Also, really loud noise, like **Dung Beetle **said. Don’t expect anything coherent coming out of my mouth when a fire alarm goes off, or an ambulance rushes past, sirens blazing.
That ambulance rushed past the other day, when me, my husband and our baby were out biking. I almost panicked that the sirens would panic my son as much as they did me (Hey, I was panicking anyway, I might as well panick over that). When I looked in his bike seat, the baby had slept through it.
I swear, that kid is going to be a liontamer someday. Not afraid of nothing, he is.
Extreme neediness. As a teacher, I love to help people. I am happy to help people. But I hate the puppy-dog shit, the “Miss! Miss! I don’t have a pencil, Miss!” You’re fucking 17! Solve the problem. Preferably when it’s not the middle of a lecture. Ask your buddies sitting next to you. Look around on the fucking floor. Ask me, but at least have the courtesy to ASK me, don’t just tell me you have a problem with the expectation that I will drop everything to fix it.
The “I’m totally helpless and that’s not my problem, it’s yours” thing just drives me crazy.
People who do the “Hi Opal!” thing wrong drive me to a murderous rage.* “Hi Opal!” is used only when you are listing exactly two things and have no third.
People who have lived in the United States for years but have not learned English who then get mad at me because I don’t speak their language make me furious.
There is a particular editor on Wikipedia who should just be killed. He says the most maddeningly infuriating, stupid things and then signs his post with some cutesy-poo “happy editing!” or “cheers!” sign-off.
*Not really, but it is more annoying to me than it ought to be.
My biggest bugaboo is losing concentration when playing music. The public exposure plus the loss of control are a volatile mix. I lose all self-respect. Twice - no, not once, twice - I have taken a
saxophone off the strap and tossed it to the floor. It cost me hundreds in repairs. I didn’t care.
People close to me second-guessing me or telling me what I’m “going to” do next. It’s my life, not your lab experiment, so spare me the predictions.
Being asked to do something I’m doing at that moment. Can’t you take half a second to look and friggn see?
People addressing me suddenly from behind. I always jump. No, I can’t help it, and no, I’m not “goosey” or “wound too tight.” Make some kind of noise, please, any little thing, so I can turn around and prepare for company.
Total strangers speaking curtly, snappishly, or peremptorily. I may not blow my top, but I’ll dig in my heels, set my jaw and give them the stinkeye de luxe.
Oh, fuck me, that brings back memories of being a teacher’s aide in the 4th grade. Most days were fine, but every once in a while, I’d have afternoons where it seemed like every kid was playing the poor pitiful helpless act, and I’d literally have to bite my tongue to keep from lashing out. “Miss B, I need heeeeeeeeelp!!!” meant the kid was too lazy to copy a sentence already written on the board and wanted me to do it for him.
Or they’d ask me to move because they couldn’t see what was on the board while I was writing it.
I loved those kids, but, damn, sometimes it was hard to keep from shrieking, “SPANKINGS FOR EVERYONE,” and going to town.
I work in a restaurant, and during the busy season, angry outbursts are quite normal for all members of the staff. However, even during slow times, these things will always get to me:
Excruciatingly bad handwriting on order tickets. Now, I’ve been a cook for coming on five years, and I’ve got a preternatural ability to read even the worst scrawl, but even my superpowers have their limits. If I have to spend more time figuring out what the hell you wrote than I would actually cooking your fucking order, there’s something wrong.
Not knowing the menu, after having been on the job for more than, say, three months. If you have to ask me more than twice about what comes on such-and-such an order, you’ve just earned yourself a dumbass medal in my eyes. You do not deserve the tips you feel so entitled to.
Standing around back in my station. The kitchen has all the free space of a U-boat and at any given time, there’s always more than one person back there. So, it goes without saying that space is at somewhat of a premium. If you’re a server and you have so little to do that you have to stand behind me and watch me make my orders, forcing me to work around you, then expect an angry outburst (or a rude shove, if I’m in a good mood that day).
Trying to rush me or asking me to put your ticket ahead of the line. Sorry, you’re not the only server here with customers to serve, and cooking takes time if I want to do it right, and furthermore, secure you a decent tip (which, in turn, will secure me a decent tip-share at the end of the week). This applies doubly so for people who forget to hang their tickets until the last second and beg me out of desperation to jump the line for them. Sorry, you’re shit out of luck.
I have twice – twice–knocked my music stand flat on the floor during the closing notes of a trombone solo performance. Audible gasps from the audience both times. It’s just that I would start getting really into it, and by the time I’d get to the end, in the upper range, I’d be kind of dizzy and a bit careless as to where my slide was going. Fortunately, both times this happened my brain and my mouth and my hands magically continued playing as if I still had the music in front of me. It’s not that I ever actively tried to memorize the piece, but I guess I’d rehearsed the damn thing enough times that I instinctively remembered what to play.
I can’t imagine anything that would make me harm my baby – in high school I was voted ‘‘Most Protective of her Instrument’’ – but damn, I know the kind of angst you’re talking about.