Coming of Age, or I Am 33

WELL I NEVER


Do you ever have the kind of experience where you start off questioning something innocuous like, I dunno, manners, and end up debating with yourself the very existence of peace and goodwill?

Let me set the stage for you. I'm working at the museum. A "guest" comes in. She is roughly 13 years old. She is not just a little skanky. Her shirt is embarrasingly tight and her pants have the word "Skankalicious" on the ass. Ahem:

Skank: "OMG, like, you TOTALLY remind me of someone!"
Me: Really? Who might that be?
Skank: "I can't remember. Lemme think about it."

*dramatic pause*

Skank: "Oh yeah! You TOTALLY remind me of that fat hobbit Sam Gamgee in those movies!"
Me: !!!!!!

What I wanted to say was:
Me: And you TOTALLY remind me of a raving bitch!

But I didn't. I controlled my incredulity and directed her to the nearest pile of poop (it's an outdoor museum). I told her it was chocolate which had fallen off the chocolate tree nearby, ready for the pickin'.

And this isn't an isolated incident, oh no. This past winter I was asked by various snotty-nosed, soccer-playing, church-on-Sunday, white-bread-eatin, SUV-lovin, Red State brats:
"Are you an elf?"
"Are you a boy or a girl?" (!!???!??!!)
"Do you live in a tree?" (think Keebler elf)

Honestly. What is the deal with people under the age of 20 these days? They show up at college unable to read a whole book. They think it's perfectly fine to call someone a fat hobbit. And they wear their pants far too low to be practical. *shakes head in disdain*

I mean, I think I embrace my inner hobbit in a healthy, thoughtful, and productive manner. I ham it up with the short and tubby jokes amongst my friends and relatives and selected co-workers. It's fun because it's true, and I'm perfectly fine with that. I've even gone to Halloween parties as a hobbit. Twice.

But coming from a total stranger? It's simply not to be borne! *stamps foot indignantly*
I shall simply have to do something rather rash, I'm afraid.

SO to make the most of it, I am having a hobbit coming-of-age party. For those of you fortunate enough to have had normal social interaction during the teen years and beyond, Tolkien records that hobbits come of age at the 33rd birthday. Therefore, I propose we all go out to eat Saturday and have a drink or five. Then go to Jelder's band reunion thingey.

Tomorrow is actually the Big Day. I'm off work, but I'll be slaving in B'ton on my stupid doctoral paper, and a rehearsal, and who knows what else will come up.

_________________________________________

Speaking of coming of age, I simply must relate to you my interactions with one of my co-workers. Now, in the business in which I find myself in (that's three uses of "in" in one sentence! oops make it four) there are an inordinately large number of crazy people. Not just your usual run-of-the-mill crazies, but certifiable insanity. To wit:

I saunter inside to go potty, and I run into she who is known as , among other things*, The Bag of Hair. This term was coined by a former co-worker who observed that ther'es nothing weirder than a random bag of hair. Anyway, so there she is at the table in the employee lounge talking to one of our custodians. This custodian is African-American. This is an important point, so don't forget.

BOH: "Custodian, have you tried these tomatoes?"
AAC: "No I haven't."
BOH: "They're called black tomatoes. *pause pause pause* But don't worry, they're some of the nicest people you'd ever want to meet."

Clearly something went horribly awry in this conversation. I don't know what happened next because I was so horrified I left the room, choking on the bile which had erupted into my esophagus. I hope he betch-slapped her.

BOH seems to have no filter on her. She just says whatever comes to mind, regardless of how shocking or insulting it might be. I'd like to say that I punched her in the neck this one time, or that someone in the locker room sprayed her corset with.... um......... an irritating substance. No such luck.

My friend and co-conspirator Aili and I have taken to rating just how crazy she is on any given day. It's sort of an Emergency Alert system for nutty coworkers. And a valuable tool to know just how to interact with her, or not:

Level 1: Able to have lucid conversations (with others).

Level 2: Given to occasional incoherent babble. Talks to self loudly.

Level 3: Makes little effort to interact meaningfully with other sentient beings.

Level 4: Filter is not working at all. Expect crazy talk, muttering, general weirdness. Laughs at jokes that only she hears.

Level 5: Get a blow gun and a dart with a sedative.

She's so nuts another co-worker who used to work in group homes for the mentally challenged observes that BOH only needs some TLC. Which stands, of course, for Thorazine and Leather Cuffs.

There are other BOHs at my place d'employment, mais oui. Like the 300 lb nudist colony enthusiast, the closeted fairy, the various and sundry Longskirts, Pentecostals, and Holy Rollers. But BOH takes the cake.

If only it had some thorazine in it.

bye!

Keith

* also "She Who Is Bobsledding to Pluto", "Amazing Grace", and "Crazy xxxxx" (name withheld)