If You Belonged Here

What Doesn't Surprise Me

You know what doesn't surprise me? People.

Not you, not me, not the next guy. Not little kids or the elderly. Not teenagers.

Sure there was that one time in the movie theater where a passel of possums kept quiet for the whole movie. That's not what I expected. And there was another time when this buttoned-up person turned out to be a scattered mess. But that kind of thing doesn't happen a lot.

Mostly I get what I expect. Mostly I see people coming from a mile away. Mostly, people do not sneak up on me.

People are predictable. If only you assume that what they say is encoded and look at their faces when they talk. The key to the code is in the faces. Also, remember that people don't just lie to you. They lie to themselves, so the fact that seem earnest and sincere and all of that hooey is no indicator or what they will do. The best indicator of what people will do, as the saying goes, is what they have done.

Cheaters cheat. Doers do. Liars lie. Givers give. Fighters fight. Punctual people show up on time.

What people say is usually only significant if there is no obvious reason to say it. What they don't say is significant all the time. How they talk about other people, how they treat them, that's how they'll be about you. Eventually.

You are not special, cupcake.

I promise you: no matter how special you are, you are not special. Prettier, smarter, nicer, whatever. You aren't special. What can happen to other people, can happen to you. So remember this, you lose 'em how you get 'em, what goes around comes around, and  even Angelina Jolie can be cheated on. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck--sure it could be a confused rooster, but it's not--it's a duck. And if Billy Bob cheated on his last wife, he'll cheat on you. No matter what he says. Because it's what he does.

Pretty people just make prettier messes. Smart people just make more elaborate, rationalized messes. Nice people, well, they didn't mean to make a mess. It just kind of happened.

People do people things because they are people. They do the things that they do because it's who they are.

That really doesn't surprise me.

Because I'm Equal Opportunity

Mr. Poppins is frequently indulgent of me, aware of my quirks and tolerant of my antics. Mr. Poppins is often amused by me, but seldom embarrassed. Because I know where the line is, people.

Except for this one time.

This one time, when I was pregnant with Secret Lulu. Hugely pregnant. Stick-a-harpoon-in-me-Captain-Ahab pregnant. Eclipsing-the-light-of-the-sun pregnant. You know, with the breasts the size of orbiting moons and the bladder the size of a peanut? 

Yeah, that.

So knowing that soon, very soon, movies and relaxing would be fuzzy memories, Mr. Poppins took me to a movie. Something popular. I don't remember what. But it was popular. There were a lot of people in line. Many of them were teenaged people. Including this one bunch, entering the theater immediately in front of me and Mr. Poppins. A mixed grouping of about a dozen girls and boys, all of whom seemed to be enjoying themselves, because they had the audacity to (no, not hope) laugh and talk to each other and stuff.

I did not like them.

I did not like them one little bit. So when we got to the ticket taker guy, this skinny kid with too much gel in his hair who looked just about old enough to get a learner's permit to drive, I decide I will be preemptive. This is the part where Mr. Poppins gets embarrassed.

I pre-complain.

As in, launch into a request, in a low, clipped tone, that the ticket taker, puh-leeze, come into the theater  ten minutes after the movie starts to check on those teenager people. Because I just know they'll be up to shenanigans and making noise and generally annoying me even more than they are now, what with their waistlines, ability to breath full breathes, and their drinking of giant sodas that would send my peanut bladder into convulsions.

I really hate those people.

So the poor learner-permit ticket taker guy looks at me, not directly at me, but out of the corner of his eye and all flinchy-like, as though I might strike at any time. Because you know, he's scared of me now and also a little confused. So I repeat myself. Emphatically. Because I am not putting up with this maybe-we'll-talk-and-giggle-and-throw-skittles crowd. I am not. Not even a hint of it. Not even a twinkle. If they so much as breathe heavy, with their spacious lung capacity, I want them O-U-T, out.

Mr. Poppins is blushing by this time, which is not something he does as a regular thing. I've seen it maybe three times over nearly ten years of coupledom. So I ask him, as we leave the trembling ticket taker to deal with saner customers, if I was over-the-top back there.

A little.

And then I launch into a defense of my actions. I just know those kids are going to be trouble. I don't want to pay ten dollars a ticket to listen to their color commentary or watch them have a popcorn fight. I am sick and tired of these teenager people, who don't know the first thing about how to behave in public, ruining movies and remember the last movie we went to where those kids were cutting up the whole time?

I really hate those kids.

And just look at them down there. Talking. What with their stage whispers and requests for more jujubes. I just know they're going to be a problem. I do. Mr. Poppins nods sympathetically and pats my hand and tells me he supports me leaving out the part about me being crazier than a poop-house rat. Eventually the movie starts. The lights dim. Sound blares from the speakers.

Exactly ten minutes of movie passes. No more, no less. The ticket taker is not going to risk angering me. A flashlight pokes through the dark. Looking for the source of--what? Not one person is so much as snapping their bubblegum. The teenagers are silent.

Not a whisper, not a peep, not a giggle.

And that is that.

Two weeks later I give birth to Secret Lulu and learn to ignore any and all noise that I, personally, am not required to do anything about. Especially if it does not occur in the middle of the night. I get my waist, lung capacity, and bladder back to their previous, more manageable sizes. 

I do not, however, regain my sanity.

A Real Disappointment

Okay, so I'm going to be all creepy and ageist here. Even though there are a lot of old people that I love. Even though I know that not all old people are terrible drivers who can barely see over the steering wheel of their giant cars.

I'm just going to let the prejudice stereotyping fly.

Because yesterday, Secret Lulu and I went to the grocery store. Secret Lulu totally pushes the cart for me now. I love that. Anyway, we were going to do self-checkout because I'm trying to get the hang of it. I actually prefer to have someone else do all the checking and bagging--I mean we pay a premium on groceries for that very service--but Mr. Poppins self-checks. He's good at it.

So being the competitive person I am, I want to be good at it.

On this particular day, we had a lot of produce, which I don't have the hang of, (but am trying to get the hang of because I secretly think it would make me look cool in front of Mr. Poppins), so I was going to, you know, be brave and practice. But when I got to the front of the store, I realized that it was unusually crowded for that time of day. I don't know why. There were people with full carts of groceries and people who seemed to only need an item or two. There were no 15 item-or-less lines open, just long lines or self-check. Kind of forcing the issue, you see. And it was working because all of the people who could carry their groceries in their hands were beelining to self-checkout.

Makes sense.

I didn't want to get in the really long line but, under the circumstances, I would have been really dorking up the self-checkout and making a nuisance of myself. Mr. Poppins scoffs at people who do that. Clearly, I don't want to be that person. Practice would have to wait.

The line crawled. Mostly because the ancient-and-horrible in front of me, well, I really can't figure out what she was doing but whatever it was, time crawled. I waited patiently. Seriously. Secret Lulu had plenty of time to talk me into Starburst and M&M's.

They were on sale. Buy one, get one free. I bought them. I'm not going to apologize for that, people. I mean, the zombie apocalypse is coming, I don't think this is the time to get all huffy about my kid's sugar intake.

Whatever.

So, I'm mostly trying to discretely scan the gossip magazines so I can figure out if Angie & Brad are getting divorced or reinventing tantric bliss and, you know, what about Jon & Kate. Does she hate him or want him back? That kind of important thing. But my surreptitious reading is interrupted because I can hear the woman in front of me telling the checker something.

You know, telling. As in, this is important and you should be informed and I expect you to do something.

Telling.

This is what I hear:

I'm not buying this but I brought it up here so you could see it. (I can't see what it is, and frankly I don't really care because there are celebrity cellulite pictures and an alien baby that need my attention). But I've purchased this product twice now and both times I was really disappointed.

What is it with old people and making a big deal about complaining to underpaid staff? Like anyone cares. Just stop buying the juice. If no one buys it, the store will stop selling it. 

I refrain from snickering but I imagine that the checker, who is a little puffy (maybe hung over, maybe pregnant--you know the look) is about to spasm from the strain of not rolling her eyes and sucking her teeth. Because seriously, who cares, and can we move this line along already? I'm getting varicose veins from all this standing.

My turn finally comes. I've had time to sort my groceries into categories, you know, so that all the frozen food, squishables, and household cleaning products are grouped together for easier bagging. So my turn just flies along. There's a slight delay while I find the contact lense that I rubbed out of my eye on the floor, lick it clean, and pop it back in, but it really takes no more than thirty seconds total and it's not like the checker had to stop doing her thing to watch me do it.

Some people are nosy. That's not my fault.

So I get to the car and unload the groceries. Fabulous. But, wait. What the heck is that in my bag? White Grape juice? You have got to be kidding me. I did not put this in my cart. No, no, no. So I sigh heavily going through the moral dilemma that is extra groceries in the cart. Do I bring it back? Keep it?

I don't know, people. I consult the receipt to see if the item is on there. And yes, apparently I spent $2.99 on this product. It must have belonged to the person in front of me. They'll be annoyed when they put away their groceries and it's missing. I mean they probably paid for it, too.

But wait. No. The lady in front of me. The ancient-and-horrible telling lady. This belonged to her. I just know it. This is her disappointing item. And now it's mine.

I inspect the label. There is a Jonus Brother dvd offer. The juice, white grape (who drinks that?) is from concentrate. There are no added colors or flavors. Gasp. It's Sugar free.

EWWWWWWW.

No wonder the old bag was disappointed. I mean, why not just let people spit in your mouth if you're going to drink that ick. And I so don't want to go in the store again, not to do a return, not to wait endlessly for someone to get around to finding someone authorized to give me my $2.99 back. So I call it whatever and put the juice in my car. Because I'm not some old person with nothing better to do than complain. Sheesh. Can you imagine someone going on and on about nothing like that? Like people have nothing better to do with their time than listen to endless gripes.

Ha! Did you get it? I'm talking about you and me, people. But don't get your feelings hurt, because I say it with love. I mean, when I do it, at least I make an attempt to be entertaining.

 

P.S. You know I desperately want that Jonus Brothers dvd. Because it would be totally awesome. Totally.