Where's the Beef?

Evidently, Bill has at least one more beef with me. (There are probably hundreds but when you repeat every story at least three times, there is only so much ground you can cover. Especially when the person you are talking with is actively trying to terminate the conversation using any and all possible means, including running screaming from the building yelling "Fire!")

He relates to Charlotte (at least once...) that I didn't say anything - not one word of thanks - about the shelves.

The #@%^&* shelves! Really?

What the #@%^&* is he talking about?

I distinctly recall that I very convincingly feigned being impressed with their beauty and craftsmanship while reviewing the zillion photos, and made empathetic frowny faces when he told his little tale of woe about not being able to sell a single one at the flea market.

When Mom presented a set to me out of the clear blue sky I remarked on what a beautiful job Bill had done on them. Oooohed and aaaahed about them. Thanked her profusely, however insincerely.

What the #@%^&* is he babbling about?

What Bill doesn't seem to be able to wrap his little balding head around is the fact that he crashed and burned at six o'clock.

Six!

There were nearly two hours of festivities that took place after he had been assisted to bed in an alcohol haze and staggered unsteadily off to the Land of Nod. And that for presumably several hours before that, his brain had been saturated in booze to the point of being unable to observe and report on any of the festivities occurring around him.

Whether I thanked him for the #@%^&* shelves or not, he is in no position to say with any certainty at all whether I did or I didn't - or anything else for that matter. One of the boys could have announced his plans to become a monk. A squirrel could have emerged from a nest in the Christmas tree. Charlotte's dog could have gotten up and performed a comedy routine - Bill would have no way of knowing, thanks to acute pickling of the brain.

But he is convinced that he is correct and no one can convince him otherwise. And this latest alleged affront from me fits nicely in with the opinion he was itching to assert about me in the first place. And whether I walked into his trap or not, he thinks I did.

And again, I don't care. One more person of such alarming insignificance that good, bad or indifferent, his opinion is immaterial and of no consequence. Maybe I'll write him a letter in my head tomorrow in traffic.

But what is troubling is that he is so misguidedly comfortable in sharing his nasty little musings about me with my sister. And he has a few he'd like to share about my mother as well.