I am not fond of any number of things. Small children. Screaming small children. Girls who don't wear pants. Girls who wear tights and mistake them for pants. . Olives. Men. Men who marry and or date stupid women. Stupid women. Prematurely auto-flushing toilets. The list does go on.
This may be why people find it so surprising that my second job working with senior citizens hardly annoys me at all. I kind of feel these people have earned the right to be a pain in my ass.
(Case in point... every week I have to do the set up for weekly card tournaments. Little old granny Bridge players by the way do not fuck around. They take their Bridge seriously, and will cut a bitch should a bitch get in their way.
Earlier one Saturday morning, a 90 year old gentleman insisted on helping me move the required tables and set up the chairs. Working with seniors I have finally discovered a demographic with less upper body strength than I have, so I knew this would be a problem.
With his "help," my set-up took a half an hour longer than usual. Admittedly, I was nearly annoyed, and less than receptive when he said he could be there every Saturday to help me if I needed.
There was really no need at all for him to do this, and I made that clear. Then he went on to tell me how he just needs to get out of the house. His wife passed away last month.
They had been married for 65 years - and they always had so much fun together! In 1939, she was a tennis champion. She was a vision in her tennis outfit and shorts, and I better believe he spent all of his time hanging around the tennis courts just hoping she might look his way. It must have worked alright, because they were happy for 65 years.
And then, one day, it's all gone. The only thing left to do is find a way to keep going, and to get out of the damned house.
Going forward, it's now just going to take me a half an hour longer to move around some tables. And I'm fine with this.
Other times, I have significantly less patience. Occasionally the centre is rented by various community groups in the evenings, and I'll be called in to help with these events. The night the Canucks lost the Stanley Cup and Vancouver collectively lost its shit, I was working.
Adding insult to injury, the group renting the centre were of the wing-nutted variety. Their meeting that night was to discuss how cell phones and radio waves are silently devastating us all, and are at the root of all health problems ranging from insomnia to acne to suddenly not being alive.
(A few months prior, this same group held another evening meeting to discuss the American government's involvement in 9/11. Unfortunately I decided to sit in on the movie they were showing when invited to do so, largely because they had cookies. Following the movie I was introduced to the small crowd of people as their "newest true believer." I didn't know how to tell them I was only in the audience because a) I work here and b) I can not resist a chocolate covered digestive cookie.)
By the time 10:00 p.m. and my 14th hour of straight work rolled around, I was ready to go home. Unfortunately, I wouldn't be doing so without dealing a major blow to my already long-suffering karma.
The very last wing-nut to leave...well...refused to leave. He discovered a rummage sale table that hadn't yet been taken down from a recent fundraiser for the centre, and under that table was a vacuum.
Was it for sale? Yes. How much? As the sign in front of you says, it's by donation. Does it work? I don't know. Who donated it? I don't know. Where's the on button? I don't know. Can I call a friend? I don't kn...wait. What?
A friend of his might want a new vacuum, and he wanted to call her to confirm. Following a ten minute phone conversation on the centre's phone with said friend in which they discussed, I shit you not, whether the vacuum could suck up ferret hair , he wanted to try it out. I wanted to stab him in the eye.
I invited him to come back any time during regular business hours, and he could take all the time he needed to decide. The centre was now closed, and I had to lock up. He commenced vacuuming the foyer carpet.
No really, it's past closing time. If he lived nearby, the centre would be re-opening the next day, and he was more than welcome to vacuum the living shit out of anything he wanted at that time - the rummage sale table would still be there, I swear to God.
He began taking apart the vacuum to see how the bag worked, a full half hour past the time I had stopped being paid for my time, and 40 minutes after everybody else had left.
I began to wonder if this would be my fate. Is this how I finally snap - doomed to spend the rest of my life rotting in prison for beating somebody to death with a vacuum hose? If self-control failed, at least I knew I could base my self-defense on the radio waves emanating from my smart phone.
Admittedly, I was desperate. Also, tired, hungry, disappointed and anxious. The firefighter had just texted me to let me know parts of Vancouver were on fire - I should check the news.
(Given my rather unnatural attraction to first-responders and suddenly being made to picture firefighters in uniform, I could also add horny to the list of completely inappropriate emotions I was forced to deal with while watching an annoying little man vacuum a foyer.)
More importantly however, I knew my sister was downtown Vancouver, and I was getting no response from her to my text messages. I needed to be home. Right. Now.
Clearly, the guy in danger of being beaten to death with a vacuum cleaner was gullible, or else he wouldn't have been there irritating every single molecule in my body to begin with. I began engaging him in conversation.
Yes...late nights are sure tough as a single mother. So many times I don't get to see my children before they go to bed. The babysitter is usually alright with staying a little longer but...
I let my voice trail off. Surely a single mother wanting to be home with her children could prevent this gentleman from taking another run at the carpet, especially having satisfied himself that the vacuum bag was exactly where a vacuum bag could normally be found, as opposed to in my purse or behind his ear.
Oh - you have kids? That's nice. Was there an outlet farther away he could plug the cord into? He wanted to see how far it stretched.
Clearly, this motherfucker had got tired of breathing. If I couldn't get him to leave on his own in 30 seconds, very bad things were going to happen.
I sure do have children. Two of them. Precious angels, both. They normally try to stay up and wait for me to read them a story, but ever since little Kelli started chemo, the poor little thing has just been so tired. Story time is just the highlight of her day, since she can't be outside much anymore. Not since starting treatment. Chemo. Treatment.
Oh yes...I sure did. Everybody who has ever met me knows my ovaries are frozen in opposition. And yet, I made up an imaginary child with cancer waiting for me at home. An imaginary child with cancer that just happened to share the same name as Alex's girlfriend, by what I'm sure is the sheerest of coincidences.
He handed me a twenty, and no I didn't have change. And no, I also didn't have a bag large enough to carry a godforsaken vacuum but I would help him drag it out the front door so I could lock it behind him, hope he has a wonderful night, and stay away from all those radio waves!
As for me, I'm going to be staying away from the outdoors for the next little while. When I'm inevitably struck down by a lightening bolt from the clear blue sky, I want to at least have made it challenging to find me.
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