The Artist

Some of you may know that the painter Thomas Kinkaide passed away recently.

I was never a huge fan of his work, but as someone who has painted, I can definitely appreciate his skill, even if his subject matter wasn't to my taste.

However I found a few of these online, and I have to say, I have renewed my interest in Mr. Kinkaide's work.

I really, really like this new technique.

I might just start my own collection.

The last one is going in my office.

I am a horrible wretched excuse for a human being, but that snotty waiter deserved it. Maybe.

Okay, I'm not really sure why this story popped into my head today.  Maybe because I'm hungry.  Maybe because the very first posts on this blog were about my trip to Italy.  Maybe because sometimes I remember some horrible things I've done and am filled with self loathing.

This post includes all three.

There was a story I left off my original Italian travel postings.

Mainly because I was afraid they'd find me.

You remember the mall parking lot scene from Back to the Future where Doc tells Marty with disbelief, "Oh my God, they found me. They actually found me!"

Doc was talking about Libyan terrorists or something.

I'm talking about a waiter.  In Rome.  A Roman waiter.  Perhaps they are as savage as gladiators.  Or the mafia.  They never forget.

Anyway, maybe enough time has gone by to tell the story.

The story is called: The First and Last Time I did a Dine and Dash in Rome Because that Waiter was a Ginormous Ass and Totally Deserved it!

It was one of our last nights in Rome and I had read a good review of a restaurant.  I don't really remember where, the north part of the city, in one the hills overlooking the Colosseum.  After much trodding up and down cobblestone streets we found the restaurant.

It was dusk.  It was chilly.  We looked at the menu.  It was a little more expensive than most of the restaurants we had gone to, but I figured it would be good.  I looked in through the windows and it was a lovely Osteria style restaurant and about half full.  With locals. Which is a good sign.

The outside of the restaurant had a front terrace with a low wall, so you had to walk through the patio area to the front door.  There was a host at the front door and we said in our best bad Italian, "Good evening!"  Blah blah blah.  And implied we wanted a table for two.

The host nods and disappears into the restaurant.  Eventually he comes back with two menus.  We think we are going inside.  It is warm and lovely and candles and wine and people laughing and eating.

But no.

He puts us on one of the patio table outside, the furthest from the restaurant, in the corner, in the dark.

I am not exaggerating.

We are both sitting there going, "What just happened?"

I say to Matt, "Umm...what is going on?"

Matt says, "I don't know."

I narrow my eyes.  "Yes, you do.  They are assholes.  They don't like us."

"Oh?"

"Because we're Americans."

Now, I obviously can't PROVE this, but it's one of those things that you can't necessarily describe but you know it when it happens to you.  It's like sexual harassment for women.  A look.  An intonation.  A turn of the head.  Just a manner of speaking.  It is sometimes incredible subtle, but it's there.  You can smell it like a fart, hanging in the air, staining everything.

Matt is giving him the benefit of the doubt.  "You think so?"

"I know so."  Now I'm pissed.  "He doesn't even KNOW us!  That dick!"

After a very long time, even by Italian standards, a waiter takes our order.

Other people come and are seated inside.  We are left alone on a dark patio for the entire dinner.

I drink a few glasses of wine and am slightly tipsy.  I'm waiting for the check.  And waiting.  And waiting.

Matt gets up and walks to the sidewalk to light his cigarette.  He smokes and stares into the restaurant.  After a moment he speaks.  "You know, we could just run off right now."

He said the right thing to the wrong person.

"Yeah, ha!  Let's do it!"

He may have thought I was joking, but I'm fueled by a dangerous combination of vino and righteous indignation.  I practically knock the chair to the ground and leap over the wall to the sidewalk.  "Hahaha!  Assholes!"  I run past Matt up the hill and I'm twenty feet down the road before he realizes what his batass crazy wife just did.

He flings his cigarette into the street and starts running after me.  I'm laughing like a loon.

Then a problem happens.  Have you ever tried to sprint a mile, uphill, on wet cobblestones, after eating an entire plate of pesto gnocchi and three glasses of wine?  No?  Well, I don't recommend it.

A hot stabbing pain enters my chest.  Perhaps I'm having a heart attack.  Perhaps the Roman waiter has shot me with a Taser.  Perhaps the Lord himself has reached down to smite me.

I feel like my chest and stomach are going to explode.  "Uuunngghh!"  I bend over and press my fingers into my side, but I'm still scared enough to look back because I hear someone running after me.

It's Matt.  He's wheezing and laughing.  "Hurry!"  I scream.  "Let's go this way."

I ignore the pain and go down a side street.

It turns out to be a dead end.  We ran up the one road that has no outlet.  We are like those idiot people you see on episodes of Cops.

"Shit!"

"Oh my God, we have to go back!"

"They'll see us!"  I really feel like puking now.


Long story short, we walk back and look at the restaurant.  They still haven't come out to bring our check.  We walk quickly past and to another side street that takes us down the hill into a main thoroughfare.  I still want to run and keep looking behind me. I take of my jacket and Matt says, "Yeah, that was interesting."

"He deserved it.  Jerk."

"I bet he really loves Americans now."

We both start laughing.

A while later Matt says, "You know, we only made one mistake."

"Running up the hill?"

"No, we should have ordered the EXPENSIVE bottle of wine."

Mysterious Ways

I probably shouldn't write about this.  Seriously, it's that bad.  But I decided I will.  Because I'm stupid.  Also, I don't have anywhere else to confess.  I'm not Catholic, so I can't just mosey into some church, find the squealer's booth and kneel down and say, "Guess what I did, Padre?"

No, no I can't.  Besides, God already knows what I did.

And now you will, too.

How's that for buildup?

Okay, remember that post about the Hoover vacuum cleaner?  About how it broke?  About how pissed I was?

Apparently, someone (Jesus!) heard me.

I ended up calling Hoover.  No, my warranty was no good, but that wasn't the best part.  The best part was the foot pedal that broke wasn't even COVERED under the warranty anyway.

My last line to the annoyed Hoover rep?

"Yeah, you know, maybe if you guys actually made parts out of metal instead of crappy plastic..."

Then I hung up.

I realized I sounded like some crusty old man, and I had an urge to open the door and yell, "Damn you kids, stay off my lawn!"

Except it's January.  No lawn.  No kids.  Only three feet of snow out there.

Okay, so I decide I'm going to get a new vacuum cleaner.  Not a Hoover.

So I go to my weekly place of shopping.  Rhymes with Schmarget.  It's Sunday.  Middle of the afternoon, read: Busy, busy, busy....

I fart around looking at vacuums.  Look at the Dysons momentarily and cannot justify spending $500 on a vacuum, even if it looks like really cool aliens made it.

I pick one.  At first, I was thinking of a cheapy.  Mainly, I was sure I didn't want one with a plastic foot pedal; I looked at the ones with On/Off switches on the top of the machine.  I found one that was nicer than my old one, plus it had a 3 year warranty.  Plus it looked cooler and the colors were nicer.  Not that I care... except, all things being equal, I do care what it looks like.  Except all things are never equal.

So I decide.  It's the last one there so I load it in the cart.  Then I finish the rest of my grocery shopping.

I scan the checkout lines, looking for the best ones.  The best ones are not necessarily the shortest ones.  I stay away from the ones where old people are cashiers.  They are always too slow.  That's mean, but it's true.  They get confused when the scanner doesn't work right and invariably they have to call someone when the price won't ring up the coupon for that bulk box of tampons.  Yay!

So I always look for the young kids.  Specifically the dudes.  They don't try to have conversations or worry if the meat is thrown in with the bleach.  They don't give a shit if the bag is crammed full, worrying if it will be too heavy for my little arms to handle.  I like this, because I don't care either.  And the bag is never to heavy to handle.  Shove that sack of Yukon gold potatoes on top of the Clorox and hurry it up!

So I find my suspect and get in line.  He's a big dude, laid-back Jeff Bridges type of guy and probably smokes pot.  He loads my bags with groceries and I move the vacuum cleaner from the bottom and position it in the cart so he can lean over and scan it.  Then I take out my coupons and set them on the register.  Then I watch the register like a hawk, making sure there are no mistakes.

I catch a mistake.  He scans the avocados.  There are two.  But he types in 24.  I say, "Uh, two avocados!"
"Oh, Sorry.  I always hit the 4. I don't know why."
"That's okay."  I wonder if he's high right now.

We are starting to wrap up here.  A line has formed and he's moving faster, maybe feeling a little flustered by the avocado incident.  He grabs my coupons and starts scanning, and thus begins my internal dialog, which I will call Evil Me/Good Me.

Evil Me:  Dude, he's not going to scan the vacuum.

Good Me: What?  Of course he will.

Evil Me: Nope.  He's distracted.  Or stoned.  Ha!

Good Me: Surely, he'll catch it.

Evil Me:  Uh-uh.  Keep your pie-hole shut!

Good Me: Oh, say something.  Really, now...

Evil Me: Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!

He says, "Your total is...."

Good Me: Say something!

Evil Me: Bitch! Enjoy your free vacuum!"

Good Me (voice fading):  You're going to hell!

I sign the thingy and get my receipt.  Already I'm practicing my "Huh, What?" face in case someone stops me as I walk away.  As in, "Huh? What? I don't know what's going on.  What do you mean I didn't pay for it?"  I keep walking and staring at my receipt like a mentally retarded chimp.  I'm terrified someone will stop me.

No one does.

I push my cart across the parking lot, trying not to run.  Trying not to look behind me.  I'm grinning like a crazy person.  Evil Me is laughing her ass off.

I then am crippled by fear.  Oh my God!  I'm in trouble.  Someone will tell.  I will get in a car accident on the way home.  Something.

I practice justify on my way home.  I deserve a free vacuum.  With the amount of money I spend there, I should get a free vacuum, not some of their stupid coupons for diapers and cat litter.

I tell Matt the whole story.  He is weirdly impressed with my deviance.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways!"
"Or maybe that's Satan."

By the way, this is a fictional piece.  Maybe.