My cubicle partner, bless her heart. She puts up with so much from me. Matter of fact, today in the lunch room I mentioned I could express something through interpretive dance, but I didn’t feel like it.
After the laughter died down, she piped up, “She does do that, you know. Usually when she’s frustrated.”
Then they started quizzing her. Bless.
I rant. I get up on rants. I have a fresh pair of rantypants for every day of the week, and twice on Sundays. I rant about people picking fights with me on the Internet. I rant about things that I have to explain backstory so she knows why I’m ranty. Today, I was ranting about how a certain blog was making me so. mad. omg.
See, they were talking about how awesome Portland was, and how great… and in my opinion, they went to the absolute worst places to go in Portland. As far as I can tell, they never left the Pearl, let alone the West Side.
AND they were snooty about the poor service at the downtown Voodoo Doughnut. That’s where I got mad, man, that’s part of the *ambiance*. It’s a frickin’ 24 hour hole in the wall doughnut shop next door to a dirty film theater, you expect white napkin service? You crazy.
As I’m ranting, I’m looking for clues as to where these fools are from. And there it is— Napa, California. Along with a little blurb about how fantastic the life is in the Wine Valley.
Gag me with a spoon. I’m from Napa, yo. I start ranting about the fools who moved in and gentrified up Napa, within my lifetime. I grew up there, I went to school there. I’m getting the neck going. My great-grandparents are buried up in Tulocay. I’m snapping my fingers. And I reach my apex and shout, “I just want to go up to them and say, ‘Aw, pumpkin! If you don’t have cow crap on your shoes, you are not living the Napa lifestyle.'”
We both pause, and she looks at me and I look at her. “That’s going on my blog.”
“It totally should,” she says, and turns back to her email.
Her patience only extends so far.