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A Rant That May or May Not End With Flinging Poop

March 9, 2013

I don’t have a lot to complain about. I live in a cool neighbourhood with a decent guy, an entertaining dog and an equally entertaining if incredibly bitchy cat. I have a social life, I’m skilled at walking in 6″ heels, and I have a knack for finding amusement in even the dullest of situations. What more could a girl ask for, really?

Despite the fact that I don’t have much to complain about, I do still manage to find things, of course. Not often but it happens. For example, my recent post about having too much alcohol in my home, thanks in large part to the social protocol that requires friends and family to present a bottle of booze or wine to the host. Apparently I do entirely too much hosting. Also, I try to throw a Christmas party every December for about 150 of my closest friends. I supply beer, wine, punch and spiked eggnog but the guests always bring their own favourites to ensure the party does not suffer from a less than fully stocked bar. I’m trying to teach my little brother to become a skilled bartender so he can help out with the mixing of drinks. My hope is that this will push things along, leaving me with fewer half-full bottles to bring home at the end of the night.The little jerk shows no interest in learning from me thus far and the damned Bartending  Academy of Ontario won’t let me enroll a 16 year-old. “But if I have to wait until he’s 19, I won’t be able to force him to do what I say any more! How fair is that to my party guests?”

February and March are usually my hibernation months. It’s the between time – after the holidays and before my boat launches in the spring, at which point I move onto the Island.  This February and March, however, I’ve been going to entirely too many product launches, venue re-launches, corporate anniversary parties and other special events. In fact, in the last week and a half, I’ve had one evening off, which I meant to spend cleaning the disaster that is now my home but instead spent sleeping like the dead. The boyfriend came home from night shift to find me spread diagonally across the bed with the covers wrapped around me, in his words, “like a wonton”. He tried to gently nudge me, not so gently roll me over and finally pick me up but apparently, without waking up,  I let out a string of expletives and then threatened to leave him with nothing but the bitchy cat if he touched me again. He decided at that point that it would be best if he simply slept on the sofa. He knew, after all, that I had a busy day and another event to attend the next evening, and I should probably continue with my rest, uninterrupted.

The next evening’s event was a venue re-launch. I brought one of my clients since he actually is media and he might find something to write about, photograph, blah blah blah. When we arrived, we had to wait in line. Strange, right? But whatever, it was a small line and wasn’t raining or snowing so my hair was safe.  I struck up a conversation with another woman in line, who happened to be very unhappy about waiting. “What’s the point of being VIP if everyone is fucking VIP?” she asked me. “I think some of us are also media,” I shrugged.

Once inside, I took my guest’s coat and he went to the bar to get us both drinks. The coat check also had a line. And they charged me $6 to take the coats although they hung them both on one hangar. I found my friend and said, “They charged me for coat check!” at the same time he said, “They charged me for drinks!”  I pulled out my cell phone and looked up the invite. Yep, it definitely said, VIP and Media only, cocktails and appetizers will be served. “My friend,” I said. “I think we’ve been duped.”

My client wanted to leave but I suggested we stay for just a couple of drinks. My mood had not gone downhill quite yet and, I will admit, I had a motive to stay. See, I had been photographed at an event two nights prior and that picture ended up on some fashion blog. Unfortunately, it was not a great photo. I had just arrived at that event straight from another launch and had not had time to fluff my hair or re-apply my make up. To compound the problem, the camera hated the dress I wore. I’m sure that the only reason the blogger did not offer up any nasty comments was because it was one of those stupid dresses that trick you by looking great in person but not so much on camera. I chose to go the safe route at this party (all solid colours, black on bottom, bright on top) because I knew the same photographer was on the guest list. My goal was to be photographed again so I could redeem myself a little on this fashion blog.

Anyway, we stayed for about an hour. Complimentary hors d’oeuvres and cocktails did eventually start coming out of the kitchen and bar but the hoards of people pounced on the poor waitresses before the doors had time to swing shut. We mostly stuck to paying for drinks.

The place was beginning to fill up to what we were sure was beyond capacity. It was impossible to dance or work the room. My client and I tried weaving our way away from the bar after purchasing yet another beverage when some asshole whipped around, his elbow knocking my it all over my silk shirt. I glanced down at the mess, which I knew would leave a stain after it had dried. The jerk did not even apologize. He just looked at the elbow of his leather jacket with concern. My mood officially soured to the consistency of curdled milk. In an effort to elevate it back to it’s normal state, I briefly imagined myself throwing the rest of my drink on that guy’s precious coat. Simply picturing this scenario typically would have worked because I’m not one to stay angry for long but my client leaned over at this exact moment and whispered, “I just got a text from the photographer. She’s held up at another event and won’t be coming.”

I sighed. “Well, that’s probably a good thing. Let’s GTFO before someone else photographs me with alcohol stains running down my shirt.”

We left the event and went to a bar with live music, no VIPs, Media or pretend free drinks. I ordered a bellini, one of my favourite alcoholic beverages.

“How is it?” asked the waitress.

“It is the worst drink I have ever had in my life,” I answered truthfully. “There is no carbonation and I can taste powdered peach juice. Please just bring me a gin and club with two limes.”

The band sucked. They kept playing Rhiana and Lady Gaga. After two more drinks there, it was time to call it.

My condo was just ten minutes away from the pub so I decided to walk it in six inch heels, rather than catch one of the many taxis. Bad idea. When I returned home and peeled the shoes off of my swollen, slightly purple feet, my intention was to crawl into bed. The dog had other ideas. I sighed, donned a pair of ugly but comfy cotton pants -okay, they were pajama bottoms, and they were my boyfriend’s – stuffed my hair under a hat and took the dog outside.  She did her business and as I was bagging it, she started to do more business. Two guys were standing in front of a bar about 50 yards away. One of them had the nerve to yell this:

“Hey! If your dog’s taking a dump, would you mind picking it up?”

What the fuck? This asshole had to have just seen me bagging my dog’s last shit. I glared at him and held up the little bag to prove that I am indeed a responsible owner. The fucktard responded with this:

“I mean, I know it’s a small dog but still, be responsible!”

My eyes narrowed to slits, it became difficult to suck in air. Even my hands started to shake a little. Keep it together, D.C.. Don’t lose your temper over some drunk assfuck outside of a shitty bar just because you’ve had an off night. My dog finished her business and I bent down to bag it.

“Oh look!” He yelled, “She’s actually picking it up. Isn’t that nice of her?”

I straightened and whipped around, “Look, you fucking cockface! I have never been so close to flinging shit at anyone in my entire life. Say one more word, one more FUCKING WORD, and you’re going to regret it on so many levels!”


“That’s what I thought.” I yelled just to feel like the conversation had closure.

I went home, crawled into bed and immediately fell asleep.

Folks, I feel much better today.


5 Comments leave one →
  1. March 9, 2013 7:32 pm

    I would have taken the full, warm, bag of poo over to him and handed it to him and told him since he was so drunk he obviously couldn’t see, he might want to inspect things up close and personal. LOL

    But then again, I’m a bitch.

  2. March 9, 2013 7:56 pm

    That would have worked, too! And it kinda seems like a more civilized response that mine.

  3. March 10, 2013 9:37 am

    Hilarious. I thinking poop-flinging would have been appropriate. 😉

  4. juliabarrett permalink
    March 10, 2013 7:56 pm

    Ooh yeah! I like this side of you, your bad self!

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