Origins... Adventures in Doughnutland

The idea of actually understanding the English language may be lost on some. I understand that if your first language isn't English or if you have immigrated from somewhere else then it's fully understandable not to get what I'm saying. But if you're a white girl from the 'burbs then it's a fucking problem. Add on top of that your math skills --and when I mean math skills. I'm talking simple math-- suck, well maybe, you shouldn't be the one allowed to take the orders.

"I'm sorry, I wanted a dozen doughnuts," I said to the plump girl that looked like she'd rather be anywhere on a Sunday morning than standing behind the counter of Dukin' Donuts.

"And that's what I gave you."

"Um, no. You're missing one. See..." I pointed to each one as I counted. "There's only eleven."

She looked at me like I just asked her to stuff a cat up her ass. "And that's a dozen."

Wanting to be nice and not call her a fucking dumbass, I smiled, chuckled, then said --nicely, "Um, sorry. A dozen is twelve."

"No. It's eleven."

"Really? You can't be serious?"

"Serious as a heart attack." --yes, she actually said that. "Now stop trying to get something for free."

"Free? Sweetheart, I'm just trying to get what I paid for. That being a dozen doughnuts. And a dozen is twelve."

"No. It's not."

"Yes, it is."

Talking to her was starting to feel like talking to a two year-old. I looked behind me for moral support only find that I was still the only fool to make the trek in-doors instead of the drive-thru. Figuring it would be faster since that's where the line was (telling me that possibly they knew better... maybe? probably not) and that when I usually have had problems in the past with fast food joints the drive-thru was criminal number 1.

I sighed then tried to figure out how to explain simple math to her. It would of just been easier to call her a fucking idiot and leave, head down to the next D&D --like cockroaches you could find them everywhere and in fact there was one less than five minutes from where I now stood. But she would see that as winning and being right. And I just could stand for that.

"Listen, Sweetheart--"

"STOP calling me that! You don't know me--"

"Fine. Fucktard --there, is that better?--  a dozen is twelve. Not eleven. If you would've possibly gotten past the second grade would know that."

"I think it's time for you to leave."

At this point the Indian manager (owner?) interjected himself. "Wat seem be the problem here."

"I was just telling this rude man to leave."

"I was just trying to get a full dozen so I can."

The manager/owner looked at the open box turned, grabbed two doughnuts from the rack behind. "I'm sorry, sir. Please take an extra doughnut for your trouble."

The World of ODD

It's been more than a decade since I came up with phrase/title "Adventures in Doughnutland". Born out of a morning trip to Dukin' Donuts where I found myself arguing on the merits of what a dozen actually means in the realm of math. She insisted 11, where I insisted (correctly, I might add) 12. This little tit-for-tat went on for a little more than five minutes when Counter Girl finally turned to her amused co-worker who then told her that "yes, twelve was indeed the number that made up a dozen." In the end I ended with 13 doughnuts --a baker's dozen to be precise-- for my effort and arguing with stupidity. Needless to say, while I still occasionally find myself in a Dukin', it took a while to do so and even longer to find myself back in that particular Dukin' Donuts.

The sad --or would it be funny-- truth is that things like that were/are the norm rather than the odd, the odd being usually where I end up. Like bar hopping down Western Avenue on Christmas Eve, Bondage Night at the (now defunked) Dome Room in Chicago on the day before Thanksgiving, finding myself naked and rolling in the mud with some blonde hottie behind my friends garage or stealing a plastic Owl out from the vines at a prestigious winery then driving home blind drunk down the Chicago Skyway. Yes odd is where I happen to find myself of plenty of occasions, and, truth-be-told, where I rather like to be found. Odd to me means fun. Fun people, fun times, fun life.

A life without ODD in my mind is a life not worth living. And now being older than I like to be I find THE ODD to be cherished even more. The sanctimonious bullshit of what life is suppose to be and how to be lived isn't for me. And I speak from experience. I've found myself many-a-time, like a drunk in rehab, trying to do what was always considered that "right thing"  to be doing and always having it bite me right in the ass. (Work 2 jobs, 50-60 hours a week, and be in debt; stay out if trouble just to be hassled and arrested by the cops because I don't fit the mold of what I should look like. I mean what the fuck... but I digress) No, where I belong is in that world of ODD. That's where the fun lies and be damned what society thinks.