[Stephanie Tanner voice]How rude![/Stephanie Tanner voice]

I’m insanely non-confrontational, to a degree where people who don’t know me might say, “Oh, she’s so Jesus-y—all ‘turn the other cheek’ and shit.” While I don’t disagree that turning the other cheek is sometimes the most mature thing to do—whether you’re a Christian or not—that’s not why I cringe and turn mute when confrontation rears its ugly head or when I’m expected to defend myself. No, I cringe and turn mute because…well, I just don’t like confrontation. It scares me, really. I don’t even like witnessing heated confrontations between other people.

But for the first time in my 33½ years, I actually grew a teeny, tiny, blink-and-you-miss-’em pair of balls on Friday. I was standing in line at Michael’s, waiting to purchase some frames for the fabulous pulp art cards I bought a few months ago, and the woman behind me was all agitated and antsy, repeatedly muttering “What’s taking so long?” and stepping a bit out of line to stare pointedly at the cashier. This annoyed me. I hate when people act like impatient douchebags while waiting in line. No matter how long or slow a line is (and this line wasn’t even excessively long or slow), sighing, bitching, and pacing like a caged animal isn’t going to make it move any faster. Nobody likes waiting in line—everybody’s time is equally valuable—but most people manage to suck it up and queue quietly and patiently like grown-ups.

When I reached the register, some woman who was behind the impatient woman and me ended up moving in front of me to sign some kind of log book that was with the cashier. Impatient Woman asked if the log book signer and I were together and we both said no. That’s when Impatient Woman accused me of cutting in front of her in line. Huh? Look, I’m no saint, and I certainly have my moments of being as hateful and/or annoying as anyone else, but when it comes to dealing with other people, I do pride myself on having good manners. Even if I’m inwardly bashing someone (for example, a rude clerk), I’m always polite and respectful, and, because I try to live by the Golden Rule, I would never willfully cut in front of somebody in line. And while I definitely have my fair share of spacey moments, I can’t believe I’d be so spaced out that I’d be behind somebody in line, and then suddenly in front of her, and fail to notice the switch. So while I think this chick was probably just talking bollocks, yes, it’s entirely possible I inadvertently cut in front of her. Perhaps she was standing a bit apart from the rest of the line, thus giving the impression that she wasn’t actually in line, and in joining what I thought was the end of the line, I cut in front of her. But if that’s the case, then why didn’t she just say to me, “Hey, excuse me—you’re cutting in front of me?”

Anyway, after she told me I cut in front of her, our brief conversation went something like this:

Me: What? I did?

Her: Yes, you did, and you knew exactly what you did.

Me: No, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…

Her (in a low, tightly-controlled, slightly menacing way): You did—you knew exactly what you were doing.

Me (snippy): Fine, whatever! (Grabs shopping bag and stalks away.)

Aaaaaaaaaand…you’re all like, “Wait, what? That’s it?” Yes, that’s it. I am so pathetically meek and non-confrontational, snipping “Fine, whatever” constitutes a revolution in my book. Baby steps, y’all. But because I was offended by her charge—that I’d deliberately (in a kind of calculating, Mean Girl way) cut in front of her and then lie about it—I wish I’d had the gumption to say something vitriolic enough to make that cow clasp her throat and declare, “Well, I never!” Or at least I wish I would’ve said, “How dare you! How dare you insinuate that I’m rude and bitchy and bratty enough to act the way you’re accusing me of acting?” But, this is me we’re talking about, so my little snip and stomp was the extent of my retaliation.

Meanwhile, I’ve been doing a lot of freelancing lately, thank god, but one of my freelance employers is really, really late with paying me, so money remains tight. Added to that, my iPod recently died on me, and I can’t decide if I want to spend another $100 to get it repaired again or if I just want to invest in a new one. Nothing can happen right now—I’m still too broke—but once the freelancing money arrives, I’ll have to make a quick decision, because my commute is quite cruddy without my iPod, even when I have CDs in the car. Also, my check engine light came on last Sunday and has stayed on consistently, so I really need to get my car to the mechanic (especially since it hasn’t been riding smoothly for a few months), but again: dead broke. I’m crossing every finger and toe that I’m not looking at any hardcore repair bills here.

In brighter news, this weekend’s workload was alleviated by some family visits on both Saturday and Sunday (just like last weekend’s workload was broken up by a fun visit at Antoinette’s house in Virginia, followed by a great dinner in West Virginia). Best of all, on Saturday Dad and Jill treated me to lunch at Café Anglais, the English tearoom in Frederick I’ve been dying to try. Oh lordy, was I in heaven. This tearoom is so quaint and cute, and it apparently has a sizable, gorgeous garden where patrons can eat during nicer weather. It’s owned by an Englishman who’s friendly, chatty, and very hands-on with patrons—a refreshing change from many restaurants. Café Anglais serves a full high tea (as long as you give them 24 hours’ notice) and an impressive range of pub fare, such as shepherd’s pie, fish and chips, ploughman’s lunch, bangers and mash, and so on. It’s not exactly a haven for vegetarians, but neither is English cuisine in general. What really drew me to this place is the fact that they sell pasties—both Cornish and vegetarian. I heart onion pasties almost more than I can say, and they’re extremely difficult to find in the States. The British pubs in DC, Bethesda, and Wheaton don’t sell them. I did find them at the British restaurant in NYC where I had my birthday dinner last year, and there is a British store near Chantilly, VA, that sells frozen versions of them, but beyond that, nada. So you can imagine how ecstatic I was to discover that Café Anglais sells them. I savored every. single. bite. And I washed it all down with a pot of tea, even though I’m not much of a tea drinker. For desert Jill and I split my all-time favorite British desert: a Heinz chocolate pudding. When warmer days prevail we’re going to return for high tea in the garden. I can’t wait!



song heard most recently before posting:
Evidence—Joseph Arthur