June 25, 2009
Anger Management
Have I ever told you about my maternal grandmother? I don’t think I have. She was one heck of a woman; she raised 9 children, held down a full time job and always had a freezer full of baked goods. She was, by far, the best cook I will ever know. She was also kind and warm hearted and loved cats. She always had a cat or two and fed stray cats that wandered into the yard.
She also? Had one hell of a temper. I loved my grandma a whole lot but I was also terrified of her. One stern look from her could turn me into a wimpering pile of goo. I broke one of her platters once, mum had borrowed it for a church function and afterwards, while we were cleaning up, I think I dropped it and it shattered. I was so frightened of her reaction that I avoided her for at least a week (not an easy thing to do considering we lived in a small apartment built into her farm house). I remember when I finally gathered my courage and faced her once more, how nice she was to me; she never once brought up the broken platter and I never did apologize to her for it.
Mum recently shared a story with me about watching my grandmother beat her older sister. See, Aunt Eleanor made the mistake of laughing at the table (back then children were seen and not heard at the dinner table) and my grandma dragged her from the table and started laying a beating on her. Mum is positive that she would have beaten Eleanor to death had it not been for my grandfather. He was sitting at the table and after a few moments, he said very quietly “That’s enough Violet.”
There was also the time she was making a big batch of pickles on the kitchen table; one of their farm hands at the time came home completely plastered. Grandma sent him upstairs to his room in the attic to sleep it off; a few minutes later, liquid comes dripping out of the ceiling and into her big vat of pickles. The farm hand was so drunk he was taking a piss on the floor of his bedroom which then dripped between the floor boards and directly into my grandma’s batch of pickles. He then made the fatal error of staggering back downstairs. According to all accounts, my grandmother beat the living shit out of him and then threw him back up the attic stairs.
She threw a full grown man up a flight of stairs people. So not only did she have a bad temper but apparently she was possessed with super human strength.
My grandma died nearly 15 years ago. The summer before she passed away we were living in Calgary; I went home to Napanee for nearly two months that summer and spent some time with her. One of my last memories of her was sitting with her at the table in her kitchen on a warm afternoon; the sun making dappled spots on the faded tablecloth and eating bowl after bowl of fresh wild blueberries, smothered in sugar and milk. It was peaceful and quiet and I can honestly say it is one of the best moments of my life. I look back at that memory with a great fondness and thankfulness that I have that last wonderful memory of her. I have many regrets when it comes to my grandmother, mostly foolish childish things - I wish that I would have helped her do the dishes more after she cooked supper for my brother and I, that I had apologized for breaking her platter, that I had spent more time appreciating who she was and less time being terrified of her and asked more questions about her life before I knew her. But that last powerful memory of her helps to ease those regrets.
Hoo, I’m rambling again. This particular story is supposed to about tempers and anger management and what not.
I inherited more than a few of my grandmother’s traits. While I didn’t, unfortunately, inherit her talent in the kitchen, I did inherit her love for cats, as well as enjoying the smile of a man. What? I didn’t mention my grandmother’s boyfriends? The woman may have been a widow at a young age but she certainly didn’t lack in the attention from men department. My personal favourite boyfriend was Raymond. I believe she was in her early seventies and he was about 83 when they dated. I also, for good or bad, inherited her fiery temper.
My mum has the same temper but to a much lesser degree. She doesn’t lose it over the little things but get her angry and Oh Dear God, run for whatever shelter is available. Seriously. Don’t argue, don’t try to reason, just RUN. But still, it takes a lot to get her to that stage so she really doesn’t fall under the short temper category.
I, on the other hand, much like my grandmother, do fall firmly under that category. I don’t particularly enjoy this personality trait, especially since Ben often bears the brunt of my short temper and that hardly seems fair to do to the person you love the most, but I have a shitload of difficulty controlling it. I can control it, and I do on a regular basis, but as I grow older it gets more and more difficult. Combine that temper with my I don’t give a flying fuck if you like me attitude and you’re dealing with a ticking time bomb. Like most people with short tempers, my raging tantrums tend to blow over quite quickly and can I just take this moment to say thank God I’m married to Ben? No one else would put up with me. I’m not moody, but my short temper can often make it seem like I am. You know? And someone like him, someone who is mellow and calm and loses his temper about three times a year, has got to have a difficult time dealing with someone like me. Yet he’s done it for the last five years and done it with a remarkably cheerful attitude.
I’m rambling again.
So, tonight I left work a little early than I normally do, Ben had a photography meeting to get to and I needed to both pick up a parcel from the post office and mail two parcels. Traffic was horrible and we made it to the small local “discount store” that serves as the post office with about three minutes to spare before they closed.
Let me just interrupt to say that this particular store/post office has horrible customer service. It’s run by the iron fist of a crabby old woman who, in the last five years that my parcels have been delivered to this particular post office, has never once cracked a smile. There was, for a time, an old man who was infinitely nicer than her, sure he smelled heavily of liquor but damn, I’d be drunk all the time too if I had to work with that cranky old bitch.
The old guy left, switched to another post office and a younger girl started. She mostly worked the post office while the nasty old woman worked the till for the discount store. It got a little better. She was new and friendly and actually seemed to care about her job.
Now, to be fair, I should mention that I almost always show up at the post office with about three minutes to spare. But seriously people, I work six fucking days a week, it’s difficult to get to the damn place when it closes at 5:30 and I work until 4:30 to 5 most weekdays nearly an hour away. And I work until 3 on Saturday’s and guess what time they’re open to? Yup, 3pm.
Anyway, I hate going there to begin with because of her bitchiness and her attitude but tonight? Tonight took the cake.
I ran in there with three minutes to spare and even the young girl was unhappy to see me; and again I don’t blame them but it’s not like I have much fucking choice. She grabbed my parcel from the back and then proceeded to start putting through my two parcels that I was mailing. The older woman, in an attempt to expediate things began to help her. She had a horrible scowl on her face and gave me a dirty look more than once but I kept my cool. That was, until she placed the sticker on my mum’s parcel and then literally threw it on to the counter in front of me and demanded that I fill out the rest of the information on the customs sticker.
She threw the parcel; without any idea if there was anything fragile in it. And she threw it because she wanted me to know how disgusted she was that I had dared to come in three minutes before they were closing it.
At that moment I was so incredibly angry that I could have leaped across the counter and throttled the life out of her. And that, frankly, scared the shit out of me. I could barely fill out the information my hand was shaking so badly from rage. As I filled out the information the younger woman began to put the parcel to my dad through.
Young woman: Would you like $100 insurance on this?
Me (not daring to look up): $150.
Old bitch: It only goes in $100. Would you -
Me: $200.
They added the postage and the young woman told me the total, I handed her my debit card without looking at them and still refused to look at them as I finished filling out the information and she gave me back my debit card. I know it sounds childish to not look at them but I swear on my grandmother’s grave that if I had taken one more look at that old woman’s face I really would have attempted to kill her. The rage people. THE RAGE!!
After I had finished filling out the customs information, I pushed the paper back across the counter and looking at a spot over her shoulder I said:
Me: If I want to change the postal office that my parcels are delivered to do I call Canada Post?
The old woman, sensing the rage bubbling under the surface said in a helpful and nice tone:
Old bitch: Yes, you would.
Of course, the new nice tone only infuriated me more and so, without another word I turned and began to walk out of the store.
Old bitch: Can I get the number for you?
Me (still walking away): No.
Old bitch: Have a very nice day.
Me (still walking away and in a lovely controlled tone that would have made my grandmother, she of the short temper as well, proud): Thank you.
As we left the store, Ben made soft soothing noises in an attempt to calm his now foaming-at-the mouth, rabid-like wife (poor guy, living with me is a lot like living with an angry hissing cat) but the damage was already done. There in the parking lot, as the old bitch turned the open sign in the window to close behind me, I shook my fist to the sky and swore, as God as my witness, that I would never set foot in that store or talk to that old bitch again.
And believe me - I never will. Because while I am pretty tough, I’m quite positive that if my short fuse leads to manslaughter, I’ll end up being someone’s bitch in prison.
Also, I think I may need anger management therapy.
Comments(1)
