Un-Awesome Things: Bole

Okay, so there has been a big hype about “The Book of Awesome” – which coincidently was written by a guy who works for Wal*Mart (how convenient). Anyway, so I thought maybe I would take this opportunity to be a Debbie Downer and talk about all the things that are not awesome. And I’m not talking like, world hunger, poverty, and war – that kind of thing. Of course those things are not awesome, they’re terrible. So terrible that I would not try to make light of them – the following things on the other hand, very un-awesome.

Burning the roof of your mouth:

This actually is so unbelievably un-awesome, but no one ever (especially me) learns to just wait until the thing you are going to consume is a reasonable temperature. Not only does it hurt like hell, but it’s really hard to avoid once the burning has started. I mean you can spit what ever it is out (but I think that doing that would take a lot more thought and more time to do than swallowing, simply because spitting out food suddenly is not a natural response), but most people swallow it or open their mouth in a weird way as to prevent the food from falling out but allowing some sort of awkward venting – making you look more like a weird seal (because sound effects and arm flailing often accompany this weird venting face) than effectively warning the other members of your party that the food is in fact too hot to ingest. Depending on how hot the food is, and your response, swallowing the hot food then hurts your throat and then your belly (once it makes its way down there) – but that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is the fact that you will have a constant pain in the roof of your mouth for the next 3 to 5 days, and will taste / eat nothing without reliving your most recent mouth burning.

(This can also be true for eating Captain Crunch; it’s like eating milky and delicious razorblades with a spoon)

Having someone mess up your drive thru order:

I know, I know. Drive-Thru is bad for you, it’s bad for the environment with all the idling and exhaust is kind of lazy and that’s the price you pay for convenience.

Aside from that, I HATE this. It drives me insane. And I have enough experience working in various drive-thrus to know it is not that hard. You take the order, punch it in to the register, it pops on the screen, someone makes it, you take the thing you just punched in and put it in a bag take the money and hurl the bag at the patron in the car in under a minute. There, done. Then you move on to the next person – and when it is particularly busy, you only have to do one of those things, like take the order, or take the money, or bag the food – you have one responsibility, and how one person in the chain manages to fuck it up is beyond me.

So you get your order, and you’ve entrusted your meal or beverage selection to the pimply-faced, under-motivated under-achiever in the starchy, weird coloured uniform that has proportions that Natalie Portman or Channing Tatum couldn’t even look reasonable in. Either have been tricked enough times to thinking your order is right when it isn’t that you check immediately, while still sitting in line and then find out that the order is in someway wrong and begin to knock on the drive thru window like a crazy person, aggressively hand the bag of (incorrect) food back and demand that they revisit the issue. (at this point, they’ve probably also forgot napkins and straws sending you further into rage) you get the right order eventually, and tell all your friends how some moron at blank-restaurant screwed it up and have a hard time enjoying it anyway..

-or-

You still have faith in the ability of drive-thru employees that you don’t check and go to consume your order to then discover it is wrong, but you’re already too far away to turn around and are still very hungry. You’ve also just spent 8 dollars on something, and you will damned well eat it – even if it is not to your exact specifications. You’ll still tell all your friends, and still promise yourself you won’t just drive away anymore – even though we all know you will. Very un-awesome drive thru asshat, very un-awesome.

Feeling Nauseous / Having a belly ache:

I hate everything about these two feelings. Because you can never be lucky enough to feel nauseous and then actually puke (because you know in your heart of hearts that projectile vomiting will be the one thing that makes you feel better) or just having a bad belly ache, because it is at the centre of your being, the core of your existence. And of course, the only option is to just wait it out while trying to feverishly get comfortable by tossing and turning and groaning in discomfort – or taking enough drugs to incapacitate an entire pod of orcas, to toss, turn and groan for the 20 minutes it takes the Gravol to kick in and then waking up from a weird, middle-of-the-day drug induced nap that you stupidly took while wearing your favourite jeans and can no longer feel your feet because of the belt you added to your ensemble this morning when you felt just fine.

When you do get lucky enough to feel sick and then puke, you never talk about those 5 agonising hours you spent writhing around like a cat with tape stuck to its fur, but how gross it was that you puked pizza and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and then how awesome it was that you felt so much better and could then actually enjoy your sick day napping and watching really awful (but really awesome) daytime television.

So, note to my internal organs: When Stomach decides to be a jerk, everyone has to work together to make sure that Stomach misfires and voms all over the bathroom, because then EVERYONE gets to enjoy being on the couch in their jammies after that.

Losing something 50 seconds before your ride is going to pick you up:

I am someone who is used to driving myself places. On some occasions, it makes sense for someone to come and pick me up, and as a personal preference I like to be at the door waiting and ready to run out of the house in a fit of excitement at the pending activity / occasion.

I also think that I am a fairly organised person, and when I need things or want to bring things with me, I can get ready early enough to have gathered my specialised items and pack them accordingly, and then be ready to leap out of the house as though OJ just came busting through the patio door. (I’m sure my mom would disagree because she sees the state of my room, but for the most part I think I’m an organised person when it comes to that kind of thing.)

So, on the special occasion that someone is coming to get me, nothing ruins my fit of joy like not being able to find the staple item for the night. (Keys, wallet, socks, whatever) and of course, thinking you knew exactly where they were until you go to run out the door and BAM. They’re gone. Now begins panic mode, where you throw everything that is anywhere to somewhere else and look as though you’re having a mental breakdown or psychotic episode. Which, I guess is kind of accurate.

Then you hear the car in the drive way, and the door slam as the person picking you up approaches the front door. There goes the being ready for them, so they don’t have to actually get out of the car. Now they’re at the door, and you yell for them to come in.. But they can’t hear you and you’re already out of breath from your little episode and all the physical exertion of throwing your worldly possessions from one end of the room to the other.

So, stop searching and answer the door. Look slightly dishevelled and breathing a little more heavily than is normal or expected, invite them in and quickly admit you’re ready but cannot find the magic object – they offer to help. Panic sets in (uhgain) as you try to decide if they should see what you just did to your room looking for said object, and commence searching.

Then, your ride finds it. Where? Sitting in plain site, where Stevie Wonder would have seen it. (It’s a joke; please don’t write me letters telling me he’s blind.) All embarrassment aside, you can now leave. And are now late.. And your ride now thinks you’re a spazzy hoarder who can’t just take 5 minutes to pick up your dirty underwear.

Mirrors and Change Rooms in Clothing Stores

Could just be me, but I’m pretty sure that everyone hates them. Not because they have bad body image, or like, that kind of thing – but the stores just can’t get them right.

Mirrors on the outside of the change room door – uhm, I’m sorry – the point of shutting the door is A) so no one sees you naked in public, and B) so no one has to see you in that awful outfit that you thought looked great on the rack that turned out horribly. Then you have to open and close, open and close, slam and lock slam and lock. I don’t care about this ‘it’s for theft reasons.” Shut it, I don’t care – simply obnoxious.

Mirrors are weirdly proportioned – okay, it can’t be possible that I am that unrealistic about that I look like. Some of these mirrors belong in the carnival, because I now look like Bozo the clown, and not because I actually do. Seriously, try before you install – rude.

They’re always locked, and no one works in the store – enough said.

The floor is filthy and feels like it’s a subfloor above a hockey rink – so you want to try on pants, and have to take off your shoes. Too bad for you, there is a colony of dust bunnies and the floor is frigid. Now your feet are cold, and you look like Bozo the clown.

They are dimly lit – not only can you not see what colour or how the thing you’re trying on actually looks, but this is usually paired with the mirror being on the outside, the door is locked and not an employee in site, your feet are now frozen and you’re pretty sure you look like Bozo the Clown, but you can’t be sure because you can’t see anything anyway.

Way un-awesome retail.         

 Telemarketers:

 

Yes, I know they are un-awesome without any help from me – but think about those times when they are particularly more un-awesome than they are regularly.

You’re in bed, and you hear the phone ringing. It’s a weird time of day for the phone to be ringing (or for you to be in bed) and it could be something important! Or someone you actually want to talk to. So, you’re in this weird state of new consciousness, you’re warm and wrapped in the bedding and the phone is getting angrier by the second. You leap out of bed, and it’s cold and now you’re in this weird dizziness and trying to awkwardly run in your house to the phone and you finally get there and say “Hello?” then, your bladder is like “Oh! We’re awake! We are functioning again! Victory will be mine!” and now, you’re cold, dizzy, underdressed, out of breath from your awkward running and suddenly felt like you haven’t peed since you were 10. There’s a pause, and the phone connects. You know immediately that this is a telemarketer and someone on the other line goes “Hello. My name is..” and you SLAM DOWN THE PHONE IN A FIT OF RAGE.

You’re having dinner. Life is great - you’ve sat down to a nice meal with your family, and the conversation is intriguing and stimulating. You can’t believe that the delicious thing that you’re eating is something you actually created, and people are actually enjoying it. The general rule is that at dinner – we don’t answer the phone. You hear it mid-chew, and think – I applied for jobs. Perhaps they’re calling me back for an interview or, my mother has been ill recently perhaps it’s her. You keep chewing; phone is now ringing inside your head, pounding between your ears with possibility. You struggle to put the fork down and move the chair back, lumber towards the phone and answer it with still lingering dinner on your lips, it’s deliciousness resonating with your senses. “Hello?” the anticipation is now moved to your belly and surely it must be good news if someone is calling at this hour, interrupting such an eventful and relaxing family opportunity. “Hello. My name is..” and SLAM DOWN THE PHONE IN A FIT OF RAGE.  

You’ve just put the key in the lock, and realise you left your Timmies in the cup holder in the car. Remove the keys; juggle your purse, sunglasses and cell phone and head back to the car. Your hands are already too full to carry one extra thing, but you’re already here and you’ll be taking it all in one trip - you won’t settle for two trips. Awkwardly reach into the car and get the cup, nearly spill the contents of your other hand and close the door with your bum. Hands are now extra full, and the Tim’s is hot and starting to hurt your hand. Get the door and wriggle the screen door open, and manage to get the key in the lock. It’s a struggle, and two almost-drops of your items has you thinking about all the other times you vowed to make it easier to get in the house. Hear the phone through the door – manage to jam the key in the lock but can’t quite get it turned with the two fingers you have left after holding your various objects. Your Tim’s hand is now burning past bearing, and you juggle everything to switch hands. Lock clicks, phone is on 4^th ring – you can feel it in your feet as you bound up the stairs and the pain in your hand demands attention – drop everything on the glass cutting board decoratively placed at the end of the counter and wince as the sound of glass scraping with metal and the phone ringing has your brain rattled – the phone is milliseconds away from going to the machine and you launch it off the cradle and catch it before it makes contact with your nose. “Hello?” you ask as you look at your hand expecting to see giant blisters from hot coffee. “Hello. My name is..”

You inhale. In a voice resembling the Joker’s you respond:

“I don’t care if you’re Inigo Montoya. I don’t know who you are, or how you got this number. I don’t know what you want, and I don’t have any money or interest in an investment opportunity in Istanbul. But I have a special set of skills acquired over a long career, and I will find you. And I will kill you.”

They are silent and then they say: “Hello, my name is..” AND YOU SLAM THE PHONE DOWN IN A FIT OF RAGE.

It’s those times that Telemarketers are way more un-awesome than normal.

There are a lot of things that are un-awesome and a lot of things that are totally awesome. The key is to having a day that is filled with a good combination of the two, so – you got to sleep in way late but were woken up by a telemarketer. Or, went shopping and got some great stuff, but ended up in the last store with a terrible change room and resembled a creepy clown for 40 seconds of your life. 

See? I can work at Wal*mart and write a book too.