Everything’s closed today because of “anticipated inclement weather”. I mean, schools and such.  I know, I should be happy, but I'm a little annoyed, because everyone's pretending it's really going to snow when all they're predicting is 6 inches in Boston, for chrissake. Can't we just be like, fuck it, we haven't had any snow days so far this year — we're taking today off!  Instead we all have to act like it's the responsible thing to do.  Like we're hunkering down for snowmageddon.  Whatever.

I actually went into work this morning, because the last time this happened and I didn’t go in I was told that when the school is closed that just means the students and faculty are off, but there’s some other kind of closed for the administration.  There's closed, and then there's closed closed, see.  And only the Dean of Students knows the difference.  And I didn't get my secret decoder ring.

So I’m peddling back home from having gone to work to find the school closed (that is, closed closed) this morning, and thinking of stopping in somewhere to grab a breakfast sandwich. I’m like, I was just at the Perk for a sandwich yesterday – so I don’t want to go in there. I don't want to be one of those people who goes in and gets the same thing every day, and then it gets all awkward if you want to change one day. 

Billy’s, they can be real assholes, especially if it’s slow. It's been a roller coaster with the bitches there over the past several years, let me tell you.  Sometimes the cute younger brother — Stavros I think is his name — gives you this macho attitude.  Yeah, it's cute and all, and I would do him in a heartbeat, but we both know that's not gonna happen.  I've moved on. OK, I'm still a little angry.  I feel jilted, but whatever.  Fuck you.

And on and on it went, as I passed one after another cafe or sandwich shop. 

I finally stopped at Au Bon Pain not far from my new place.  This is the one where I saw one of the employees masturbating under his apron one morning.  No, seriously.  Tell you this much: the terrorists have won at Au Bon Pain.  Hands down, so to speak.

So then I get home, and the landlady has her boyfriend call me to set up a time to have the walls patched from the work that was just done on the apartment. The whole thing has been this epic headache. It was supposed to be two days and went on for two weeks. They were back in my bedroom in and out all day, day after day, electricity on and off, on and off, five, ten times a day.  (Luckily I installed that revolving door when I moved in — it's been a godsend!)

And now I’m having to arrange the business with the plasterer. He called the other night – Irish bloke – and left a voicemail for me. The first-generation Irish that come over, they think because they have those cute little accents that they're aristocracy or something.  He wanted me to contact my first floor neighbor and arrange a time when he could get into both our places, since, as he said in his voicemail, he didn’t want to make two trips. Well, la-tee-da.

But OK, that's reasonable enough. So I got some times from Warren, my neighbor downstairs, and called the plasterer back this morning. And he was just a raging dick – very condescending, first of all. I mean, I call him a little after nine. If he was in the middle of something he could have let the voicemail pick up. Instead he answers and tells me he’s in the middle of something, real snidely. He’s just climbed his ladder, but OK, he’ll climb back down so he can talk to me. Like he's doing me this big favor.

So I tell him who I am and where I’m from, and he latched right onto my name. But he’s still pissy he had to climb down from his ladder, like it's my fault he can't talk on the phone and stand on a ladder at the same time. So he keeps saying, “yes, Mike, no, Mike, I dunno Mike, do you, Mike?” Real cunty-like.

So I’m like: "hey, If I caught you at a bad time I can call back."

Seriously, people.  We are not only — each and every one of us — dispensable.  We are — each and every one of us — disposable. Get over it.  This cunt is precisely why I'm pro-choice. 

But he doesn't want me to call back, because he's having too much fun on the phone, with my name and all.  He’s like, all sarcastic and Irishy: “Oh, noooo, Mike. We wouldn’t want ye to hafta do that now, Mike, would we now? And anyway, Mike, you’ve already got me down off my ladder, haven't ye now, Mike?”

I'm right about at my limit.  If it were up to me, I would’ve said, right then and there, "hey, you know what?  No thanks.  Take your little curse of the Irish attitude and go fuck yourself." I mean, the bitch is a fucking plasterer. He’s acting like he’s a plumber or an electrician!  I can do this shit myself, and I would if it was my own place.  I mean, we're not even paying him that much. 

Wouldn't let me get a word in edgewise, though.  Talking over me.  Mike this and Mike that.  I finally told him to call Warren, and I'd talk to Warren about it later.  I mean, it was like doing business with a drunken Irish twelve year-old. 

I can see why they drink.  And speaking of getting plastered:  with this huge blizzard on the way about to dump SIX INCHES on the city, schools closed, and my Census exam postponed... 

But I hope you don't mind if I drink alone.  It's already been one of those days.