It was one o’clock on a Tuesday and I was standing in the longest line I’ve ever seen at Wahoo’s Fish Taco’s, fantasizing about the blackened chicken Wahoo salad I’d soon be eating, when one of the two guys standing in front of me wearing navy blue Vans stopped laughing long enough to reach into his Wranglers, pull out his cell, and dial a number.
“Hey,” he said, and he said this in a very serious sounding voice as he smiled mischievously at his bald friend in the funky button down shirt, “We’re running a little late. We probably won’t be there until around…umm…” He looks at his watch. “One. Thirty.” and then he mumbled the one thing I can not stand, he added, “Ish.”
I glared at the back of his messy Beck-like hair. I mean we both knew he wouldn’t be there at One. Thirty. Ish. There was no way he’d be there at One. Thirty. Ish. He hadn’t even ordered lunch yet! In fact, based on the way the line was not moving, he probably wouldn’t be eating until One. Twenty. Five. Ish.
A good friend of mine pulls this ish shit all the time. Every time we make plans to go to a movie, I’ll ask her to meet me at a certain time, say seven o’clock. When I say seven o’clock, I mean seven o’clock. Not seven-ten. Not seven fifteen. My friend will then repeat the time and add the ish, so that seven o’clock turns into seven-ish. Whenever I hear the ish, I don’t even bother getting ready. What’s the point when I know for a fact she’ll call me ten minutes AFTER the movie has begun to tell me she’s on her way to my house. Yeah, more like on her way to nowhere, because I don’t go to movies late. I don’t go anywhere late. And because of this, all of my friends, especially my LA friends, think I’m uptight.
I’m uptight because people keep ish-ing me! I’m not sure if this is just an LA thing, or the fact that life has gotten so hectic, so jammed packed, that it’s impossible to get places on time and therefore we are forced to ish in order to get through the day. Because of all this ishing, I’ve turned into my mother. I now lie to my friends, even my husband, about what time things start, tagging on an extra thirty minutes for F-time. (Fuck up time) Sometimes it works. Most times it doesn’t.
A few minutes ago I called the husband to find out what time he’d be home for dinner. I wanted to figure out when I should pop the Dijon mustard coated salmon into the oven. Well my husband couldn’t tell me what time he’d be home because the camera crew meeting him at his office (Don’t ask) wouldn’t be there until four, which he thought probably meant more like six-ish.
Whatever. Sounds to me like the husband will be eating nothing-ish tonight.
Yeah, that's me, the one standing in the aisle wearing flammable polyester...