That’s what I’ve been thinking about lately. How annoying vegetarians are. Not only do they make it seem like eating some animal products is OK to society at large, but isn’t there something horrid about eating animal products from animals who are kept alive to produce yet more animal products, and are thus sentenced to live in misery longer? Fuck vegetarians. Who wants to join the “vegans against vegetarians” club with me?
(Thanks to James Felice for playing the part of Customer in the photos above.)
To completely switch topics and go far, far to the other side, the dude who killed the pig mentioned two posts ago came into the shop tonight.
It did not go well.
I perhaps didn’t start the conversation out well, to be honest. I overheard across the kitchen (honestly, gentle reader, I shouldn’t even have been at work. It was my quote unquote day off. But I was there as always, and Maresa was helping him and I should have just let things be, but instead….) that he was from Tweefontein Herb Farm (aka Hog Butcher for the World) and I bounded across the kitchen and said, “UM HELLO. YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE.”
[I just want to say before we even begin that I am so angry at myself for my actions tonight that I just spent two hours in bed crying, drinking wine, texting Jacob that I’m horrible, contemplating suicide, and, finally, cheering up because this dog video made me, quite literally, lol until I cried again. I recreate the scene now only to commit to pixels my transgressions.
And also because I was right, and though my behavior was wrong, my motives were not.]
After some getting-to-know-each other banter (“Did you have the pig roast?” “What?…oh…you’re…oh……..” “DID YOU HAVE THE PIG ROAST?”) we had a calm discussion about murderers.
I’m sure you will be completely surprised to learn the following facts:
-He was super calm in the way that slow-foodies/happy meaters are sometimes infuriatingly calm because they all go to yoga or something and believe that if you are in the right you can afford to keep your temper or SOME FUCKING BULLSHIT LIKE THAT. I, on the other hand, cannot afford to be calm because there are people out there who think that killing animals for no reason whatsoever is perfectly fine.
-He calmly tried to tell me that I’m not perfect. I calmly (if your interpretation of “calmly” is: with a rising rage) stated that I was aware that I was not perfect. He started babbling about how, like, using technology uses fossil fuels or something in order to show this. I reiterated that of course I was imperfect, but AT LEAST I TRY. At least I do not uselessly murder animals. At this point my friend Rick walked in and boomed (he’s a booming sort of guy) I do more good in this world than most anyone he knows or something, which was sweet, and kind, and fucking true.
-He kindly felt the need to inform me that he was the one to murder the pig. BUT DO NOT WORRY, GENTLE READER. He did it in a very “mindful” way, and it was a very “powerful experience.” For the pig, no doubt, it was powerful.
At this point I said in a very, ah, powerful way, that “THIS DISCUSSION IS OVER. THIS IS MY SHOP, GOODBYE.”
And he left, taking the chocolate bar he’d bought (sigh, goodbye, customer!) with him.
And I, ah, helped the other customer who was in there while Maresa helped another person.
My ultimate fear happened tonight: not only did I lose my temper in the shop, but I lost it while innocent bystanders were there.
Lest you’re thinking maybe they didn’t notice, please know that the shop is 200 square feet. They noticed. One of them giggled through the whole thing, and the other one was strangely (or, not strangely) quiet.
I can’t even tell you how awful I felt about the whole thing, and still feel—not awful for yelling at the guy, but awful because it happened at the shop. The shop is my child, and like any mother I’ll do anything to keep it alive. And like any mother what I mostly need to watch for is saving it from my own insanities.
So some time passed, and Maresa and I, who chatterbox all day long, weren’t really chattering to each other. I was lost in a goddamn canyon of rage-guilt that barely allowed me to talk, and I could feel Maresa’s sadness for me, and her own annoyance at the whole thing. It’s no fun to have an insane boss/BFF. We’ve all had them. No good. After a while we unfroze a bit, and talked, and Maresa gently told me exactly what I’d been telling myself: we’re going to get a reputation, other people were in the shop, yep yep yep.
And then we started talking about fur. It’s coming, I know it: people wearing fur into the shop. So let’s talk about it, OK?
Right now I have this tiny little sign on the window:
Cute, no? (And do I get a prize for using all my powers of restraint and not throwing in a “masturbation” rhyme?)
But it’s not going to stop women who want to wear the dried up bodies of anally-electrocuted-to-death animals into my pacifist (except for when I verbally punch people) shop. Nope. So Maresa and I had an honest talk about it tonight: the truth is, we decided, fur-wearers are exactly who we want in the shop. Uptight richies who probably hate the idea of veganism–that’s why we exist! Give us all your money, and we’ll give you chocolates that will turn your mind around about veganism!
So the need to shut up about the fur becomes paramount. I decided when I opened the shop that it was stealth activism, and I need to stick to that. The world has been making me so angry now (since I interact with it so much more now, because of the shop), that I keep wanting to go back on that and line up my cans of red paint, but I might just need to write more blog posts like this instead.
When it comes to preventing anger, I only have one proven technique: negative consequences that are as devastatingly sickening as the rage is devastatingly addicting.
I learned about this technique from RadioLab, and, for serious, it works. Earlier this summer I wanted to stay off Facebook for a week, and I told myself (and everyone in my life, and on Facebook), that if I was on it during the week I had to donate $50 to Mitt Romney. Not difficult at all! My fingers didn’t so much as type an “f” without checking to make sure I wasn’t accidentally on the damn site.
Thus, I present to you, the Great Fur-Anger Management Plan of 2011, in three acts:
1) I will keep the tiny sign above on the window. However, if a fur-wearer enters the shop, I will not get angry at them, or engage them in any sort of anal-electrocution-related topic at all.
2) HOWEVER! I will order some fun and graphic anti-fur fliers, and all fur-wearers will receive their chocolatey items in a bag, with a fur flier discreetly slipped into it. (This is to throw me a bone, as it were, since I can’t just let that shit go completely.)
3) Even if the fur-wearer returns to the shop and is angry about the flier, I may not get angry at them.
Failure to follow any of these rules will result in me publicly donating $100 to Sarah Palin–as proof, I will need to show both the check and proof of its having been cashed to Maresa.
Now, I’ve got a question for you. In discussing this tonight, Maresa brought up that not only do we allow our customers to wear leather in the shop, but we ourselves are awful awful vegans who wear Salvation Army leather shoes (shall I let the hate mail come pouring in again? Haters, bring it on!) and whatnot, and is fur really all that different? To me, it seems different, but I can’t exactly put my finger on why. Maybe because it’s just so ostentatious. What sayst thou, darling reader of mine?
OK. So that was today.
Election stuff happened too, but I won’t get into that now.
And now, I’m off to answer the 50 emails I was supposed to answer tonight instead of laying in bed worrying about how my insides are made of fire all the time and whether or not that fire will someday burn me up.
OH WAIT! But first, to temper the ridiculousness of this post, want to see two photos of me looking awesome?
PHOTO NUMBER ONE OF ME LOOKING AWESOME
(even wearing a bra!!! visibly!!!!)
PHOTO NUMBER TWO OF ME LOOKING AWESOME
Love to you and yours, particularly and primarily if that includes cute puppies,
PS: If this post makes no sense, it’s because I’m drunk.