Those of you fortunate enough to have received my short-lived email newsletter Life Sucks, Get a Helmet will recognize the following post. I think it deserves a place in T.A.S.K.'s literary canon, but you be the judge.
So, there's this unwritten law that Theatre Kids and Literature Kids hate each other (surely you jest, as you live with one...jest I do not. We accept it and continue our cohabitation...most of the time). This is a strange phenomenon as both are pretty similar. Hear me out: both are artistic; both have an appreciation of art in its various forms; and both regard outsiders with scorn and malice (don't deny it...just think about how many copies of The Da Vinci Code have sold...exactly. Theatre Kids, well, they just look down on everyone...theatre related, or not - monsters).
Now when these two fractions are subjected to each others' company an interesting dynamic is created. Throw some gamers into the mix and it makes for an interesting, blog-worthy evening...
It was Halloween night and I found myself in the basement of a comic book shop, surrounded by guilds questing for dominance over some other worldly realm and Theatre Kids (there's a difference? Slightly, yes). The Theatre Kids were performing a dramatic reading of the radio broadcast of The War of the Worlds. Apparently a lot of companies do this on Halloween and it really is a nifty idea: studio microphones are set up; objects for sound effects are placed on a table; actors wear period clothing. Everything is set up as though you are in the radio studio watching the broadcast live.
Because I refused to venture into a comic book shop alone, I arrived a little early with my soon-to-be Theatre Husband (yeah, I can't believe it either...I'm going to marry a theatre kid) and read on a couch while everyone else set up. So far it wasn't too bad. Then the woman next to me chimes in:
Woman: What's going on here? What are they setting up for?
Me: This theatre compnay is going to have a performance. It's a dramatic reading of The War of the Worlds. (What a pitch for them, huh?)
Woman: Ah...*with a look of: what strange peopleMe: Oh, what's that? Your son is at a gaming event in the BASEMENT of a comic book shop; on Halloween night, no less. He's not hanging out with friends or trick-or-treating? Yeah, he'll be well adjusted when he grows up. Probably end up doing a lot of theatre. Not to mention this is something straight out of Law and Order: SVU.
That aside, the performance was pretty good...except, every now and then a spell cast on an elf by a goblin would carry over into our space. Poor venue choice.
Whatever. They did it and it was good. Hooray! Then it was off to the costume party, hosted by Theatre Kids. (Blast! The rest of the evening I'll be on their territory. Oh well...)
(By the way, I did a couples costume: he was Robin Hood and I was Maid Marian - only I dressed like a hotel maid with a Marian name tag. Clever, no?)
The party wasn't bad. It went like all other cast parties I'm dragged me to: I stick to my theatre kid like glue, we find a nice place to sit, then he leaves me to go grab a smoke EVEN THOUGH we discussed weeks earlier I HATE it when he leaves me alone at these things.
So there I am, sitting on a couch...alone. Then some guy sits down next to me:
Guy: Hey.
Me: Hello.
Guy: I've never seen you before. How are you connected with the company?
Me: Likewise. Umm...my boyfriend was in the show tonight and he's been in a few other shows with them.
Guy: AH! What's your name?
Me: Shannon.
Guy: I hate your name!
Me: WTF! Hello...WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!
Guy: No! Not you...that was my ex-girlfriend's name.
Me: What the hell's your name?
Guy: Jeff.
Me: With a "G" or "J"?
Guy: "J".
Me: Oh! The stupid, loser way to spell it.
Stupid Loser Jeff: Yeah
That's when Stupid Loser Jeff got up and went into the other room.
Why would you ever say something like that to someone you just met? I mean, I'm pretty socially awkward but come on! "I hate your name"? Yeah, I hate YOU, Stupid Loser Jeff. I later found out that Stupid Loser Jeff is a jerk.
This is what happens when Theatre Kids and Lit. Kids mingle. This will eventually lead to a full blown rumble. Only with this rumble, there will be no blades or heaters. The Theatre Kids will "saw the air too much" with their hands and tire out. That's when us Lit. Kids make our move: a swift sweep across their faces with our trusty, yet hefty, Norton Anthology. You've been Nortonized!
Showing posts with label Persons of Interest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Persons of Interest. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Comment: Funeral Directors
First of all Shanana, you are to be commended for your use of the word asininity. I love that that's a word!! I will use it from now on.
Secondly, seriously what is it with funeral directors? The first encounter I can remember was when I was 15 and my grandpa died. We had a small graveside funeral for him, as we had only a few family members with us. After we had sung his favorite hymns and said our goodbyes, we walked back to the cars to find the funeral director standing by his truck, tearing up. He told us the funeral was beautiful, and it reminded him of the small one he'd had for his grandmother the previous year.
This guy was at least in his late forties, and all I could think was You lucky bastard, you got your grandma for thirty more years than I did and now you stand here and brag about it as I bury my own grandparent.
Come to think of it, I may have been a touch too sensitive at the time, but I still think I'm kind of right. I'm sure the guy was trying to be nice, but all he did was make me wish his grandma had died sooner.
The second and more abominable encounter I had with funeral directors happened a few years ago when I lost my dad. My mom and sister and I walked into the funeral home looking like zombies the day after my dad died, in order to make final arrangements. In Nashville they like to make funeral homes look like mansions for god-knows-why, so we drove through this huge (grave-filled) property and parked in the front of a buiding that, I swear to you, was larger than the White House. (I think the reason that they try to disguise the overwhelming number of funeral homes as plantations must be saved for another post.)
Once inside we were left to stand at the bottom of a great winding staircase until the funeral director came out to take us up to his office. After finally appearing, he apologized for our wait, and told us it was just so difficult for him to get up and come into work today because he'd just gotten back from vacation in Mexico.
Nice. Vacation. Like my dad will ever take one of those again. So sorry to interrupt your slow wind-down to that awesome vaction you had. Douche.
Then he proceeded to get increasingly annoyed with us as we continued to pick the cheapest options for everything. My dad was not one to have the cadillac of coffins with which to lower him into the ground. My mom was, naturally, a little out of it and kept worrying over minute details that were unimportant. After she apologized to the funeral director for the third time that the shirt we brought might be a little big because of how much weight my dad had lost, he sighed, annoyed, and said:
"Ma'am, it will be alright. Honestly, we just cut the back of the shirt and pants anyway and wrap it around them in front to make it look like they're wearing it. We can fit the shirt to make it look right."
EXCUSE ME?!!? What person wants to know that? Reader, I would be willing to bet that even you - reading this on a day that does not proceed the day on which you lost your father - even you are probably disturbed by the knowledge that this is in fact how they dress the dead.
Yes, I did picture them lifting the arms up and shimmying first an undershirt and then the button down shirt until it fit properly. Yes, I do expect them to have the decency to go through this trouble. I mean, they have no problem sucking fluids from the dead, can they not manage a little shimmying? That's all I'm asking for.
But I'll settle for not knowing that all those dead people's clothes are cut in half and pinned in back - like they're all part of some high-fashion macabre model photo shoot cat walk.
Not cool Mr. Funeral Director. Not cool at all!
Secondly, seriously what is it with funeral directors? The first encounter I can remember was when I was 15 and my grandpa died. We had a small graveside funeral for him, as we had only a few family members with us. After we had sung his favorite hymns and said our goodbyes, we walked back to the cars to find the funeral director standing by his truck, tearing up. He told us the funeral was beautiful, and it reminded him of the small one he'd had for his grandmother the previous year.
This guy was at least in his late forties, and all I could think was You lucky bastard, you got your grandma for thirty more years than I did and now you stand here and brag about it as I bury my own grandparent.
Come to think of it, I may have been a touch too sensitive at the time, but I still think I'm kind of right. I'm sure the guy was trying to be nice, but all he did was make me wish his grandma had died sooner.
The second and more abominable encounter I had with funeral directors happened a few years ago when I lost my dad. My mom and sister and I walked into the funeral home looking like zombies the day after my dad died, in order to make final arrangements. In Nashville they like to make funeral homes look like mansions for god-knows-why, so we drove through this huge (grave-filled) property and parked in the front of a buiding that, I swear to you, was larger than the White House. (I think the reason that they try to disguise the overwhelming number of funeral homes as plantations must be saved for another post.)
Once inside we were left to stand at the bottom of a great winding staircase until the funeral director came out to take us up to his office. After finally appearing, he apologized for our wait, and told us it was just so difficult for him to get up and come into work today because he'd just gotten back from vacation in Mexico.
Nice. Vacation. Like my dad will ever take one of those again. So sorry to interrupt your slow wind-down to that awesome vaction you had. Douche.
Then he proceeded to get increasingly annoyed with us as we continued to pick the cheapest options for everything. My dad was not one to have the cadillac of coffins with which to lower him into the ground. My mom was, naturally, a little out of it and kept worrying over minute details that were unimportant. After she apologized to the funeral director for the third time that the shirt we brought might be a little big because of how much weight my dad had lost, he sighed, annoyed, and said:
"Ma'am, it will be alright. Honestly, we just cut the back of the shirt and pants anyway and wrap it around them in front to make it look like they're wearing it. We can fit the shirt to make it look right."
EXCUSE ME?!!? What person wants to know that? Reader, I would be willing to bet that even you - reading this on a day that does not proceed the day on which you lost your father - even you are probably disturbed by the knowledge that this is in fact how they dress the dead.
Yes, I did picture them lifting the arms up and shimmying first an undershirt and then the button down shirt until it fit properly. Yes, I do expect them to have the decency to go through this trouble. I mean, they have no problem sucking fluids from the dead, can they not manage a little shimmying? That's all I'm asking for.
But I'll settle for not knowing that all those dead people's clothes are cut in half and pinned in back - like they're all part of some high-fashion macabre model photo shoot cat walk.
Not cool Mr. Funeral Director. Not cool at all!
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Persons of Interest: Funeral Directors
Have you ever noticed that the word funeral has the word "fun" in it? Strange. Most people don't consider funerals to be very fun ("most" being the operative word). Understandably, they see them as a time for morning...a time to grieve the loss of a loved one. However, there are some who, though upset, use this time to reflect on a life; a celebration of life...and why not? You no longer need to worry about your loved one suffering. Your loved one will never again witness the asininity of mankind (toyless Happy Meals - way to be San Francisco; MTV's Jersey Shore...or really anything on MTV that's not music related).
Not long ago, my great-aunt passed away. She was 94. Merely thinking about her was enough to get her admitted into a hospital. Her passing wasn't so much a shock as it was a realization: she was gone. I knew her funeral wouldn't be a......funeral. Rather, it would be a celebration of her life. Thank God Johnny Reaper was there to host this celebration!
My parents and I arrived at the funeral home a little early for the pre-funeral viewing (it's a little like "pre-gaming" before an event, only no alcohol chilling in a cooler...just a body...chilling in a casket...yeah...I don't do well with open caskets). As soon as we got out of the car, a funeral home employee came up to us and escorted us into the home. As we walked, he very nicely asked whether or not our car would be part of the funeral procession. We very nicely said we weren't sure - depends who needs a ride. No problem. Given that there was only one other person in the room (two if you want to count my great-aunt...ZING!), things were pretty quiet...until Johnny Reaper made his presence known:
Johnny Reaper: *arms flailing* WHO'S DRIVING THAT HONDA????? ARE YOU DRIVING THAT HONDA?????
Mom: *with a look of What the hell? Did I not just go over this with someone? Though you are the owner of this funeral home, would you please show some respect and not yell in front of the cold, lifeless body of my husband's aunt!* We...don't...know...yet!
Unfortunately (or for your reading enjoyment - fortunately), I wish this was the only faux pas committed by Johnny, but it wasn't (like when he almost got into a thrown down with the priest right before the funeral mass...true story). You see, Johnny Reaper clearly no longer has a passion for the funeral business. He's just stopped caring. Which must be rough. I mean, how many people want to make a living off of death (an honest, open living)? This is a career in which one must rail against every new medical break through (when a cure for cancer is found, I bet every undertaker will die, just a little, inside. I wouldn't be surprised if these people are actually behind the Anti-Vaccination Campaign. All that being said, the family made it through the mass with little incident; thanks in part to the token Catholic in the family (you go, ma!). Even with Johnny Reaper lurking around the church, no one felt too awkward.
Then came the burial.
There we stood: graveside on a cold November day, casket ready to be placed in the ground...and no priest. According to Johnny, the priest was at a different cemetery BUT one of his minions was on his way to pick him up. Silly priest, not double checking information Johnny Reaper gives - fool!
So there we still stood: family shivering...my amuptee uncle trying to rent out his wheelchair to anyone who wanted to sit...Johnny Reaper lurking around nearby tombstones (checking out his past work?)...waiting for the priest to arrive.
All of a sudden, Johnny Reaper appears, somewhat out of nowhere as I'm sure he was pretty far away a second before. No one can find the priest.
Naturally, I was very concerned. So I turned to my mother and yelled,
"WHO'S GONNA BURY THE BODY?????"
Johnny Reaper, that's who! He decided it would be best if he took over the prayers and at this point, what was the worse that could happen? So he lead us all in prayer.
Before I continue, let's establish something. Basic speaking skills dictate one needs to take pauses when speaking. Basis grammar dictates that a period is an indication for the reader to make a full stop, a comma indicates a half stop...that's something the British understand very well. Johnny Reaper is not British:
"OurFatherwhoartinheavenhallowedbethynameThykingdomcomethywillbedone..."
This is exactly how he recited the The Lord's Prayer. I'm not sure what the rush was. It's not like the guest of honor was going anywhere. If she was even there. I think Johnny grabbed the casket closet to the door at the funeral home. I bet he rushed us along so no one had a chance to notice the big switcheroo. Apparently his tactic worked, because that was the moment when the family broke out into laughter (led by the token Catholic and me. Something that got us scolded for by the rest of the family. Really? Please. I bet Joseph of Arimathea was laughing as he placed Jesus' body in the tomb, "I can't wait to see the pharisees' faces three days from now. Jesus is gonna be all 'Wickedy Wack, I'm Back!' " This is how I mourn...deal with it).
Looking back, I only wish two things: I hope my great-aunt somehow knows the solace/joy this calamity brought to her family; and that she takes comfort knowing we will never again seek the services of Johnny Reaper...over my dead body.
Not long ago, my great-aunt passed away. She was 94. Merely thinking about her was enough to get her admitted into a hospital. Her passing wasn't so much a shock as it was a realization: she was gone. I knew her funeral wouldn't be a......funeral. Rather, it would be a celebration of her life. Thank God Johnny Reaper was there to host this celebration!
My parents and I arrived at the funeral home a little early for the pre-funeral viewing (it's a little like "pre-gaming" before an event, only no alcohol chilling in a cooler...just a body...chilling in a casket...yeah...I don't do well with open caskets). As soon as we got out of the car, a funeral home employee came up to us and escorted us into the home. As we walked, he very nicely asked whether or not our car would be part of the funeral procession. We very nicely said we weren't sure - depends who needs a ride. No problem. Given that there was only one other person in the room (two if you want to count my great-aunt...ZING!), things were pretty quiet...until Johnny Reaper made his presence known:
Johnny Reaper: *arms flailing* WHO'S DRIVING THAT HONDA????? ARE YOU DRIVING THAT HONDA?????
Mom: *with a look of What the hell? Did I not just go over this with someone? Though you are the owner of this funeral home, would you please show some respect and not yell in front of the cold, lifeless body of my husband's aunt!* We...don't...know...yet!
Unfortunately (or for your reading enjoyment - fortunately), I wish this was the only faux pas committed by Johnny, but it wasn't (like when he almost got into a thrown down with the priest right before the funeral mass...true story). You see, Johnny Reaper clearly no longer has a passion for the funeral business. He's just stopped caring. Which must be rough. I mean, how many people want to make a living off of death (an honest, open living)? This is a career in which one must rail against every new medical break through (when a cure for cancer is found, I bet every undertaker will die, just a little, inside. I wouldn't be surprised if these people are actually behind the Anti-Vaccination Campaign. All that being said, the family made it through the mass with little incident; thanks in part to the token Catholic in the family (you go, ma!). Even with Johnny Reaper lurking around the church, no one felt too awkward.
Then came the burial.
There we stood: graveside on a cold November day, casket ready to be placed in the ground...and no priest. According to Johnny, the priest was at a different cemetery BUT one of his minions was on his way to pick him up. Silly priest, not double checking information Johnny Reaper gives - fool!
So there we still stood: family shivering...my amuptee uncle trying to rent out his wheelchair to anyone who wanted to sit...Johnny Reaper lurking around nearby tombstones (checking out his past work?)...waiting for the priest to arrive.
All of a sudden, Johnny Reaper appears, somewhat out of nowhere as I'm sure he was pretty far away a second before. No one can find the priest.
Naturally, I was very concerned. So I turned to my mother and yelled,
"WHO'S GONNA BURY THE BODY?????"
Johnny Reaper, that's who! He decided it would be best if he took over the prayers and at this point, what was the worse that could happen? So he lead us all in prayer.
Before I continue, let's establish something. Basic speaking skills dictate one needs to take pauses when speaking. Basis grammar dictates that a period is an indication for the reader to make a full stop, a comma indicates a half stop...that's something the British understand very well. Johnny Reaper is not British:
"
This is exactly how he recited the The Lord's Prayer. I'm not sure what the rush was. It's not like the guest of honor was going anywhere. If she was even there. I think Johnny grabbed the casket closet to the door at the funeral home. I bet he rushed us along so no one had a chance to notice the big switcheroo. Apparently his tactic worked, because that was the moment when the family broke out into laughter (led by the token Catholic and me. Something that got us scolded for by the rest of the family. Really? Please. I bet Joseph of Arimathea was laughing as he placed Jesus' body in the tomb, "I can't wait to see the pharisees' faces three days from now. Jesus is gonna be all 'Wickedy Wack, I'm Back!' " This is how I mourn...deal with it).
Looking back, I only wish two things: I hope my great-aunt somehow knows the solace/joy this calamity brought to her family; and that she takes comfort knowing we will never again seek the services of Johnny Reaper...over my dead body.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Persons of Interest: Nas-tea Shop
(Before I begin, I need to address a serious issue: When did "persons" become an accepted plural noun? Isn't the plural of person people? I've noticed this with fish - when did "fishes" become acceptable?
If anyone can clear this up, please do so. It's of great concern to me.)
I like tea. The problem: not many places sell tea, which means fewer place sell loose tea. It's pretty simple for a coffee lover to pop in the local Starbucks or latest hipster coffee lounge (*shutter*) and grab a freshly brewed cup of exotically blended coffee. Not so for tea drinkers. Sure, Starbucks has teabags and some smaller coffee shops will offer loose tea. It's...okay...I guess, but I want more. I don't want to be handed a cup full of boiling water with a burnt teabag bobbing around like a sun-bleached buoy. I want a full on tea bar. I want special blends freshly brewed before my eyes. Should I add sugar...honey...milk...leave it black (or green...or white)? Questions of the past! The tea brewers will know exactly what to do to achieve the best cup of your favorite tea, whether simple black or exotic rooibos. That's my dream. Oh, and they'll do it without a smarmy attitude.
It was Columbus Day. I had the day off from work and decided to grab some lunch with my parents. We went to a mall and my mom and I decided to stop in Teavana to pick up some tea (REALLY!?) as a Thank You gift for a family friend. I've shopped there before, so I knew what to expect from the sales people. It's sales...they're going to push but still let the customer stay in control (lies...I'll totally buy more tea with mere suggestions, but I still feel good when I leave). However, I could tell as soon as I walked in that this visit was going to be different, gravely different.
As we walked in, I noticed the sales man looked rather dapper...a little too dapper for a sales man who works in a mall, chain, tea store: suit, tie, dress shoes (*please keep this in mind for the rest of the rant). Whatever. Maybe he has a great work ethic - Good for you, Dapper Dan.
I decided to get an infuser to go along with this tea basket. Why have a bunch of loose tea and nothing to brew it in? I picked out a nice, simple, single-cup one much like the following:
Nothing fancy, but gets the job done.
I brought it over to the counter and prepared for battle. (I'm ready! You're not going to load me down with all this unwanted tea. I'm gonna stick to my list, pay, and leave. You're not going to win THIS time, Teavana.) Before I could place my order, the teaologist (yeah, the workers are called "teaologist". Seriously? Seriously) comments on the infuser:
Dapper Dan: I see you're buying a tea infuser.
Me: Yep.
Dapper Dan: May I make a suggestion for the exact same price you can get a much better one.
He shows me the following:
Crazy, huh? The top cup is the infuser and when you place it on top of another cup, the tea strains through. Supposedly, it's wonderful. I'll admit that I did buy one for my dad thinking he would be enthralled by it. He used it once. It's a bitch to clean.
Me (to my mom): Yeah. I can see her making a mess of that. (Not "with that", mind you. The recipient is a very "hectic" woman and I envisioned bad things.)
Dapper Dan: Actually, that other one is a lot messier. You don't have to lift this out of the tea and worry about it dripping everywhere.
Me: Okay...our friend might be "hectic", to say the least but she's competent enough to lift a small metal cup out of a larger cup. She's not that lazy. Yeah...uh...the kids! Yeah, her kids are gonna LOVE that. I see very bad things happening with it (*this friend lives with her young niece and nephews...who are possibly easily amused).
Dapper Dan: NOT if you keep it out of their hands!
Me: Hello! WHAT!?
Mom: You don't know these children. That's a lot easier said than done.
Disgruntled, Dapper Dan went back to the register and took my order. While he was scooping out the tea, my mother and I decided to buy a little English Breakfast tea. It's a simple, basic black tea we knew our friend liked. If she didn't care for the other two blends we gave, at least she had English Breakfast.
Me: Could I also get some English Breakfast, please?
Dapper Dan: *eye roll* I honestly would get Golden Monkey. English Breakfast...well...it's the hot dog of the tea world. We only carry it because people demand it.
Me: I like hot dogs. Where's he going with...NOT COOL! Dude, turn around! You carry a tea called "Weight to Go!" If that's not selling out, I don't know what is. I bet you don't even drink tea! You work in a CHAIN...in a MALL. What? The interview with Harney&Sons didn't go well? Could I please talk with someone who values/needs this $8.50/hour job?
This bashing of English Breakfast continued for the next five minutes, while he continued trying to sell me the $18.50/2 oz. Golden Monkey (I like monkeys, but it smelled like monkeys). Even when he talked me into buying a pound of English Breakfast, he berated it. I can understand being somewhat picky about the water's temperature, the amount of tea used, and how long you steep it for. These are all factors that will affect the flavor of your tea (boiling = burnt tea; too little = no flavor; steep too long = bitter). But really? You're going to belittle people because of their flavor preferences? You like what you like. You can't force yourself to little something - you either do, or you don't. So Prometheus, thanks for the fire but you can take it back to Mount Olympus. My cup of English Breakfast will keep me plenty warm.
If anyone can clear this up, please do so. It's of great concern to me.)
I like tea. The problem: not many places sell tea, which means fewer place sell loose tea. It's pretty simple for a coffee lover to pop in the local Starbucks or latest hipster coffee lounge (*shutter*) and grab a freshly brewed cup of exotically blended coffee. Not so for tea drinkers. Sure, Starbucks has teabags and some smaller coffee shops will offer loose tea. It's...okay...I guess, but I want more. I don't want to be handed a cup full of boiling water with a burnt teabag bobbing around like a sun-bleached buoy. I want a full on tea bar. I want special blends freshly brewed before my eyes. Should I add sugar...honey...milk...leave it black (or green...or white)? Questions of the past! The tea brewers will know exactly what to do to achieve the best cup of your favorite tea, whether simple black or exotic rooibos. That's my dream. Oh, and they'll do it without a smarmy attitude.
It was Columbus Day. I had the day off from work and decided to grab some lunch with my parents. We went to a mall and my mom and I decided to stop in Teavana to pick up some tea (REALLY!?) as a Thank You gift for a family friend. I've shopped there before, so I knew what to expect from the sales people. It's sales...they're going to push but still let the customer stay in control (lies...I'll totally buy more tea with mere suggestions, but I still feel good when I leave). However, I could tell as soon as I walked in that this visit was going to be different, gravely different.
As we walked in, I noticed the sales man looked rather dapper...a little too dapper for a sales man who works in a mall, chain, tea store: suit, tie, dress shoes (*please keep this in mind for the rest of the rant). Whatever. Maybe he has a great work ethic - Good for you, Dapper Dan.
I decided to get an infuser to go along with this tea basket. Why have a bunch of loose tea and nothing to brew it in? I picked out a nice, simple, single-cup one much like the following:
Nothing fancy, but gets the job done.
I brought it over to the counter and prepared for battle. (I'm ready! You're not going to load me down with all this unwanted tea. I'm gonna stick to my list, pay, and leave. You're not going to win THIS time, Teavana.) Before I could place my order, the teaologist (yeah, the workers are called "teaologist". Seriously? Seriously) comments on the infuser:
Dapper Dan: I see you're buying a tea infuser.
Me: Yep.
Dapper Dan: May I make a suggestion for the exact same price you can get a much better one.
He shows me the following:
Crazy, huh? The top cup is the infuser and when you place it on top of another cup, the tea strains through. Supposedly, it's wonderful. I'll admit that I did buy one for my dad thinking he would be enthralled by it. He used it once. It's a bitch to clean.
Me (to my mom): Yeah. I can see her making a mess of that. (Not "with that", mind you. The recipient is a very "hectic" woman and I envisioned bad things.)
Dapper Dan: Actually, that other one is a lot messier. You don't have to lift this out of the tea and worry about it dripping everywhere.
Me: Okay...our friend might be "hectic", to say the least but she's competent enough to lift a small metal cup out of a larger cup. She's not that lazy. Yeah...uh...the kids! Yeah, her kids are gonna LOVE that. I see very bad things happening with it (*this friend lives with her young niece and nephews...who are possibly easily amused).
Dapper Dan: NOT if you keep it out of their hands!
Me: Hello! WHAT!?
Mom: You don't know these children. That's a lot easier said than done.
Disgruntled, Dapper Dan went back to the register and took my order. While he was scooping out the tea, my mother and I decided to buy a little English Breakfast tea. It's a simple, basic black tea we knew our friend liked. If she didn't care for the other two blends we gave, at least she had English Breakfast.
Me: Could I also get some English Breakfast, please?
Dapper Dan: *eye roll* I honestly would get Golden Monkey. English Breakfast...well...it's the hot dog of the tea world. We only carry it because people demand it.
Me: I like hot dogs. Where's he going with...NOT COOL! Dude, turn around! You carry a tea called "Weight to Go!" If that's not selling out, I don't know what is. I bet you don't even drink tea! You work in a CHAIN...in a MALL. What? The interview with Harney&Sons didn't go well? Could I please talk with someone who values/needs this $8.50/hour job?
This bashing of English Breakfast continued for the next five minutes, while he continued trying to sell me the $18.50/2 oz. Golden Monkey (I like monkeys, but it smelled like monkeys). Even when he talked me into buying a pound of English Breakfast, he berated it. I can understand being somewhat picky about the water's temperature, the amount of tea used, and how long you steep it for. These are all factors that will affect the flavor of your tea (boiling = burnt tea; too little = no flavor; steep too long = bitter). But really? You're going to belittle people because of their flavor preferences? You like what you like. You can't force yourself to little something - you either do, or you don't. So Prometheus, thanks for the fire but you can take it back to Mount Olympus. My cup of English Breakfast will keep me plenty warm.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)