I was chatting (talking shit) the other day with a friend (skank) and she said, “Oh, she’s one of those people who never forgets a slight. You know the type.”
I laughed and said, “Those people are the worst!”
Then I narrowed my eyes and mentally replayed a scene from 25 years ago when I had just turned 18, when my 32-year old boyfriend came into my kitchen with his hand on his belly and said, “Do you have any bicarbonate?”
I responded, “Huh?”
Then he closed his eyes and sighed, exaggeratedly shaking his head “no” like I was the dumbest person on Earth, his low-rent David Coverdale-esque mane flurrying scalp-snow down the front of his favorite t-shirt, the one that had a cartoon drawing of brains racked up like billiard balls with the words “Rack your brains!” underneath it. Because he was such a COOL GUY.
A cool guy who couldn’t afford his own dandruff shampoo and instead used half of my goddamned bottle to hose the flakes out of his mop any time he stayed at my house, which was every night. “Dry skin” he called it. IT’S DANDRUFF, GUY. I HAVE IT, TOO. STOP LYING TO YOURSELF.
“Bicarbonate?” he repeated. “Do you have any? For my stomach?”
This went on for another couple rounds before I said, “I have no idea what the hell you’re asking me for here.”
He feigned surprise and said, “Bicarbonate is baking soda, darling. It works for upset stomachs. I suppose it’s my fault for asking. I forget sometimes that not everybody has a PhD in Pharmacology – I’m just so used to being around academics.”
My god. That is so true. The teenager you’re dating doesn’t have a doctoral degree. HOW COULD I HAVE BEEN SO STUPID? THE SHAME! MY GOD, THE SHAME.
Maybe I should spend the rest of my life thinking about how dumb I was for not having a doctoral degree when I was still young enough to still be asked for ID when attempting to buy Hello Kitty barrettes with a debit card.
Maybe I should keep a set of chemistry books at the ready for when an unemployed thirty-something dickwad with a PhD needs something to settle his stomach after I buy him dinner at the goddamned Olive Garden with the last forty bucks I have and he acts all affronted that I don’t have enough money to buy him an espresso afterwards, commenting that without the espresso he “wasn’t really treated to a proper Italian meal”. AT THE OLIVE GARDEN. BY A TEENAGER.
Maybe I should have a translating device for when old men with their old buttholes have digestive problems and can’t muster the strength to dumb themselves down to say the words “baking soda” to their Lolita and prefer, instead, to play pretentious verbal tennis using the word “bicarbonate” as the ball and a teenage girl’s self-worth as the racket.
Maybe I should wear an empty, industrial-sized sack of Arm & Hammer as a tunic and then fashion a gigantic crucifix out of baking soda boxes and then haul it down the side of the highway on my shoulder every Good Friday through Easter for the rest of my life so that the world will know how Father Time here really put one over on the young Magster.
“Bicarbonate! Can you believe she didn’t know what bicarbonate was?!! Hahahahahahaha!!!” his academic peers ERUPTING into emphysematic laughter at my expense, their old man balls jiggling and clinking like fetal pigs in jars during an earthquake at the science lab.
“OBVIOUSLY I HAVE TO PAY FOR THIS INTELLECTUAL INFRACTION,” I THOUGHT.
Oh, and by the way, baking soda is sodium bicarbonate – not “bicarbonate” – so you can just crawl into whoever’s car you’re borrowing these days, DOCTOR, and drive it straight into a mountain made of dicks and finally declare yourself the King of Dick Mountain. Dick.
And I realize that you’re so old that you probably started having digestive problems when prairie medicine was still in vogue, but why don’t you take some goddamned Tums or Zantac like a normal person instead of swishing baking soda around your wooden dentures and down your crusty old blown-out bagpipe esophagus, Doc Holliday?
On a related note, I have been referring to this guy as “Dr. Shitbag” for the past 25 years.
My apologies for the diversion.
Now let’s get back to those people who never forget a slight…