I'm the blogger formally known as The Sandwich Artist. I'm going to bring my old posts up here in hopes that someone finds them funny - there's only two, as I became entirely too busy to post, then was fired. Then hired by someone else, and fired. Then hired by someone else and quit. I had a busy year last year, but of course that leads to plenty of stories.
I'm currently living in a tiny town somewhat near to The City, and it suits me much better than the last hellhole I lived in. I can't help but chuckle at the classic small-town-ness of it, and the locals are charming in their little ways. It's summer now, and the students are gone (YESSSSSS) which led to me immediately becoming employed as soon as I got here at a job that I start tomorrow. Selling fish. It should be interesting, to say the least. The customers that I've seen shopping in the store (which I give the name Fresh Veg 'n' Stuff, or FVS) certainly put their best foot forward when I went in to be interviewed - at the deli counter, a woman would take her purchases of lunch meat, open them, give them a sniff, then very carefully re-seal the package, staring at me the entire time as if daring me to contradict her special way of shopping.
Today's wall of text begins with my new house, and the woman who lives across the street. To give you an idea of the scene, picture a two-story house on a quiet-ish road, the front porch filled with potted plants. Next to that there is a two-car parking space, and on the other side is a decrepit old garage that is currently filled with a broken Gazelle and my father's car. It's early evening, about seven o'clock or so, and the lady across the street is having a party, as only a septuagenarian can - with lots and lots of elderly people.
Our neighbour, who shall be referred to as Shiva, is an active old lady who owns a small grocery store on Main Street, catering to well-off college professors, professionals, retirees, and the usual hemp-wearing hippy. (But only if they have money.) Earlier that day I was with my best and beautiful friend Zain, and we stopped in there for some spritzers. I got black cherry, Zain got mango. I paid for mine with two one-dollar bills, and because my mother is well-known to the store, I wasn't given the usual snobbish looks. However, Zain was. She never carries cash with her, and attempted to pay with her debit card. The woman at the cash register stared at her for a moment, prompting a startled Zain to say, "What?"
"We don't usually take debit cards with so small a purchase," the other woman replied, looking down her old wrinkled nose at my poor friend, who looked rather alarmed. However, the transaction was made and we left swiftly, bitching about it for the better part of an hour. When we were thirsty later on, we went down to FVS which took her debit card without complaint. Damn right.
Anyway, Shiva and her shindig. Dad and I are sitting on our lovely porch, sipping wine and water respectively, when an old woman in an expensive car pulls into our driveway. We stare at her, wondering if she's lost (and prompting Dad saying quietly, "Have you come to visit? Shall we call you Granny?") and instead of rolling down her window or stepping out of her car, she whips out her cell phone and makes a call. For the better part of half an hour, she sits there, happily bullshitting to her daughter, while we make remarks that we hope she can hear, devolving into me saying "Why won't she get the fuck off our property? Should I go talk to her? Should you? If she's parking here, I'll have her ass towed, see if I won't." Eventually, the old biddy gets out of her car and Dad asks, "Can I help you?"
"Oh, I was just talking to my daughter. I'm going over to Shiva's, she said I could park here."
Excuse me? Is Shiva our landlady now? Does she own our parking space? Last I knew, our rent checks went to a very nice lady in Manhattan, not Shiva. Dad builds himself up in his Britishness and very politely says, "I'm sorry, but that's not Shiva's decision to make."
"Oh. Well can I park here?"
"No."
"Oh. I'm sorry that distresses you so much," the old pensioner says, her tone getting a little lofty for my taste. Before I can tell her off for trying to talk down to my father, whom I respect more than anyone in the world besides my mother, she gets back into her Lexus and pulls across the street to Shiva's, who greets her and shoots a look at us. Bitch.
Has anyone heard of the fish swai? Apparently we sell it and I have no idea what it is.
