment gained from my hilarious cockups far outweighs them). These people are my friends.
And then there’s a select few - and they know who they are - who appear to feel it their bound duty to not only laugh hysterically 3 inches from my face when these little moments occur, but to REMIND me of it later with monotonous regularity and reinforce what a colossal dickhead I really am, deep down and also not really so deep at all. These people are my best friends and I love them even though sometimes they make me wonder - what’s a little vagina punch between friends, really?
This story takes place at an anonymous large warehouse/showroom type store that sells some sort of Scandinavian modular furniture, let’s call them "Blikea". I’m wandering around in pursuit of bedroom furniture (as one does). Pondering the difference between black and beech. Taking measurements. Assessing the durability of shelves by applying them to the faces of the screaming kids running around the aisl... no wait sorry I think that bit was just a lovely dream. I get further through to near the kitchen section and I see a big cubic crate of squeegees.
Now, it’s winter here. I leave for work early in the morning and so far my method of getting the condensation off my car has consisted of “drive really fast and see if you can outrun it” (not so much). So I think “a squeegee! That’s what I want!” and I go over to them.
They’re all short-handled ones. I kinda want a long one so I don’t get my clothes soaked wiping the water off my windscreen. So I’m thinking about this.
(... It’s worth noting at this point that the peanut that I call a brain isn’t very good at handling multiple things at the same time. I might appear to be doing one thing and talking about another and that much I can handle but as soon as you throw thinking about a third thing into the mix it’s a slippery slut... sorry slope into a world of inadvertent double entendres and Freudian sluts. Slips!)
So this is what’s going through my mind when the middle-aged Blikea saleslady starts heading toward me to see if I need any help:
“Short-handled squeegees! But I want a long-handled one. Maybe there will be some long-handled ones in this crate. Hmmm no, I think they’re all short. Would a short do? I don’t wanna get my clothes wet, probably a long one is better. But then long are harder to handle. Short would be easier to store in my car seat pockets. But I really did want long. Short. Long. Long. Short. Short long long short.”
I vaguely notice her presence short long but I’m carrying like eight things in one arm because I didn’t get a basket (one thing, fine) and still sifting short short short LONG! Damn, short through the squeegees with the other hand (2 things, ok) so I don’t really react until she speaks. shortlonglongshortshortlongshortshortlongshortlong (3 things - DISASTER.)
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” she says.
Shortlongshortlongshortshort “I need a shlong-handled one.”
My brain belatedly registers what I’ve said and I freeze. I’m sure the sound of all the blood I’ve ever made in the lifespan of my spleen rushing hell-for-leather to my face briefly overpowered the tinny elevator music coming through the ceiling speakers throughout the entire store.
I glance at her.
She knows what I’ve just said.
She knows that I know what I've just said.
To her enormous credit she doesn’t laugh in my face as she struggles to conceal the smirk.
I give up and own it. “Okay! NOT what I meant. I need a LONG-handled one.”
She says “Right. We don’t have any.” (Still smirking.)
“OK THAT’S FINE I’M JUST GONNA GO THEN OK THANKS VERY MUCH SEE YOU LATER BYE.” *cue whooshing sound as I hightail it outta there to the sound of her almost imploding in the distance.*
Honestly, my fucking brain...