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1:16 a.m. - 2013-10-22
Scone-y Baloney

I went to the world's meanest orchard today. For real.

Had a picnic lunch with Mick. It was an in-service day and the students went home after morning classes so Mick had time to jaunt off to the park with me. We ate in the pavilion and nearly froze our buns off. The sun shone but the breeze was brrr chilly. Despite the chill it was nice to be outside eating and laughing. I'd already planned on a stop at the bread store and the orchard was on the way between the school and the bread store, not a prob to stop for scones. The same bakers who have a stall at the farmer's market also peddle their wares at the orchard. What a nice wifey I am.

Now here's the deal with the scone lady at the farmer's market...she's a crank. Pissy attitude. Always a mouth full of complaints. If Mick weren't a fiend for those damn scones it's a sure bet I would NOT be patronizing that stall. Week after week it was the same crap. Bitch. Moan. Whine. Never a hello in return to my own smiling greeting. Not even a thank you for my business. One time she mistakenly made wrong change in my favor and I gave the money back. Do you think that might have merited a thank you? Huh. Not Ms Sour Scones. All she did was regale me with more complaints about how tired and distracted from overwork she was. Sheesh.

I figured I'd save myself some grief and get Mick's scone fix at the orchard. It was bound to be a more pleasant exchange than dealing with the bitchy baker at the farmer's market. HA! Bwahahaha! Ms Sour Scones wasn't there, instead I got 'tude from THREE assholes.

I know, right?

After easing my elderly Escort down the rutted goat path to the orchard I was some surprised to see how full the parking lot was. For a Monday the joint was jumping. I go inside and I'm barely in the door when I get a snotty tsk and a dirty look from some twerp in skinny jeans and hipster glasses lounging artfully behind the counter. What his problem was I don't know. Too tubby and too middle-aged to be breathing his air perhaps. I spotted the baked goods right off but decided to look around and see what else there was. We don't have a pumpkin yet and maybe I'd get one while I was there. Enter asshole #2. This one had the requisite skinny jeans but instead of glasses he was sporting a retro Flock of Seagulls hairdo and an even nastier attitude than Mr Wonderful at the counter. Hipster #2 was refilling the cider dispenser. I hadn't asked nor was I standing there with cup in hand like a thirsty Oliver Twist, but Cider Boy rolls his eyes anyhow and loftily informs me that I CANNOT have a sample, the cider needs to settle first. Okay, whatever you say there, Mr Urban Outfitters. May you and your disturbed cider live a long happy life and never run out of hair gel and ratty cardigans. Ye gods.

I decide to just grab some scones and run for it. I help myself to two of the least banged-up pastries from the messy smeary scone bin and take my bag to the counter. Glasses guy is gone (or maybe he was just lying on the floor to avoid having to wait on me) and this is where asshole #3 comes in. This one a female. Skinny jeans ('natch!), stripy boho sweater and dig this...she's chomping an enormous wad of gum and still managing to make a duck face! Incredible. A woman of extraordinary talent, obviously. She rolls her eyes, looks at the bag on the counter like I'd laid a big dog turd in front of her, heaves a sigh and around the gigantic lump of gum snarls, "What's in there?" I reply that it's two scones and crazily enough I'd like to take them home with me. She sighs again, opens the bag and looks for herself. Sweetheart, if you were going to look why ask me first? I keep this observation to myself and wait. She shoves the bag back at me, shifts the gum to the other side of her face, resumes the duck lip pout and punches some keys on the register with one purple polished, dagger-tipped finger. Then nothing. No hint what my total was or if she would deign to take my money. She just stood there, gnawing, pouting and staring into space over my shoulder.

I wait. She chomps. I wait some more. Finally I say I'd be happy to pay if I knew how much to give her. She flaps a hand at the register display. "$6.00?" I fish a twenty from my wallet and say, "I don't have change, sorry." Another eye roll. "Yeah, whatever." She digs my change from the drawer, drops it into my outstretched hand and goes back to staring over my shoulder. No "Thank you" or "Have a nice day." Nada.

Apparently there is some douche-scone connection I'm missing. Do scones cause douche-i-ness or is being an attitudinous fuckwad a requirement to get into the scone business in the first place? I'd really like to know.

What I can tell you is until I find a less douchey source Mick is going scone-less. He already knew about the crank at the farmer's market and when I told him about this afternoon's adventure he completely agreed. Screw Scotty's Country Kitchen and their shitty, shitty attitude. No scone is worth this kind of hostility. I prefer to spend my money with people who seem happy to have my business.

In honor of today's adventure...

And I ran so far away (from douchey scone sellers), ~LA

8 Wanna talk about it!

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