Thorns in My Body Parts

Where's Androcles when you need him?

I had this sore spot on the outside of my heel for awhile--a week? longer?--and figured it was just a side effect of my job; a rough spot, whatever. So I put lotion on it, waited for it to get better. It didn't. Finally the night before last I soaked it in hot water, and rubbed away the skin crud, and realized there was a little lump there--and some probing revealed a small thorn or splinter, which I removed. It doesn't hurt any more!

I've got a little contest going on in my head, to see if Woody can get through a day without saying something that annoys me. This week he's 0 for 4 (I don't work Monday and he doesn't work Saturday, so he's 0 for the week--well below the Mendoza line.) I've decided that his pontificating and his annoying remarks are signs of a certain amount of insecurity--okay, a large amount of insecurity--and I've discovered that thinking this helps me let him be, but today I almost said something. One of the kids who works in the store is a pain in the ass--he's about 17, and queens around the place, yells at Bossman, gets orders wrong constantly, and--here's the thing that sends me over the edge--he's a bullshitter. If you ask him a question, there's a good chance he'll just make something up on the spot. You know what? I'm married to someone like that (though not for much longer, I hope), and it's not a behavior I like.

Today he apparently yelled at another young woman working in the store, in front of customers. She's one of the better workers, and her older sister worked in the store and now works the markets when she comes home from college in the summer and in the store over holidays. She came storming into the back, nearly in tears--which is NOT like her--looking for Bossman. Woody goes after her, saying, "Calm down; calm down." I nearly stabbed him. First off, it was none of his damned business; she was, correctly, looking for the person in charge. Second, I HATE it when some patronizing asshole tells me, or anyone else, to "calm down." (Or when some asshole tells me to "smile! It can't be that bad!" Fuck you. I do not exist for your entertainment or pleasure, and I am under no fucking obligation to smile, for you or anyone else. Oh--and fuck you. And the horse in upon which you rode.) I didn't say anything--because it wasn't any of my damned business, either, and because the young woman seemed to have it in hand--but I came close.

Meanwhile, tomorrow I'm leaving work early (only 49 hours this week instead of the usual 55) to go to see the Dave Matthews Band tomorrow night. I suspect we'll be sitting in a mudfield, but I don't care. Sunday we were going to try to connect with an ex-coworker, but she's busy being an intern (as in M.D.) and we can't find her. Instead, we'll either hike a little, or hang out nekkid on a beach, or just come back and watch some racing; any of those is fine with me. In order to implement this plan, however, I need to get my ass to bed so I can get up at the ACoD and go glaze galettes, make some tarts, perhaps make some mousse, garnish all of the above, garnish some more sous-bois tarts, and put out croissants for tomorrow night's bake. Speaking of sous-bois tarts, I made a bunch on Wednesday, and two people came into the store asking for them before i had them out--woo-hoo! I was pleased that they were requested, and even more pleased that I had some available.