Not in the mooooood

To be compared to a dairy cow to some might be seen as a compliment, an insult or just plain rude.  Not that long ago at a children’s party of all places one of the very married daddies commented on my rather impressive boobage and said I’d be a very productive dairy cow.

I very politely proceeded to down the remaining wine in my glass (wine should be mandatory to all parents/guests present at kiddies parties) and pretended I didn’t hear the idiot.

Alas, my stoic silence was not met with the desired outcome and he proceeded with his dairy farm anecdotes. Wifey must’ve been at the petting zoo area wiping dribble or snot out of some crevice or surface no doubt.

Sir, I politely start, I’m not a sir he snaps, I work for my money. Alright then, I say sticking on my best frigid, fake, feral smile. What would you rather be called? Man? Tub of lard? Half cut twat?

Pick one, assemble all three if you want, but listen to me carefully, I will even speak slowly.  I am not a dairy cow, if you proceed to moo or make crude hand gestures in my direction I will make a scene of epic proportions, the like of which you will never recover from.

With this I march away double quick for more wine before I poke his eye out with a plastic spade lying around somewhere in an overgrown tomato patch.

All goes well, children fall off swings, seesaws and the bouncy castle like manna from heaven.  In the midst of my newest form of amusement there’s a constant wailing from various children that no one can establish the cause of and infant crying is like the plague, it spreads like wildfire and needs no encouragement to start.

Finally, a very distraught mother comes hurrying across the yard looking rather green, the only sheep in the petting zoo has literally dropped dead, hence the wailing. Sadly, it didn’t fall on the wailing child, otherwise it would have been a resounding success to my way of thinking.

Not very delicately the owner of said petting zoo drags the dead sheep from the enclosed area without an apology or backward glance.

By this time the wine has dwindled and the only beverage that’s alcoholic resembles a funny coloured Rose that tastes of vinegar. Beggars can’t be choosers in times of desperation and I fill someone’s discarded sippy cup with said stale tasting vinegar and proceed to smile fakely as birthday boy is encouraged to blow out the candles.

While everyone is cooing over the birthday cake (it was green with little plastic cars on it) married, drunk daddy stands right behind me, beer flavoured breath blowing on my neck.  As if that’s not bad enough he then proceeds to rub his now engorged member (have to laugh at romance novels’ descriptions of male anatomy) against the small of my back and bum.

Having now had enough I grab him by the nuts, do a sharp twist to the left with my wrist and can hear an audible breath being drawn in.  In his state of panic he steps back, falls into a plastic chair, which from years of standing in the sun and his considerable girth collapses under him right into some freshly left dog poop.

Oh, the hilarity.

When I’m not the unfortunate recipient of what karma dishes out, it is at times quite satisfying seeing her at work.

Occupational Hazard

If I had a disclaimer of some sort I’d insert the bugger here, sadly, I don’t, rest assured though that I wont be using actual names or pictures (this will become clearer later on).

In my current job I’m the general dogsbody and get to do everything. Crawl around the archive store, wash dishes, run personal errands (not my own) and make pretty horrendous coffee (hey, I don’t drink the stuff, I can’t be held accountable), added to this I still have my own day job that I have to pretend to enjoy and do.

At times when standing by the copier making endless copies of Lord knows what, a wad of paper will be thrust into your hand and demands made to make copies and return the originals to the boss or whomsoever else requires them. Most of these wads of paper are harmless, mundane things of everyday life, invoices, statements, witness reports etc.

I have a mental block when it comes to work. As soon as something leaves my desk I forget about it, until I am forced to deal with it again.

On rare occasions however, rather strange intimate pictures, letters and the like gets copied, when divorces turn nasty and people do so enjoy showing each other up, or pointing out their weaknesses. It’s massively cringeworthy, embarrassing and damn right upsetting. 

Whilst in the deli section of one of our local supermarkets last night a very unsettling thing happened to me.

I had this strange feeling that someone I’d clocked buying chocolate eclairs (the baked kind, not the sweetie) looked familiar. Now under normal circumstances I have a memory like an elephant, I remember amazing details about situations or stories relayed to me. No matter how long ago it was.

Failing to place the face I chalk it up to some peculiar case of deja vu and soldier on with my mam,  up and down the various aisles. We reach the fruit & veg section scrutinizing various items of produce, selecting and rejecting as we go along.

She picks up a rather misshapen cucumber and mutters something about how squishy this particular cucumber is, when it hits me. I know what eclair man’s pee-pee looks like. It’s bent at a funny angle like the cucumber, and he shaves his legs, amongst other things. I’d nearly wiped out a national forest making copies of him and his appendage in various situations. 

I nearly abandon the trolley right in front of the vine ripened tomatoes and run screaming for the car.  Sadly, this is not to be. Chaos ensues and I’m reasonably sure I’ll still be paying for therapy when I’m 80.

My mam drives over my foot with her trolley with such force that she actually manages to dislodge the shoe from my left foot, the impact of the fully loaded trolley sends me sprawling into the fridgy thing that houses the produce where wrapped lettuces and cucumbers rain down on me like an ill timed avalanche. 

As this point I’m not sure if I’ve been shot, stabbed, powder burned or snake bit.

My mam is doubled over with laughter, I’m scrambling to get out of the fridge and retrieve my shoe (with as much dignity as I can) that’s now hopelessly lost somewhere amidst the artificial flowers and sacks of potatoes.

To my absolute horror, eclair man saunters up the aisle,  spots the shoe, my bare foot and does the math.  He picks up my abused shoe and makes his way over to me. I take it this is yours he says. I mutely nod, and snatch it out of his hand. He probably has a very similar pair at home that he swans around in....

I bolt upright, sending cucumbers and lettuces scattering to the floor and walk with shoe in hand out the store to the car.  If I weren’t so angry, I’d probably cry. This might be funny in a few weeks or months, but right now I refuse to go to that store, I’m avoiding the front office at all costs but especially the copier.

Nowhere in my job description does it say that psychological trauma counseling is part of the employment package, nor is danger pay. After last night, it bloody well should be mandatory!