How I am such a good grudge-holder

The books, they keep a'comin. Glee, glee. The other day: two deliveries of books, in addition to three other distinct Fed-Ex and DHL drop-offs (contact lenses, dog arthritis medication and something else which escapes me), not to mention the regular mail, and it really did feel like Christmas. Albeit, fairly crappy Christmas, to be getting dog arthritis medicine! [*Ask me about that, if your dog might have arthritis; it is awesome*]

I don't have much to say today, but I want to say this: as I go around to blogs now, after the election, I have been confronted several times with residual posts in support of Proposition 8, and my spirits sink. It's been such a strange experience, since I blogged about it -- to be confronted with proud discrimination by people who are good, kind, and polite. There's no other discrimination that is socially acceptable anymore (well, maybe anti-Muslim or anti-Arab discrimination is unfortunately still a point of pride in much of America), but to be anti-gay, it is not just acceptable, apparently, but something to kind of shine on your sleeve like an apple. Aside from this being really sad, it is also really weird to me, to hear these nice people asserting their prejudice. It's like bizarro world. It could barely be weirder if they started using racial epithets with a smile. (And they don't, these nice people. They never would. Not that. But this. . .)

And I can only imagine what it must be like hearing it if you're gay. After the euphoria of the recognition of these marriages in California, to be smacked down yet again.

It made me remember this Zora Neale Hurston quote, not precisely relevant, but wonderful:

"Sometimes I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can anyone deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It is beyond me."

LOVE. That.

Anyway, I'm not trying to revive any debates here, so I'll distract you by telling you that it occurred to me recently I can really hold a grudge. Jim and I were driving by a restaurant called Arabian Breeze, and I got this curdled, bitter feeling, just going by it, from the one time Jim and I had eaten there. It was the day that I had gotten my first offer on Blackbringer and I was euphoric. I was going to be a published author!!! We went out to this new place for a celebratory lunch. As I recall it was cute inside, and the menu was interesting, and. . . Oh boy, this is going to sound really petty to you. It is petty, my grudge, but I am admitting it. The waiter came over to take our order, and Jim said, "I'll have number 3," -- the menu items were fairly complicated combinationy things, and each had a number by it -- and the waiter, a 20-something Middle Eastern guy, gave Jim a bastardy look and said, all condescending, "This is not a Chinese restaurant."

"This is not a Chinese restaurant?" Are you effing kidding me? The menu was numbered!!! There were numbers on the menu!!! So Jim, who is insanely polite, hurriedly corrected his *mistake* by stating the name of the menu item, and I ordered too, and we ate our food, paid, and left. But I don't remember any of the eating or paying or leaving, or if the food was good, or what. I just remember how that snarky comment totally changed the tone of our celebratory lunch, and I am enduringly pissed at myself for letting him get away with it. It's not like me, to let snark pass unchallenged! But for some reason, that day, I did. And as we drove by the other day, nearly three years later, I found myself reliving, once more, what I should have said to him, which would have gone something like this:

"This is not a Chinese restaurant."

"Excuse me? You didn't really just say that, did you?" *Laini smiles nicely, showing her fangs* "May we please speak with the manager?"

And then we would have spoken with the manager, and left, and celebrated somewhere else. I know, it's not like it's even a zinger. Just instantly ask for the manager, tattle, and go. Lame. But it gives me pleasure to imagine it. So, driving by, I was joking with Jim that if I had a time machine and could go back to any moment in history -- any moment at all -- to witness the building of the pyramids or watch Michelangelo carve the Pieta, or kill genocidal dictators in their sleep or anything I would go back to Arabian Breeze three years ago and try to get that waiter in trouble.

See??? I can hold a grudge!!! I have a longer-standing and just as stupid grudge too, and it involves a fake nemesis. By fake, I mean, he doesn't know he's my nemesis. He doesn't know that I pronouce his name like Seinfeld pronounces "Newman;" in fact, he doesn't know, has long forgotten, that I even exist. He's a writer, and he made the fatal mistake of blowing Jim and me off at a professional event years ago, doing that constant restless scanning of the crowd to see if anyone cooler was close at hand? And then said something really self-important and dismissive -- I don't even remember what. Does it matter? Let's assume he said, "Oh, insignificant little unpublished peons, shoo. I'm looking for more important people who are worthy of my divine presence." I don't think it was exactly that, but you get the point.

And I've really gotten back at him over the years. You know how? By refusing to read his books. Take THAT! *maniacal laughter and gleeful hand-wringing* Well, the truth is, in this case, I don't really still hold a grudge -- much -- it's just FUN having a fake nemesis. It's fun pronouncing his name like "Newman" if it ever comes up, which isn't often because -- ha HA! -- he's not even that famous.

Holding a grudge is awesome. Try it.

Now, a question:

-- If you had a single solitary trip in a time machine, where and when would you go, to do what, or witness what? First, for real, and then, for silly. Anyone want to play?