It's not you! It's me! ...no, it's you.

Look, my tolerance is low these days. I admit it. I'm tired and easily annoyed. It's not a crime. It's my life. I think I need to get a grip on it, but I'm not entirely sure how. Let's just say I'm working on it.

With that in mind, I give you:


PEOPLE THAT BUG ME

or, WHAT I DID ON MY WINTER VACATION


1. That guy from my office building who was at the corner deli this morning. He is a big guy who must be at least 35% hot air.

ME: (to the woman behind the counter) A bacon egg and cheese sandwich.

HIM: Whoa, that sounds like a heart attack!!

ME: And what are you having?

HIM: (grinning) Me? Just coffee!

ME: Well, that isn't good for you, either.

WOMAN BEHIND THE COUNTER: (working to get my attention) Anything else?

ME: No. (louder) Sorry, I was distracted because I was being told I was getting a heart attack. (I slam my change into the tip jar and leave, not even getting the satisfaction of a full-fledged confrontation.)


2. Maria. Maria works for an office space provider here in the city, and she recently gave a tour to me and a couple of my cohorts.

Maria is a solidly-built woman with hair that's been blown dry to within an inch of its life. She is dressed in a lot of brown, and has a lumpy, brown coat. She spends the first minute or two discussing her coat with us - its warming qualities and whatnot. We already hate her.

Maria takes us on a significantly more detailed tour of office space than we'd like. We just want to see the fucking rooms, get the square footage and look at the furniture they come with. We just want to see if they will work for our short-term project or not. But she shows us the shared kitchens, shared conference rooms and a hallway with chairs she generously calls a "corporate lounge." She talks incessantly about the coffee they have there for all of the tenants to use (for a hefty surcharge, of course). She says it removes the need for Starbuck [sic], unless, of course, you "get those fancy, fancy, fancy drinks." She keeps winking.

She introduces us to her staff, to admins and receptionists who could help us should we lease some space. These are people that she introduces with flair. With panache. They each stand up a little straighter when she delves into their educational background and history with the company. It's unclear if this is from pride or the desire to wring her soft neck. ("Angie just graduated! What did you study, again, Angie?" "Liberal arts." "Liberal ARTS!")

It's at this point that she starts calling me "Al," despite the fact that I say "Allen" every time I meet one of her drones. "Have we met before, Al?" she asks me with a wink, "You sure look familiar."

I kick her hard in the knee cap, dropping her to the floor with a squeal, as I shout "it's Allen, you asshole!" into her ear. Okay, I don't do that, but I like the idea.

She walks us past one of those little putting greens sitting in the middle of a hallway. "Ohhhh," she starts, "this was the invention of one of our best people here!" We all look closely at it, trying to decipher what part might have somehow been "invented," but find nothing. It looks like maybe it was procured from a Target or Wal-Mart. We meet the man in question a bit later on the tour. He comes out of the world's smallest internal office, perhaps a former (or current) broom closet; he's an awkward young guy with a striped shirt and too-short-tie. She explains to him that we saw his brilliant putting green and asks him to tell us all about it.

"Oh!" he says, "Well, I like to have fun at work, and figured everyone else does, too!"

I want to set myself on fire.

Later, back in one of the conference rooms, Maria sits us down to talk business. And that's where the insulting really takes flight. Her quotes are higher than they were on the phone, and she feigns forgetfulness when called out on it. She inappropriately questions our business model and flat-out asks us how we make money. We check our watches. Lastly, after looking us all up and down (especially me), she asks for a retainer. We get up from the table and basically run for the elevator.

We make it out of the building, and I am thankful to be outside where huge chunks of ice are falling from the skyscrapers. It feels safer out here.


3. People who drive north on Sheridan Road to get onto Lake Shore Drive from the Belmont ramp.

You. Yes, you, you fucker. The only right-turn lane is the RIGHT lane. Yes, this one. The one I've been waiting in with my daughter for the last six minutes. Not the empty lane to the left of us with all the straight fucking arrows painted in it. You do not, no matter what you think, have the right to get onto Lake Shore Drive before me. Before the rest of these good citizens just trying to get on with their day!

So what if today I don't even have my daughter in the car. So what if today I just happen to be driving to her school with nothing more than a coffee cake in the back seat - a coffee cake we had to deliver first thing in the morning, even if our daughter was under the weather and not going to school herself that day. So what if I'm sitting here, escorting a CAKE halfway across the city to take it to school!

So what!!!

GET IN LINE.


Well. I feel better now. How about you?