The Sunday Snewz Issue No. 9
March 5th, 2023: The Snewz Button
Wham! The crown of my head smashing into the razor sharp edge of the wooden cabinet in my carriage house Friday afternoon. A last minute AirBnB booking - fuck. Can’t people just leave me alone already.
I’ve already wasted precious hours today, in a back and forth with Jackie, the entitled bitch from California who insists her nasty little lap dog is in fact a medical necessity. In a message telling me how she too used to be a “Super Host” too, owns a beautiful home in Cabo but has resided in Folsom California for the past thirty years, is looking forward to her visit in July and has visited Coeur d’Alene once before - she by the way will be bringing a medical dog. Excuse me?
Her profile image shows her chubby little face, smiling in an embrace with her husband Mike, who I am guessing is also at the mercy of their wonder dog or just at the mercy of his wife. I’m not getting any sign of legitimate disability here Jackie. Anyone who is actually disabled and has a certifiable service dog isn’t sandwiching that minor detail between self aggrandizing and see ya late July!
Within minutes of receiving my cancellation of the reservation with a polite note letting her know we have a very strict no-pet policy so we’re going to have to pass on hosting her, Jackie pulls out the big guns. Not a simple explanation of her disability and assurance the dog is in fact a certifiable service dog. No - Jackie instead informs me, “the law states a service dog has to be accepted. But I can go through Airbnb if it helps.” If it helps me Jackie? So you’re offering to help me out by calling big brother to rat me out for discriminating against you and your purse pooch? Please explain how this helps me - I can’t wait to hear.
As you can imagine, Jackie did what anyone sheltered up in a socialist society for the past thirty years would do - she reported me to the vacation rental authorities. So I donated a little more of my time to let the authorities know that the situation was well under control, that the dates were no longer available and unless Jackie’s dog is in the service of licking my husband’s balls, that mutt wasn’t coming near my beautiful little carriage house.
After making sure the carriage house was ready for tonight’s guest, dabbing my bloody, gashed head and dropping my daughter off at work, I look over to find a man, in a mask, in his car, alone at the stop light. I stared him down with a wicked glare - let me guess, you’re from California too. It worked, as he nervously removed his mask while keeping his eyes straight ahead.
I pulled into Papa Murphy’s to get a couple of pizzas because the only thing that could possibly salvage this day is to give myself a good case of diarrhea. Walking in the door, with a goose-egg on the crown of my head (the part of my head by the way that is so sensitive I jump out of my skin if someone touches it), I’m greeted by a dozen smiling, acne covered teens - “hello and welcome!” “How was your day ma’am?” Honestly sweetheart, I’d rather punch you in the braces than answer that question - fine, just fine.
As I wait patiently for the custom-made doughy disks that’ll turn the rest of my weekend into stomach cramps and an even worse mood, I can’t help but feel as if I’m in the presence of a Mormon temple. Why do all of these people have the same bizarre, fake smiles glued on their faces and why do they insist on being so fucking nice? Watching what appears to be the owner (or maybe just a manager) engage in a deep conversation with a guy who had a better day than I did, whose stopping by to give his family diarrhea too, I pray to Joseph Smith he doesn’t corner me the same way. My prayers didn't work - I knew you were a con man Smith.
Feeling a little bad for being so grumpy, I did my best to exchange niceties and was grateful at the speed at which the dynamic young crew at Papa Murphy’s whips out the orders. Pizzas in hand, inching my way to the door, this guy just can’t leave well enough alone. Don’t you know I despise the fact I cannot go pick up pizzas, or a coffee or grab a sandwich without divulging what I’m going to do the rest of the day. Or tell people whether or not I have any “big plans” for the weekend. I don’t want to pretend we are life-long friends and I don’t want to join your creepy cult.
This is a long-winded way to tell you that this week, I’m sparing us both from having to listen to me bitch and moan like the insulate brat I can be. I work on The Sunday Snewz bit by bit, all throughout the week and finish it up on Saturdays. Instead of ruining the masterful work I’ve done this week, up until Friday took a dump on my head, I’m pushing that issue to next week - and hitting the snewz button today.
