I Love My Feet More Than You

Every once in awhile I fall asleep ridiculously early - think 8:00 - wake up at around 3:00 a.m., and spend the rest of the night/early morning watching movies and drinking caffeinated tea. Sometimes I feel compelled to eat something, or maybe replace the movies with music performed by individuals desperately in need of a little Prozac while I reminisce about all of the odd things that have ever happened to, or been perpetrated by, me.

I find this fun. Which is why I was happy as a clam when I found myself awake at 3:30 on Thursday morning, making pasta and listening to angsty Welsh rock. (Is The Manic Street Preachers not one of the best band names ever?) And it was as I was sprinkling garlic powder over my freshly buttered egg noodles that I remembered the time I denied my boss the use of my socks.

Yes, the socks I was wearing.

It was about a year ago, and it was raining. The woman I like to call Lady Micromanage had been micromanaging something or other outside, and in the process, her socks had sustained some - quite serious - water damage. Upon reentering the store, she eyed my Converse-clad feet and asked if she could have mine.

"My socks?"

"Mine got all wet outside."

"Oh. Huh."

I ran through all the possible counterarguments in my mind. My socks are too small - oh wait, no they're not. My socks don't match - but she wouldn't care. My socks prefer the sanctuary of my shoes to hers - but that's really insulting.

Then I wondered if my reluctance to share my socks with a person in need made me a horrible, selfish wench. Her feet were cold. Her socks were soggy. (That's a gross word, isn't it? Soggy.) My feet were dry, and I could go without socks for a few hours, couldn't I?

Well, yes. But then so could she. Keep your socks on, my feet begged. You're walking home; she's driving. We are more important than her stupid feet. And they were, I decided, absolutely correct. I needed my socks.

"Well," I said, "normally I would. But I was outside earlier too, and my socks are wet as well."

"Oh." Her voice was even flatter than usual, crushed with disappointment. I felt bad for a moment, and then I thought, what kind of person asks her employee to relinquish her socks? She'd promised to give them back, which she probably considered generous, but I found it repulsive. How could I ever wear them again? Once my socks touch the sweaty, rain-soaked feet of another human, they become dead to me. It's cheating, as far as I'm concerned, and cheating is something you do behind your partner's back, not with her grudging permission.

And asking people to give you their socks is abnormal, right? Or, at the very least, a slight breach of etiquette? Because I didn't buy those socks on a lark, I bought them for a specific reason. I bought them because I wanted my feet to be swaddled in cheap stretchy cotton.

Don't my feet deserve that much?

My Snarkiness: Provoked, Explained

"I dropped some books off here two years ago. Name's Ulong. I'd like 'em back."
"You want them back? The books you dropped off?"
"That's what I said."
"Well, um, we don't have them anymore."
"You don't. Have them. Anymore."
"Sorry, but...no."
"So what did you do with them?"
"If you bring us books we put them out for sale."
"And you can't take them back off the shelves and give them back to me?"
"If it was two years ago we probably already sold them - but even if we hadn't, I wouldn't be able to tell which ones were yours anyway, so no, I really couldn't."
"Get out of here!"
"I'm sorry, but that's just the way it works."
Muttered: "Stupid bitch."

I've been trying to cut down on the vulgarity - in this blog, at least - but seriously? Fuck off.

No, really. Because guess what, asshole? I am smarter than you. I am smarter, I am wittier, my clothes are free of mustard stains: I am superior to you in every possible respect. You are stupid and rude and condescending and I hope to God you don't have any daughters.

I know I'm too sensitive about this crap and I shouldn't take it personally, and I realize that at some point I'm going to have to hitch up my big girl pants and get on with my life, but at the moment all I want to do is track down this guy and mace him. Or cry. I don't know.

I mean, why? Why call some girl you don't know, who's answering your idiotic questions as politely as she can, a "stupid bitch"? What does it accomplish? Did he really think it was going to make me sympathetic to him?

You know what this guy needs? He needs a blog. He needs a place where he can type up nasty, insult-laden, poorly-written pleas for underpaid 21-year-olds to be his personal slaves. And then he needs to drink a Guinness, unbunch his panties, and adopt a disabled puppy.

As for me - I just need a cupcake.

Of Death and Food

There is a bird trapped somewhere in the store, and I can't figure out where it is. Its chirping is beyond obnoxious, loud and shrill - it's amazing how ugly chirping sounds out of context - but if it stops for good I'll know the bird is dead, and then I'll have to sit here, wondering exactly where the carcass is rotting, and that will just freak me out.

Also, my boss was supposed to come in to give me a break today, but he didn't, and now it's 3:30 and I haven't eaten in seven and a half hours. Another ten minutes and that bird is going to sound pretty appetizing.

You know, I never thought I'd want to microwave a robin, but damn if it isn't tempting. Although, let's be honest: as much as my stomach desires fullness, its innate weakness forbids the digestion of wild birds.

Stomach, you suck.

Bitter Much?

Classified from the Northern Hills Advertiser:

JOE had a job making $4,000 a week but the state took Joe's driver's license away. If you want Joe's job, call today! Must be trainable. Call Michelle 1-877-313-3633 8am-4pm Mon-Fri.

I wonder how Joe feels right now. And what did he do to piss Michelle off so badly?

Also, I love how the only qualification is that one must be "trainable." "We don't care if you have skills; all we ask is that you possess the capacity to develop skills. Which basically means that you can't be a lazy ass. Which really shouldn't need to be said, but what the hell - we're willing to spend the money to cram those three extra words in the ad in order to hopefully weed out people like Joe. So yeah. You want four grand a week?"

Seriously, that ad made my day.

Which is good, because this almost ruined it: Study shows ability to detect sarcasm decreases with age.