Disgusting Old People Culture

Here’s three fun stories of my adventures in The Villages.  I’m not meaning to trash old people.  This shit happens to me everywhere I go.  I feel like I just have a knack for picking up on ridiculous shit that looks weird to me and spinning it around in such a way that maybe everyone can appreciate its weirdness.

What Do You Mean the Dressing Can’t Come on the Side?

Apparently there’s a chain restaurant called Toojay’s which is kind of like a Jewish deli. Except the food is awful. And what’s worse – and totally expected when you stop to think about it – is when we were done eating and left at 7 p.m. there was a line of like thirty people waiting to get in and get a table.  Let’s review:

We ordered hummus and tabbouleh as appetizers.  Both came served on a huge plate covered in lettuce leaves and with almost none of what was actually ordered.  A dollop of hummus and a few sprigs of what would be in large portions considered the ingredients of tabbouleh.  What’s worse, the hummus tasted like tuna salad.  Why? Well, duh.  It’s a deli.  There’s a deli case with lots of sides and dishes on display.  And neither the hummus nor tuna were actually covered inside the case. So naturally, the hummus absorbed the delicious taste of very fishy tuna. The tabbouleh was tasteless, but blessedly a $6 appetizer gets you only a few scant bites.

The killer was the entrée.  There was a delicious looking roast vegetable ciabatta sandwich.  But I wanted the dressing on the side because it was old people dressing (like mayonnaise and ketchup mixed together).  The waitress immediately told me that its impossible. Apparently the dumb-struck shock I babbled afterwards gave her cause enough to double-check her instincts and ‘Lo she was right. A sandwich, you know with bread, came pre-dressed with Russian dressing.  The thought of a soggy wet sandwich, with probably mushy vegetables know that I know how they feel about keeping bread crisp.  I mean fuck.  McDonalds is the only other place I can think of where you can’t have it your way.

Fuck You Michael Bublé

Each of the Town Squares – super fake versions of these outdoor rich people malls popping up everywhere – has a small gazebo where there are nightly music performances.  The music is mostly just terrible hunky-dorey, yokel, boondocks genre-less crap.  It’s so terrifyingly white. Did I mention there are only whites in The Villages? It would take me until the end of my articles on The Villages to get around to mentioning what I assumed everyone could already have figured out.  Anyways, at one point some shitty faux-country band started up with the Michael Bublé.  Damnit. My mom listens to the Stones and Zeppelin. Its 55 and up, not 90 and up.  Are they playing to the lowest common denominator here? Do the oldest and least musically inclined get to cut out the stuff for the boomer generation that hit their 20s during the mid 60s? Right in time to hit The Beatles, then Hendrix and Zeppelin and the Stones and everything great about music? I guess not.  I mean, I know some of these residents have to have some gaping musical hole in their public experience.  Whatever, it’s not for my benefit, but for theirs. And I know all these critiques come off as praise to the way-too-hairey ears of the average The Villages inhabitant, with his stretch pants and condescending glares in my direction.  Also, this is when some old dude in a rocking chair pointed at me and said jokingly “How’d you get in here?”.

There’s No Waffles for You

Breakfast in the Comfort Suites is like breakfast at any hotel with hot breakfast.  Eggs, bacon, biscuits and the holy waffle iron with batter extruder nearby.  A disgustingly sweet treat, but fuck it, right? How often can you do this? And thick whole-cherry jam? Why the fuck not, I say.

So, I make my waffles, the timer goes off, I get them, top them with some cherries in jam and grab a couple cream cheese servings instead of syrup.  Before I can even try to get to my table, some old woman* looks at me and asks how I did that. Like it was magic that I’d somehow procured waffles. She did it in the same way my parents ask me how to attach an image to an e-mail after they know that I know that I’ve showed them how to do it a dozen times before.  Still, I kindly indicated the instructions listed on the waffle batter extruder which she didn’t even look at before asking me again “so it’s a whole cup of batter?”.

This is where I’m done with her.  The instructions by the way read 1) Use one whole cup of batter. And the cup was sitting right under the nozzle.  My derision must have permeated her cause she managed to get batter on the iron while I stood there and she struggled to flip the iron over to start the timer (number 2 on the instructions).  She then stepped back and gestured her arms open with the unmistakable message “do this for me”. Not please help, I’m old and terrified and confused. Her gesture and attitude reeked of entitlement. If she’d said, hey, I’m struggling here, could you please walk me through this – I’d have been glad to. But what do you do if someone just walks up to you and gives you a jar and doesn’t make any verbal cues; just looks at you stupid, like a dog when you’re eating – down at your food, then up at you like, come on you’re gonna give me that right?

If you can’t figure out how to read instructions plastered to a device, you don’t get any. That’s how it works. If I do it for you, then you won’t learn anything.

I feel like maybe this spiraled into something a little too violent and negative and not at all funny like it was immediately after I’d eaten.

She got her waffles by the way.  She had to two-hand the lever to flip the waffle iron which starts the timer and she did it like a captain turning a wheel on his ship during a serious squall, like she leaned into it.  Fucking classic.

_______________________________________________

*Like probably mid-60s. So the following tirade of hate you’re about to read has nothing to do with any actual cognitive or physical disabilities regarding her age. My dad is mid-60s for fucks sake.

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