I hate it when children cry. It's not an emotional thing - I just really hate the sound. And I hate watching their faces crumple and their mouths stretch open like rubber bands.
Not that I want children to be sad and miserable, because amazingly, I don't. I just want them not to look so incredibly grotesque on the (hopefully rare) occasions that they are.
And I want them to stop wearing those damn blinking sneakers. Those have been around since I was a kid, and you know what? I never wanted a pair. I thought they were weird, which is pretty much how I feel today, and I really think that if any of these intellectually lazy toddlers stopped and thought about it, they'd come to the same conclusion.
Children are not cars; they don't need a turn signal. I can hear them coming perfectly well without a visual warning. Unless the blinkers were designed as an aid for the deaf, in which case my whole world ceases to make sense.
But then I was a weird kid, so maybe I'm just missing out on something. When I was little I had to spend six weeks of every summer in Ohio, and one of its (admittedly few) highlights was this store in the mall called The Imaginarium. It had a regular entryway for adults but a smaller door for kids that I would always crawl through, into a shiny plastic and taffeta paradise. The Imaginarium had tons of shit, but mostly I remember the rows of costumes, none of which I ever tried on. I would just stand there, touching the fabric and looking deprived.
It was a good time.
Anyway, I remember being in there once when a pair of girls, probably about fourteen, were taking pictures of themselves in sequined hats, holding child-sized ball gowns up to their necks, etc. They were giggly and loud and bothering me, so I glared at them, prompting the taller of the two to turn to me and say:
"We're just having fun. Don't you ever have fun? Or don't you know how?"
And I thought, I'm walking through The Imaginarium alone while my Bio-Dad stands outside the store reading USA Today. Of course I don't know how to have fun.
Only I didn't say that. I just walked out and told Bio-Dad that I wanted a soft pretzel, and he got me one. And then when we got back to my grandparents' house I split my identity into three so I could enjoy a lively card game alone.
So maybe I shouldn't be judging kids for their sneakers. Those blinkers are probably really fun, and I'm just not getting it.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Actually, On Second Thought:
The NASCAR Harlequin romances are amazing. The one I read last night (yes, I read the whole thing) is called On the Move, and the male love interest is an illiterate NASCAR driver.
No really. An illiterate NASCAR driver named Brandon. He always wanted to read, but his awful father, so intent was he on pushing his son into the world of competitive racing, neglected him in his homeschooling. Brandon asked for a tutor, but Daddy said no - and when Brandon failed his standardized tests, well, no biggie. He'd had racing sponsors since he was nine.
But luckily, he has this great new agent named Vicky. She's way hot, in a buttoned-up sort of way, and she's going to teach him to read if it's the last thing she does. Which is not to say it's the first thing she does - she isn't always successful in fending off his wholly unprofessional advances - but she sort of gets around to it. A couple of times anyway.
Vicky's hotness, working hand-in-hand with her sexual reticence, ultimately helps Brandon to man up, develop his confidence, and tell off his douchebag dad. Apparently Dad, in addition to giving Brandon an incredibly shitty education, used Brandon's earnings for his own benefit, buying cars, boats, and the like. Only he doesn't see it that way:
"I told you in Florida, I bought that for us," his father said, taking a step toward him.
"Yeah, right," Brandon said. "And when the money dried up, when I lost my ride, where was the us?" His cheek began to twitch. Brandon told himself to calm down. He shouldn't let his father rile him up, not anymore, and especially not just before qualifying. "I can't believe you," Brandon said. "I can't believe you have the nerve to come here as if nothing had happened."
"I came because I'm your father," Harold said.
"I lost my dad years ago," Brandon said, refusing to back down. "I lost him when I made my first million and my dad went on a gambling binge in Las Vegas. But you know what? I probably lost him before that. Back when I was thirteen and I begged you to get me a tutor because I wanted to learn how to read. Do you remember that, Dad? You told me I didn't need to learn that stuff. That I was going to be a famous race-car driver and all drivers needed to do was learn to go fast. I begged you to get me some help, and when I when I wouldn't shut up, what did you do?"
He waited for his father to answer. He wondered if he'd have the guts.
He didn't.
"You beat me black-and-blue," Brandon said.
His father's eyes went hard.
On the Move also features one of my all-time favorite relationship paradoxes: a man who wholeheartedly supports the driven, suit-donning female lead in her career, but acts like a condescending asshat who often jeopardizes said career, by - for example - running his hand up her leg during important meetings.
It's a great book, and I'm not the only one who thinks so; Amazon.com reviewers agree.
"Brandon Burke is the 'bad boy' to end all 'bad boys'. Big-time. He is so over-the-top you just want to punch him out. Or else shake him until his gorgeous blonde hair falls off his head." - Kelly in Cleveland Heights
"The story line is faster than a spin around the oval as Vicki and Brandon fight and kiss and fight." - Harriet Klausner, Amazon's #1 reviewer
"This book like more so the genre is G-rated but is a fun read - which I always pick up." - Brandon the Illiterate Driver
No really. An illiterate NASCAR driver named Brandon. He always wanted to read, but his awful father, so intent was he on pushing his son into the world of competitive racing, neglected him in his homeschooling. Brandon asked for a tutor, but Daddy said no - and when Brandon failed his standardized tests, well, no biggie. He'd had racing sponsors since he was nine.
But luckily, he has this great new agent named Vicky. She's way hot, in a buttoned-up sort of way, and she's going to teach him to read if it's the last thing she does. Which is not to say it's the first thing she does - she isn't always successful in fending off his wholly unprofessional advances - but she sort of gets around to it. A couple of times anyway.
Vicky's hotness, working hand-in-hand with her sexual reticence, ultimately helps Brandon to man up, develop his confidence, and tell off his douchebag dad. Apparently Dad, in addition to giving Brandon an incredibly shitty education, used Brandon's earnings for his own benefit, buying cars, boats, and the like. Only he doesn't see it that way:
"I told you in Florida, I bought that for us," his father said, taking a step toward him.
"Yeah, right," Brandon said. "And when the money dried up, when I lost my ride, where was the us?" His cheek began to twitch. Brandon told himself to calm down. He shouldn't let his father rile him up, not anymore, and especially not just before qualifying. "I can't believe you," Brandon said. "I can't believe you have the nerve to come here as if nothing had happened."
"I came because I'm your father," Harold said.
"I lost my dad years ago," Brandon said, refusing to back down. "I lost him when I made my first million and my dad went on a gambling binge in Las Vegas. But you know what? I probably lost him before that. Back when I was thirteen and I begged you to get me a tutor because I wanted to learn how to read. Do you remember that, Dad? You told me I didn't need to learn that stuff. That I was going to be a famous race-car driver and all drivers needed to do was learn to go fast. I begged you to get me some help, and when I when I wouldn't shut up, what did you do?"
He waited for his father to answer. He wondered if he'd have the guts.
He didn't.
"You beat me black-and-blue," Brandon said.
His father's eyes went hard.
On the Move also features one of my all-time favorite relationship paradoxes: a man who wholeheartedly supports the driven, suit-donning female lead in her career, but acts like a condescending asshat who often jeopardizes said career, by - for example - running his hand up her leg during important meetings.
It's a great book, and I'm not the only one who thinks so; Amazon.com reviewers agree.
"Brandon Burke is the 'bad boy' to end all 'bad boys'. Big-time. He is so over-the-top you just want to punch him out. Or else shake him until his gorgeous blonde hair falls off his head." - Kelly in Cleveland Heights
"The story line is faster than a spin around the oval as Vicki and Brandon fight and kiss and fight." - Harriet Klausner, Amazon's #1 reviewer
"This book like more so the genre is G-rated but is a fun read - which I always pick up." - Brandon the Illiterate Driver
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Is There a Drug For This?
I can't remember the last time I ordered a chicken barbecue pizza and gnawed on it absently for four consecutive days. I can, however, remember the last time I prefaced my sauteed chicken with a roasted red pepper and feta salad (last night), and this disturbs me greatly. All that saved me from complete adult emulation was the fact that both courses were consumed with me sitting on the floor watching Monty Python - but even then, I was sitting on an actual floor pillow, and the space around the pillow was free of crap magazines and empty milk dud boxes.
And this morning...I made an omelet. A real omelet. A tasty, herb-seasoned omelet, which I washed down with a tall glass of orange juice, all while reading a book that I marked my place in before leaving for work. With a bookmark. A bookmark picturing a white rabbit under a tree in the snow.
Next thing you know I'll have my own car.
And this morning...I made an omelet. A real omelet. A tasty, herb-seasoned omelet, which I washed down with a tall glass of orange juice, all while reading a book that I marked my place in before leaving for work. With a bookmark. A bookmark picturing a white rabbit under a tree in the snow.
Next thing you know I'll have my own car.
Friday, July 31, 2009
My Only Real Motivation to Succeed Is My Aversion to the Following Phrases
"Well, at least you can always say you did your best."
How in the hell is that supposed to make me feel better? "You did everything you could and still failed. Ergo, you just plain lack the ability to succeed." That is what this says to me. I would much rather have someone tell me to "just try harder" or "not be such a damn slacker, you lazy bum" - at least then I could delude myself into thinking that I only failed because of my attitude (or other circumstances unrelated to my abilities).
"Just remember, things could always be worse."
Now there's a comforting statement. "Yeah, your life sucks right now, and guess what? Eventually, it might suck more!" I guess this is supposed to remind me of how green my grass is compared to, you know, someone else's significantly less green grass, but all it really does is remind me that my grass could be subjected to a drought, possessed lawn mower, or plague of locusts. None of which is terribly cheering.
And finally:
"Welcome to the real world."
Which, come on. That's just obnoxious.
How in the hell is that supposed to make me feel better? "You did everything you could and still failed. Ergo, you just plain lack the ability to succeed." That is what this says to me. I would much rather have someone tell me to "just try harder" or "not be such a damn slacker, you lazy bum" - at least then I could delude myself into thinking that I only failed because of my attitude (or other circumstances unrelated to my abilities).
"Just remember, things could always be worse."
Now there's a comforting statement. "Yeah, your life sucks right now, and guess what? Eventually, it might suck more!" I guess this is supposed to remind me of how green my grass is compared to, you know, someone else's significantly less green grass, but all it really does is remind me that my grass could be subjected to a drought, possessed lawn mower, or plague of locusts. None of which is terribly cheering.
And finally:
"Welcome to the real world."
Which, come on. That's just obnoxious.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
What I'd Like to Say
Q: Can you recommend me a book? I like everything.
A: No - no you don't. Nobody likes everything. And if you were truly the exception, you wouldn't need my advice; since, as someone who literally cannot be disappointed, you would just close your eyes and pull a random book off the shelf. And you would like that book. You would like everything about that book. You would even like the cover, and the blurbs on the front, and the ragged faux-antique page edges.
Whereas all I like is the world "blurb." It makes me giggle.
Q: Omigod I love the Twilight books!!! Have you read them?
A: Just the first one. I vomited glitter and Mormonism into a bowl formed out of dead feminism immediately after. Coincidence?
Q: What's the cheapest thing you have in here?
A: You.
Q: I'm from out of town. Can I get a deal on this bookmark?
A: 1. Being from out of town is not going to help your case, and I have no idea why you people insist on bringing it up. Surely there are better weapons in your cheapskate arsenal. 2. If you can't afford to spend $1.25 on a bookmark, maybe you should have forgone the vacation? Just a thought.
Q: Do you have a boyfriend/phone number/drastically low standards?
A: For you, yes/sorry, I'm a technophobe/not nearly low enough.
Q: Ya got any books in here?
A: Yeah, 'cause I totally haven't heard that one before.
Q: Where do you have [such-and-such author]? Oh, you don't have to get up! - just point me to the right shelf.
A: Look, I get that you are trying to help me out, and I appreciate your lack of demanding assclown-like behavior. Really I do. But this is a small store - it is cluttered, with the spaces between the shelves forming a winding maze of windingness - and I simply cannot point you to the right shelf, at least not from my desk. I honestly have no problem standing up and walking to the other side of the store, so please don't fret, okay?
Q: What's your favorite book?
A: Yeah, so, I don't do favorites. I don't have a favorite food, color, animal, movie, musician, or song, and I definitely don't have a favorite book. I have books I love, but I do not have one that I prize above all others, and I fail to see anything wrong with that. Oh, don't give me that pitying look - maybe I'm just less reductionist than you. Maybe you fail at life.
Q: Hey, you need to look up a book on that little computer thing there. You know how to do that, right?
A: Yeah, only I can't now - I'm too busy blogging about how much I hate you.
A: No - no you don't. Nobody likes everything. And if you were truly the exception, you wouldn't need my advice; since, as someone who literally cannot be disappointed, you would just close your eyes and pull a random book off the shelf. And you would like that book. You would like everything about that book. You would even like the cover, and the blurbs on the front, and the ragged faux-antique page edges.
Whereas all I like is the world "blurb." It makes me giggle.
Q: Omigod I love the Twilight books!!! Have you read them?
A: Just the first one. I vomited glitter and Mormonism into a bowl formed out of dead feminism immediately after. Coincidence?
Q: What's the cheapest thing you have in here?
A: You.
Q: I'm from out of town. Can I get a deal on this bookmark?
A: 1. Being from out of town is not going to help your case, and I have no idea why you people insist on bringing it up. Surely there are better weapons in your cheapskate arsenal. 2. If you can't afford to spend $1.25 on a bookmark, maybe you should have forgone the vacation? Just a thought.
Q: Do you have a boyfriend/phone number/drastically low standards?
A: For you, yes/sorry, I'm a technophobe/not nearly low enough.
Q: Ya got any books in here?
A: Yeah, 'cause I totally haven't heard that one before.
Q: Where do you have [such-and-such author]? Oh, you don't have to get up! - just point me to the right shelf.
A: Look, I get that you are trying to help me out, and I appreciate your lack of demanding assclown-like behavior. Really I do. But this is a small store - it is cluttered, with the spaces between the shelves forming a winding maze of windingness - and I simply cannot point you to the right shelf, at least not from my desk. I honestly have no problem standing up and walking to the other side of the store, so please don't fret, okay?
Q: What's your favorite book?
A: Yeah, so, I don't do favorites. I don't have a favorite food, color, animal, movie, musician, or song, and I definitely don't have a favorite book. I have books I love, but I do not have one that I prize above all others, and I fail to see anything wrong with that. Oh, don't give me that pitying look - maybe I'm just less reductionist than you. Maybe you fail at life.
Q: Hey, you need to look up a book on that little computer thing there. You know how to do that, right?
A: Yeah, only I can't now - I'm too busy blogging about how much I hate you.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Hollywood > Real Life
He was tall. He was burly. He had a blond buzz cut, so he really wasn't my type.
He followed his mother and sister into the store, and then stopped and looked at me curiously. I thought he looked familiar, and as it happened...he was.
"Hey," he said after a moment, "were you...on a plane at all? Like yesterday?"
"From Denver to Rapid?"
"I think I sat next to you."
"I think you did too. How weird."
His mother was delighted. "Really! What a coincidence! Did you two talk the whole way?"
"No," he answered. "We were reading."
"You were reading Twilight..."
"You were reading a very interesting-looking book. It was...Brief Interviews With Men - despicable men? I remember they weren't good men."
"Hideous men. Brief Interviews With Hideous Men."
"Right. What was wrong with the men?"
"Mostly they were misogynists."
The rest of the conversation wasn't particularly notable. We reminisced about the toddlers who squealed with delight during the plane's turbulent descent and then we marveled at the smallness of the world, and as he left he made a point of saying that he was glad to have seen me again and hoped to see me soon.
All of which would have been kind of awesome and mid-90s-romantic-comedy-esque were he remotely my type.
(And of course his airplane reading choice didn't help matters.)
He followed his mother and sister into the store, and then stopped and looked at me curiously. I thought he looked familiar, and as it happened...he was.
"Hey," he said after a moment, "were you...on a plane at all? Like yesterday?"
"From Denver to Rapid?"
"I think I sat next to you."
"I think you did too. How weird."
His mother was delighted. "Really! What a coincidence! Did you two talk the whole way?"
"No," he answered. "We were reading."
"You were reading Twilight..."
"You were reading a very interesting-looking book. It was...Brief Interviews With Men - despicable men? I remember they weren't good men."
"Hideous men. Brief Interviews With Hideous Men."
"Right. What was wrong with the men?"
"Mostly they were misogynists."
The rest of the conversation wasn't particularly notable. We reminisced about the toddlers who squealed with delight during the plane's turbulent descent and then we marveled at the smallness of the world, and as he left he made a point of saying that he was glad to have seen me again and hoped to see me soon.
All of which would have been kind of awesome and mid-90s-romantic-comedy-esque were he remotely my type.
(And of course his airplane reading choice didn't help matters.)
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Yeah, the New Harry Potter Movie Was Good. However:
There are things I want to know. Things like: Who the hell takes a full bag of popcorn into a bathroom stall? Well actually, I know who - giggly preteens. But what is the thought process there? And why did they have a full bag of popcorn post-movie?
More importantly, what makes said giggly preteens think it's okay to leave the spilled popcorn on the floor, along with their spilled water? Because there's no way in hell I'm going to wade through an ocean of wet popcorn kernels. That's disgusting. Therefore, Dumbshit Youths, I'm not going to let you leave the restroom giggling about your mess - I am going to block the doorway with my imposing frame and watch as you pick up each individual kernel. You will crawl on your hands and knees as you rid the world of your ridiculous mess, because this entitled bratty rich kid shit? Does not fly.
Thank you girls. You have a terrific, sunshiney day now.
More importantly, what makes said giggly preteens think it's okay to leave the spilled popcorn on the floor, along with their spilled water? Because there's no way in hell I'm going to wade through an ocean of wet popcorn kernels. That's disgusting. Therefore, Dumbshit Youths, I'm not going to let you leave the restroom giggling about your mess - I am going to block the doorway with my imposing frame and watch as you pick up each individual kernel. You will crawl on your hands and knees as you rid the world of your ridiculous mess, because this entitled bratty rich kid shit? Does not fly.
Thank you girls. You have a terrific, sunshiney day now.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Proof That I Need My Upcoming Vacation
Um, tourists? You can't hide. I saw the brim of your pastel visor from a mile away. I also saw the bag in your hand advertising "Authentic" Western Wear, with your flamingo pink cowboy hat inside.
Seriously, where do you even get a pink cowboy hat? I don't know any place in town that would sell them, but I'm guessing it must be somewhere nearby or you would have stashed the bag in your car, am I right? Or maybe not; you don't seem too bright.
I can't decide if the majority of tourists are tacky by nature, or if the act of touring brings out the tack they never knew they had. All I know is that middle-aged men should never wear polo shirts in colors with names like "mango dream" or "fresh mint swirl" - and under no circumstance should their wives coordinate their eye makeup to said shirts. (Okay, fine, the shirt colors probably have much more masculine names - "citrus rage," perhaps, or "herbal death freeze" - but you can bet I was right on with the eyeshadow names.)
And no, we don't sell newspapers. And while I am perfectly happy to direct you to the nearest newspaper stand, I will not apologize for the inconvenience of you having to walk an entire extra block.
Anyhow, Herbal Death Freeze does you no favors. Your body's need for exercise is clear.
I really don't understand why you're harping on about this, Good Sir Death Freeze. "You should really have newspapers. It'd be a good business venture." Yeah, and you know this how? There are three coffee shops within three blocks of our store, and all of them have newspaper stands. There's also a newspaper stand down by the barber shop. There is no need for us to sell newspapers. In other words, there is not enough demand to necessitate supply.
You're looking for the Wall Street Journal, yet you can't grasp that concept?
Of course, there was also the guy who asked me to explain our credit policy, and then stopped me midway through my spiel, saying, "well, I have a better idea."
Oh do you now?
"I have a bookstore in Nebraska" (uh-huh) "and I think you should do a straight trade. We can give you our books and then you can give us some of your classics, since they don't sell."
"Actually, our classics do sell. That's why we have so few of them."
"We don't sell many classics at our store."
"That's unfortunate. But I can't change the policy for one person."
"You mean you don't have the authority."
"No, I mean I'm not going to change the policy just for you."
I know I'm pushing my luck when I say things like that, but come on. Just shut up.
And look: I understand that you want someone who will discuss the merits of Jodi Picoult with you. But that someone? Is not me. Because I. Hate. Jodi. Picoult. I hate her clunky phrasing. I hate her Lifetime movie dialogue. And I freaking. LOATHE. her cop-out endings.
I think the merits of Jodi Picoult can be best summed up by observing that none of her fans know how to pronounce her name.
So yeah. My vacation starts this Sunday, ends next Sunday, and necessitates the use of planes, which had better not screw me over. Because if I get stalked by a crazy drunk woman at the Radisson and have to eat at their restaurant (called - I shit you not - "Enigma") again, I will cry. And if that crazy drunk woman stands outside the door to my room and tells me to "make sure I lock the door tight," well...that would be messed up.
Seriously, where do you even get a pink cowboy hat? I don't know any place in town that would sell them, but I'm guessing it must be somewhere nearby or you would have stashed the bag in your car, am I right? Or maybe not; you don't seem too bright.
I can't decide if the majority of tourists are tacky by nature, or if the act of touring brings out the tack they never knew they had. All I know is that middle-aged men should never wear polo shirts in colors with names like "mango dream" or "fresh mint swirl" - and under no circumstance should their wives coordinate their eye makeup to said shirts. (Okay, fine, the shirt colors probably have much more masculine names - "citrus rage," perhaps, or "herbal death freeze" - but you can bet I was right on with the eyeshadow names.)
And no, we don't sell newspapers. And while I am perfectly happy to direct you to the nearest newspaper stand, I will not apologize for the inconvenience of you having to walk an entire extra block.
Anyhow, Herbal Death Freeze does you no favors. Your body's need for exercise is clear.
I really don't understand why you're harping on about this, Good Sir Death Freeze. "You should really have newspapers. It'd be a good business venture." Yeah, and you know this how? There are three coffee shops within three blocks of our store, and all of them have newspaper stands. There's also a newspaper stand down by the barber shop. There is no need for us to sell newspapers. In other words, there is not enough demand to necessitate supply.
You're looking for the Wall Street Journal, yet you can't grasp that concept?
Of course, there was also the guy who asked me to explain our credit policy, and then stopped me midway through my spiel, saying, "well, I have a better idea."
Oh do you now?
"I have a bookstore in Nebraska" (uh-huh) "and I think you should do a straight trade. We can give you our books and then you can give us some of your classics, since they don't sell."
"Actually, our classics do sell. That's why we have so few of them."
"We don't sell many classics at our store."
"That's unfortunate. But I can't change the policy for one person."
"You mean you don't have the authority."
"No, I mean I'm not going to change the policy just for you."
I know I'm pushing my luck when I say things like that, but come on. Just shut up.
And look: I understand that you want someone who will discuss the merits of Jodi Picoult with you. But that someone? Is not me. Because I. Hate. Jodi. Picoult. I hate her clunky phrasing. I hate her Lifetime movie dialogue. And I freaking. LOATHE. her cop-out endings.
I think the merits of Jodi Picoult can be best summed up by observing that none of her fans know how to pronounce her name.
So yeah. My vacation starts this Sunday, ends next Sunday, and necessitates the use of planes, which had better not screw me over. Because if I get stalked by a crazy drunk woman at the Radisson and have to eat at their restaurant (called - I shit you not - "Enigma") again, I will cry. And if that crazy drunk woman stands outside the door to my room and tells me to "make sure I lock the door tight," well...that would be messed up.
Monday, July 6, 2009
I Only Date Guys Who Wear Ascots
Smartly-dressed Jovial Man: Where's the men's clothing store in town?
Me: Actually, I don't believe there is one.
Jovial Man: What? How can that be?
Me: Erm...
Jovial Man: What has happened to Spearfish?!
Me: I don't recall there ever being -
Jovial Man: There was when I lived here! But that was before you were born.
Me: Ah. I see.
Jovial Man: Maybe there's one a way's up? Up on the hill?
Me: I don't think so...
Jovial Man: Huh. I would have thought, what with all the college students and all...
Yeah. Because when I think dress shirts and tasseled leather shoes, I think the men of Black Hills State. Seriously guys, stand up and fight.
Fight for your right to look like pretentious asshats.
Me: Actually, I don't believe there is one.
Jovial Man: What? How can that be?
Me: Erm...
Jovial Man: What has happened to Spearfish?!
Me: I don't recall there ever being -
Jovial Man: There was when I lived here! But that was before you were born.
Me: Ah. I see.
Jovial Man: Maybe there's one a way's up? Up on the hill?
Me: I don't think so...
Jovial Man: Huh. I would have thought, what with all the college students and all...
Yeah. Because when I think dress shirts and tasseled leather shoes, I think the men of Black Hills State. Seriously guys, stand up and fight.
Fight for your right to look like pretentious asshats.
Friday, July 3, 2009
So, This Unbelievably Stupid Woman Came In Today.
She held up a book on hand reflexology and asked, "do you have any books on foot reflexology?"
"Um, I'm not sure. I'll take a look." I walked out from around the desk and started toward the health section; she blocked my path, saying:
"And I'm also looking for a book called Heal Yourself From Within. And one called...I think it's Move Your Stuff. And I think it's by someone called Carter - like, Karen Carter. I think."
"Okay." I walked back to the computer and ran a search for the titles. "Hm, I don't see either one."
"I'm not sure of the title for the second one. Something like Move Your Stuff, Move Your Life...I don't know."
Well maybe you should have figured that out before asking me.
"Well, I don't see anything with a title like that, and I checked for books by people named Carter as well. What kind of book is it?"
"Feng shui."
"Okay, well, I can show you the section where -"
"What about Healing Yourself From Within?"
Yeah, it's not like I just told you we didn't have it or anything.
"We didn't have that one, no."
"And books on foot reflexology?"
Are you freaking serious?
"Well, I'll have to take a look - over in health -"
"Where is health?"
"Right this way."
I walked her over to the health section and started scanning for reflexology books.
"Where would stuff on feng shui be?"
"Probably in self -"
"Self help? Really?"
Yes, really, although I don't know how you could be so sure about what I was telling you since you didn't let me finish.
"Yeah. I'll check in -"
"Why wouldn't it be in decorating?"
"Well, it could be - I'm going to che -"
"And foot reflexology?"
Forget checking. Maybe I'll just shoot you.
"...Would be here, in health."
"And where is self-help?"
"Right there, where you're standing."
I continued looking for foot books; then she turned to me...
"Where is self-help again?"
DIE.
"That shelf in front of you. And it doesn't look like we have any books on foot reflexology, sorry."
"I don't see any feng shui. Why isn't it in decorating?"
"I'm looking there now."
"Do you know what it is?"
"Do I know what what is? Feng shui?"
"Yeah."
"Yes, I'm familiar with it. But we don't get very many books on it in, so..."
"Well that's surprising."
"I guess."
"I don't see any books on feng shui."
I am going to cry.
"Well, I'm looking over here, too - but again, it's not something that we tend to have a lot of."
"Ooh! Dr. Phil!"
"Um..."
She held up a copy of Love Matters. "I like him."
Yes, I'm sure you do.
"Ooh, you have a whole Dr. Phil section!" She pointed to a label on the shelf reading Dr. Phil.
"Mm-hmm."
"Are the books here in order?"
"Yes, somewhat - the labels tell you the sub-categories..."
"Like what?"
"Like...Dr. Phil. Or relationship issues, here. Or parenting - it's all categorized."
"I can't remember the name of the feng shui book. Do you have internet access? You can find it on this website, called Amazon."
Oh my God. No way. There's a website called AMAZON? And I can look shit up on it? My whole. World. Has opened up.
"Yes, I've used Amazon. I'll check for you."
I abandoned my perusal of the decorating section, did a search for the book, found the correct title, and checked our database again. We didn't have it, which I told her, and then I enjoyed a few moments peace while she browsed.
Eventually, though, she walked up to the counter with a stack of books. And amazingly, she had a question.
"So, like, how does it work?"
"Um, how does what work?"
"Bringing books in."
Oh, Christ. Now I have to explain the credit policy to this woman?
I explained the policy in painstaking detail, and she listened with her head cocked so far to the side it was almost lying on her shoulder. When I finished she stared at me for a moment; then:
"Well, can you give me an example?"
So I did. I gave multiple examples, and after about five minutes or so she seemed to digest it. She asked me to set some books back for her so she could buy them later, which I did, and then she asked:
"So did you find any books on foot reflexology?"
And I killed her.
"Um, I'm not sure. I'll take a look." I walked out from around the desk and started toward the health section; she blocked my path, saying:
"And I'm also looking for a book called Heal Yourself From Within. And one called...I think it's Move Your Stuff. And I think it's by someone called Carter - like, Karen Carter. I think."
"Okay." I walked back to the computer and ran a search for the titles. "Hm, I don't see either one."
"I'm not sure of the title for the second one. Something like Move Your Stuff, Move Your Life...I don't know."
Well maybe you should have figured that out before asking me.
"Well, I don't see anything with a title like that, and I checked for books by people named Carter as well. What kind of book is it?"
"Feng shui."
"Okay, well, I can show you the section where -"
"What about Healing Yourself From Within?"
Yeah, it's not like I just told you we didn't have it or anything.
"We didn't have that one, no."
"And books on foot reflexology?"
Are you freaking serious?
"Well, I'll have to take a look - over in health -"
"Where is health?"
"Right this way."
I walked her over to the health section and started scanning for reflexology books.
"Where would stuff on feng shui be?"
"Probably in self -"
"Self help? Really?"
Yes, really, although I don't know how you could be so sure about what I was telling you since you didn't let me finish.
"Yeah. I'll check in -"
"Why wouldn't it be in decorating?"
"Well, it could be - I'm going to che -"
"And foot reflexology?"
Forget checking. Maybe I'll just shoot you.
"...Would be here, in health."
"And where is self-help?"
"Right there, where you're standing."
I continued looking for foot books; then she turned to me...
"Where is self-help again?"
DIE.
"That shelf in front of you. And it doesn't look like we have any books on foot reflexology, sorry."
"I don't see any feng shui. Why isn't it in decorating?"
"I'm looking there now."
"Do you know what it is?"
"Do I know what what is? Feng shui?"
"Yeah."
"Yes, I'm familiar with it. But we don't get very many books on it in, so..."
"Well that's surprising."
"I guess."
"I don't see any books on feng shui."
I am going to cry.
"Well, I'm looking over here, too - but again, it's not something that we tend to have a lot of."
"Ooh! Dr. Phil!"
"Um..."
She held up a copy of Love Matters. "I like him."
Yes, I'm sure you do.
"Ooh, you have a whole Dr. Phil section!" She pointed to a label on the shelf reading Dr. Phil.
"Mm-hmm."
"Are the books here in order?"
"Yes, somewhat - the labels tell you the sub-categories..."
"Like what?"
"Like...Dr. Phil. Or relationship issues, here. Or parenting - it's all categorized."
"I can't remember the name of the feng shui book. Do you have internet access? You can find it on this website, called Amazon."
Oh my God. No way. There's a website called AMAZON? And I can look shit up on it? My whole. World. Has opened up.
"Yes, I've used Amazon. I'll check for you."
I abandoned my perusal of the decorating section, did a search for the book, found the correct title, and checked our database again. We didn't have it, which I told her, and then I enjoyed a few moments peace while she browsed.
Eventually, though, she walked up to the counter with a stack of books. And amazingly, she had a question.
"So, like, how does it work?"
"Um, how does what work?"
"Bringing books in."
Oh, Christ. Now I have to explain the credit policy to this woman?
I explained the policy in painstaking detail, and she listened with her head cocked so far to the side it was almost lying on her shoulder. When I finished she stared at me for a moment; then:
"Well, can you give me an example?"
So I did. I gave multiple examples, and after about five minutes or so she seemed to digest it. She asked me to set some books back for her so she could buy them later, which I did, and then she asked:
"So did you find any books on foot reflexology?"
And I killed her.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
This Is the Abridged Version, On Account of I Am Lazy
I went out for a beer last night with a friend, and then we ran into another friend, and then we made a friend, although I don't believe she ever told us her name. But then it's hard to remember all that when you're so trashed that you start hatching schemes sure to win you a Darwin award.
"I want a log cabin that's built around a tree, and I want the tree to be a chimney."
"But...then it would burn."
"No no no! I would scorch it. I would scorch it really, really well, and then it would be fire resistant."
Our new friend flicked the ashes from her cigarette into our bowl of pretzels and continued, claiming that, while she did want to live in a forest, she couldn't always tell the difference between forests and cities.
"Well, what if there were more trees than people?"
"See, now that's a forest."
She took a pretzel, swirled it in the salt and ash at the bottom of the bowl, and popped it in her mouth. I tasted it vicariously, the ash gritty and wet between my teeth, and, grimacing, washed it down with a swallow of beer.
And then our friend was standing, grabbing her empty glass, and deserting us - she was, apparently, in search of more beer. It was only after she left that we noticed her wallet, also deserted, sitting on the table. Rachel picked it up and turned it over in her hands, saying:
"You know, if we weren't such nice people..."
"I want a log cabin that's built around a tree, and I want the tree to be a chimney."
"But...then it would burn."
"No no no! I would scorch it. I would scorch it really, really well, and then it would be fire resistant."
Our new friend flicked the ashes from her cigarette into our bowl of pretzels and continued, claiming that, while she did want to live in a forest, she couldn't always tell the difference between forests and cities.
"Well, what if there were more trees than people?"
"See, now that's a forest."
She took a pretzel, swirled it in the salt and ash at the bottom of the bowl, and popped it in her mouth. I tasted it vicariously, the ash gritty and wet between my teeth, and, grimacing, washed it down with a swallow of beer.
And then our friend was standing, grabbing her empty glass, and deserting us - she was, apparently, in search of more beer. It was only after she left that we noticed her wallet, also deserted, sitting on the table. Rachel picked it up and turned it over in her hands, saying:
"You know, if we weren't such nice people..."
Friday, June 26, 2009
Being a Pansy Can Be So Inconvenient
My family left for Ohio this morning, so the house, and its multitude of pets, are in my care. There are two dogs, three cats, some random fish, and one other pet - the one my brother dragged me outside to see.
When he said there was another animal my first thought was please, for the love of Jesus, don't let it be a snake. My brother loves snakes, because he is weird, and he had a snake once before (who died by choking on his own food - an understandably traumatic experience for Cormac, who witnessed the scene). We went outside and he lifted the lid of a plastic container, saying,
"He eats nightcrawlers or slugs, but the slugs can't be any wider than his head and the nightcrawlers need to be cut up or he'll choke and die. And the slugs are hard to find so you'll probably have to get a worm. Now I'm not too happy about this either, but we need to keep him alive for study purposes so you have to take good care of him."
And I thought:
Shit.
It's not the snake itself that I mind, it's the worms. I do not want to cut up a worm. I do not want to drop little wriggly worm bits into the home of a snake that is "probably a bull snake but could possibly be a baby rattler," and I do not want to watch the thing digest.
I'm not too thrilled about feeding the fish either, because I find fish kind of gross-looking and hate how they look when they die, and if any of them die on me I'll have to take them out of the tank and flush them down the toilet, which is disgusting. But asking someone to take care of fish is, at least, a normal request, and doesn't necessitate slicing up a live worm.
I am so tempted to don a trench coat and, looking all shifty on some curb, offer naive kids five dollar bills to do the dirty work for me. But then I might feel guilty about luring unsuspecting adolescents into the seedy world of worm-dicing, and anyway, I'm not a Dickens character. So instead I will prove my love for my brother beyond any reasonable doubt, and hopefully overcome my fear of potential rattlesnakes and the worm bits they slurp.
With shaking hands and my eyes squeezed shut, of course.
When he said there was another animal my first thought was please, for the love of Jesus, don't let it be a snake. My brother loves snakes, because he is weird, and he had a snake once before (who died by choking on his own food - an understandably traumatic experience for Cormac, who witnessed the scene). We went outside and he lifted the lid of a plastic container, saying,
"He eats nightcrawlers or slugs, but the slugs can't be any wider than his head and the nightcrawlers need to be cut up or he'll choke and die. And the slugs are hard to find so you'll probably have to get a worm. Now I'm not too happy about this either, but we need to keep him alive for study purposes so you have to take good care of him."
And I thought:
Shit.
It's not the snake itself that I mind, it's the worms. I do not want to cut up a worm. I do not want to drop little wriggly worm bits into the home of a snake that is "probably a bull snake but could possibly be a baby rattler," and I do not want to watch the thing digest.
I'm not too thrilled about feeding the fish either, because I find fish kind of gross-looking and hate how they look when they die, and if any of them die on me I'll have to take them out of the tank and flush them down the toilet, which is disgusting. But asking someone to take care of fish is, at least, a normal request, and doesn't necessitate slicing up a live worm.
I am so tempted to don a trench coat and, looking all shifty on some curb, offer naive kids five dollar bills to do the dirty work for me. But then I might feel guilty about luring unsuspecting adolescents into the seedy world of worm-dicing, and anyway, I'm not a Dickens character. So instead I will prove my love for my brother beyond any reasonable doubt, and hopefully overcome my fear of potential rattlesnakes and the worm bits they slurp.
With shaking hands and my eyes squeezed shut, of course.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Lately...
Things I haven't done in awhile:
1. Woken up twenty minutes before class and contemplated skipping, only to find myself sitting in my usual seat sixteen minutes later with my hideously knotted hair indiscreetly tucked under a faded black shirt that says "don't mind me - I'm with the band."
2. Wondered where on earth I would have gotten such a dumb shirt.
3. Said "screw it; I don't care," and worn sweatpants outside my apartment building, then glimpsed my reflection in a glass door and realized that the message I am sending to world is "I have given up." And then decided I didn't care, because, let's face it...I have. Given up, that is.
4. Been the only girl in a game of Truth or Dare with enough class not to traipse around in cheap lingerie.
5. Written "I am going to punch that kid in the face" in my notebook, then turned the notebook at a forty-five degree angle in order to share this profoundly empty threat with the person next to me.
6. Become so thoroughly obliterated that I found myself puking...in a bar...at five a.m; subsequently been forced to endure endless ribbing from my parents, who also made a point of thanking the bartender who had been working that night for ensuring I lived to see another day.
7. Made a fake Facebook friend. (Seriously, four of my friends are not real people.)
8. Twisted around in my seat to ask the guy behind me if would "just shut up," then stared him down fearlessly when he told me to "turn around. Right now. Turn around and don't even look at me."
9. Gotten an A for Making Shit Up.
10. Generally embraced the role of Cranky, Stressed-Out College Student Who Is Probably a Little Irritating to the Rest of the World.
But here's something stupid!
I was shuffling to the laundry room on my floor to move my clothes from the washer to the dryer. Because I am OCD, I knew that my clothes could not have been ready for more than three minutes; thus, I was not one of those obnoxious people who leaves their clothes in the washer hours after they've finished, rendering them a congealed, soapy mass of icky.
When I got to the laundry room, though, there was a guy already there. The washer was running and there was a pile of clothes on top of it, leading me to the reasonable conclusion that this guy was one of those assholes who doesn't give you five minutes to remove your clothes before he takes it upon himself to contaminate your freshly laundered underwear with his hands.
Only he wasn't one of those guys. He was one of those guys who pours detergent onto the clothes already in the washer - the clothes that are not actually his - pays the machine a dollar, and starts a new cycle. I'm sure you know the type.
When I turned to him and asked, "weren't there some clothes in the washer there?" he looked confused, then opened the washer (luckily it was a top-loader), stared at the clothes inside, and went "oh. Are these your clothes?"
"Yeah, that'd be them."
"I'm...sorry."
"S'okay." I reached into the washer and started lifting out of my clothes, which were dripping wet and covered in soap scum. Naturally he stood and watched, and naturally, this particular load of laundry included all of my cutest underwear. And of course I was wearing a white t-shirt with no bra, and of course I had put my hair up, so I couldn't just flip it in front to cover my dampened shirt. Of course.
He offered to pay for the cost of drying my clothes but I told him not to worry about it. I went back to my apartment, unpaused Pride and Prejudice, and picked up the washcloth I'd been knitting. I thought of happier times, when womens' underwear was something to be imagined but never seen; when you didn't have to sacrifice four quarters just to have your sweatshop-produced clothing swirl for half an hour in cold water.
And then I made myself some waffles. Waffles cure all ills.
1. Woken up twenty minutes before class and contemplated skipping, only to find myself sitting in my usual seat sixteen minutes later with my hideously knotted hair indiscreetly tucked under a faded black shirt that says "don't mind me - I'm with the band."
2. Wondered where on earth I would have gotten such a dumb shirt.
3. Said "screw it; I don't care," and worn sweatpants outside my apartment building, then glimpsed my reflection in a glass door and realized that the message I am sending to world is "I have given up." And then decided I didn't care, because, let's face it...I have. Given up, that is.
4. Been the only girl in a game of Truth or Dare with enough class not to traipse around in cheap lingerie.
5. Written "I am going to punch that kid in the face" in my notebook, then turned the notebook at a forty-five degree angle in order to share this profoundly empty threat with the person next to me.
6. Become so thoroughly obliterated that I found myself puking...in a bar...at five a.m; subsequently been forced to endure endless ribbing from my parents, who also made a point of thanking the bartender who had been working that night for ensuring I lived to see another day.
7. Made a fake Facebook friend. (Seriously, four of my friends are not real people.)
8. Twisted around in my seat to ask the guy behind me if would "just shut up," then stared him down fearlessly when he told me to "turn around. Right now. Turn around and don't even look at me."
9. Gotten an A for Making Shit Up.
10. Generally embraced the role of Cranky, Stressed-Out College Student Who Is Probably a Little Irritating to the Rest of the World.
But here's something stupid!
I was shuffling to the laundry room on my floor to move my clothes from the washer to the dryer. Because I am OCD, I knew that my clothes could not have been ready for more than three minutes; thus, I was not one of those obnoxious people who leaves their clothes in the washer hours after they've finished, rendering them a congealed, soapy mass of icky.
When I got to the laundry room, though, there was a guy already there. The washer was running and there was a pile of clothes on top of it, leading me to the reasonable conclusion that this guy was one of those assholes who doesn't give you five minutes to remove your clothes before he takes it upon himself to contaminate your freshly laundered underwear with his hands.
Only he wasn't one of those guys. He was one of those guys who pours detergent onto the clothes already in the washer - the clothes that are not actually his - pays the machine a dollar, and starts a new cycle. I'm sure you know the type.
When I turned to him and asked, "weren't there some clothes in the washer there?" he looked confused, then opened the washer (luckily it was a top-loader), stared at the clothes inside, and went "oh. Are these your clothes?"
"Yeah, that'd be them."
"I'm...sorry."
"S'okay." I reached into the washer and started lifting out of my clothes, which were dripping wet and covered in soap scum. Naturally he stood and watched, and naturally, this particular load of laundry included all of my cutest underwear. And of course I was wearing a white t-shirt with no bra, and of course I had put my hair up, so I couldn't just flip it in front to cover my dampened shirt. Of course.
He offered to pay for the cost of drying my clothes but I told him not to worry about it. I went back to my apartment, unpaused Pride and Prejudice, and picked up the washcloth I'd been knitting. I thought of happier times, when womens' underwear was something to be imagined but never seen; when you didn't have to sacrifice four quarters just to have your sweatshop-produced clothing swirl for half an hour in cold water.
And then I made myself some waffles. Waffles cure all ills.
Friday, May 22, 2009
I Am the Lumberjack of Shitty Music
When confronted with a forest I will always, and without apology, focus solely on the trees. I do this because I like trees. Taking this cliché to its metaphorical extension, I dig details, and frankly, I see nothing wrong with this. Big Pictures are fine; they are varied and expansive and cover a blank space on the wall quite nicely, but as I am a Seinfeld fan, I find my greatest satisfaction in the dissection of irrelevant trivia.
As a result, I have a thing about stupid lyrics. The song itself could be fine, and the overall lyrics could be decent, but if there is one stupid phrase, I will harp on it like nothing else. Take, for example, this line in the Death Cab For Cutie song “Crooked Teeth”:
At night, the sun in the trees
Made the sky line up like crooked teeth
In the mouth of a man who was devouring us both
I actually think this is kind of a cool image. Except:
At night, the sun in the trees
Yep, that makes sense. Because, y’know, I love going sun-gazing at night. I like to just lie on my back under the pitch-black sky, soaking up those glorious golden rays. Just make sure to wear your sunscreen, kids – 90% of skin cancer is contracted by professional spelunkers.
The song, to be fair, is really pretty decent. But you know what song isn’t decent? That Proud to Be an American song. I don’t know exactly what it’s called – probably “Proud to Be an American” – but I’m not looking it up, because I’m lazy. Anyway, forget the forest; this song contains one particular tree I’ve been dying to eradicate for a long time. I’ve ranted about this line many times, so I expect that some of you will read this, sigh, and type your way to a less redundant destination. But you know what? I don’t care. Because this lyric pisses me off, and I want my disgust recorded for posterity.
I’m proud to be an American
Where at least I know I’m free
I have many problems with this line, but let’s start with the problems I have with its message.
First, there is the notion that all it takes to be proud of one’s nationality is freedom. That’s it. Freedom. Nothing else. And this annoys me, because it requires that one’s standards be tragically low. Add to this the fact that “freedom” in this instance is such a vaguely defined concept (not that this is terribly unusual, but whatever) and you have one cantankerous Sam.
The use of the word “American” to refer solely to citizens of the U.S. rather than those of two entire continents is also irritating, but could possibly be justified on the grounds that “U.S. Citizen” does not lend itself well to lyrics. I’m willing to give a little leeway here, if for no other reason than to keep from appearing militantly P.C., since those people drive me bonkers. Bonkers, I say.
Anyway, it’s not the major issue. What really burns my toast is the fact that this lovely couplet makes no grammatical sense whatsoever.
I’m proud to be an American
Where at least I know I’m free
I too am proud to be what I where. Or proud to be where I what. Or where I know, or what I’m free. Also:
My brain just shriveled up and died.
As a result, I have a thing about stupid lyrics. The song itself could be fine, and the overall lyrics could be decent, but if there is one stupid phrase, I will harp on it like nothing else. Take, for example, this line in the Death Cab For Cutie song “Crooked Teeth”:
At night, the sun in the trees
Made the sky line up like crooked teeth
In the mouth of a man who was devouring us both
I actually think this is kind of a cool image. Except:
At night, the sun in the trees
Yep, that makes sense. Because, y’know, I love going sun-gazing at night. I like to just lie on my back under the pitch-black sky, soaking up those glorious golden rays. Just make sure to wear your sunscreen, kids – 90% of skin cancer is contracted by professional spelunkers.
The song, to be fair, is really pretty decent. But you know what song isn’t decent? That Proud to Be an American song. I don’t know exactly what it’s called – probably “Proud to Be an American” – but I’m not looking it up, because I’m lazy. Anyway, forget the forest; this song contains one particular tree I’ve been dying to eradicate for a long time. I’ve ranted about this line many times, so I expect that some of you will read this, sigh, and type your way to a less redundant destination. But you know what? I don’t care. Because this lyric pisses me off, and I want my disgust recorded for posterity.
I’m proud to be an American
Where at least I know I’m free
I have many problems with this line, but let’s start with the problems I have with its message.
First, there is the notion that all it takes to be proud of one’s nationality is freedom. That’s it. Freedom. Nothing else. And this annoys me, because it requires that one’s standards be tragically low. Add to this the fact that “freedom” in this instance is such a vaguely defined concept (not that this is terribly unusual, but whatever) and you have one cantankerous Sam.
The use of the word “American” to refer solely to citizens of the U.S. rather than those of two entire continents is also irritating, but could possibly be justified on the grounds that “U.S. Citizen” does not lend itself well to lyrics. I’m willing to give a little leeway here, if for no other reason than to keep from appearing militantly P.C., since those people drive me bonkers. Bonkers, I say.
Anyway, it’s not the major issue. What really burns my toast is the fact that this lovely couplet makes no grammatical sense whatsoever.
I’m proud to be an American
Where at least I know I’m free
I too am proud to be what I where. Or proud to be where I what. Or where I know, or what I’m free. Also:
My brain just shriveled up and died.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
So We Stopped At This Sketchy Gas Station
There was a curb I had to step over on my way to the door, which was coated with a thin layer of dirt and smeared with breath. The cashier was a disheveled, heavy-set woman whose long, yellowing fingernails bore curving strips of glittery blue polish - crack nails, Anna called them - and she tapped them menacingly on the counter as I walked by. When I looked closer I saw that the nail on her middle left finger was beginning to detach; it dangled by its corner, swinging with the motion of her hand.
On my way to the cooler I passed a tall kid with delicate, slightly feminine features, who stared hollowly ahead at the wall in front of him. His mouth was a straight, fixed line, and he held something against his leg, covered with his hand. I pictured a knife, or a razor - something that would appear, suddenly, between his fingers, slicing through the air and turning my life into a Lifetime movie. (Two girls on the road, victimized by a teenage psychopath. Two mothers, bent on revenge - at any cost.)
I got a Sunkist from the cooler and stood in line, behind Potential Psychopath. At the front, a balding man with a body lumpy and pale as a pierogie pounded his fist on the counter, crying, "but I don't want to sign. Why can't you sign?"
Crack Nails tapped his credit card on the counter and smirked. "Well, I guess I could sign. I could sign your name."
"No! I'll sign my own name." Pierogie drew a loose slipknot slightly below the line, then looked back up and whined, "I don't cause problems."
"You don't cause problems?" Crack Nails dropped his card back on the counter, then folded her arms across her chest, digging her crack nails into her upper-arm skin.
"I've never caused problems."
"Alright, you don't cause problems."
"That's right, I don't."
"Bye, William."
Potential Psychopath's hand shifted slightly as he watched Pierogie leave. I embraced my histrionic side and flinched, stumbling back a couple steps; and then my suspicions were confirmed when he lifted his hand and held up a sleek, gleaming silver razor.
Or rather, Razr. Like the cell phone. I'm an idiot.
On my way to the cooler I passed a tall kid with delicate, slightly feminine features, who stared hollowly ahead at the wall in front of him. His mouth was a straight, fixed line, and he held something against his leg, covered with his hand. I pictured a knife, or a razor - something that would appear, suddenly, between his fingers, slicing through the air and turning my life into a Lifetime movie. (Two girls on the road, victimized by a teenage psychopath. Two mothers, bent on revenge - at any cost.)
I got a Sunkist from the cooler and stood in line, behind Potential Psychopath. At the front, a balding man with a body lumpy and pale as a pierogie pounded his fist on the counter, crying, "but I don't want to sign. Why can't you sign?"
Crack Nails tapped his credit card on the counter and smirked. "Well, I guess I could sign. I could sign your name."
"No! I'll sign my own name." Pierogie drew a loose slipknot slightly below the line, then looked back up and whined, "I don't cause problems."
"You don't cause problems?" Crack Nails dropped his card back on the counter, then folded her arms across her chest, digging her crack nails into her upper-arm skin.
"I've never caused problems."
"Alright, you don't cause problems."
"That's right, I don't."
"Bye, William."
Potential Psychopath's hand shifted slightly as he watched Pierogie leave. I embraced my histrionic side and flinched, stumbling back a couple steps; and then my suspicions were confirmed when he lifted his hand and held up a sleek, gleaming silver razor.
Or rather, Razr. Like the cell phone. I'm an idiot.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
No.
Seriously, people?
If you want to buy some books, you buy them all at once. That is, you set them on the counter, I ring them up, you pay me, I bag them, and you leave. You don't bring up some books, have me ring them up, tell me to bag them, and then let your four year old granddaughter prance around the store with them for THIRTY MINUTES while I wait for you to decide what else you want. That is not how it works.
Also, if you have store credit, you either give me your credit slip or, if we have it on file, you tell me so and give me your name so I can like, I don't know, look it up? I mean, that sounds pretty logical to me. But you know what isn't logical? Staring at me blankly for about thirty seconds, then sputtering, "what do you mean it's thirty dollars? We're part of your book club thing!"
"'Book club thing'? You mean you have credit?"
"Yeah, that."
"Do you have your paper, or -"
"You never gave us one!"
"Okay, then you left it here?"
"Yeah!"
"Fine. What was your last name, please?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know."
"I think it's under [name]."
After a few moments of searching:
"Okay, found it."
"Why didn't you have it before?"
Yeah, um, that's annoying.
"Because I'm not actually telepathic. If you have credit I need you to tell me."
"...Oh. Well, we didn't know that."
"No problem."
I applied their credit, adjusting their total accordingly, and naturally, Grandma Genius (who, by the way, was neither senile nor particularly old, just dumb as a freaking post) decided to pay me almost exclusively in change. I swept the change into my hand one veritable pound at a time, and she shoved four pennies across the table with a condescending:
"You forgot these."
I raised my eyebrow. "Actually, I didn't. But thank you for assuming otherwise."
Luckily, she didn't get it.
And yes, I know that one day my attitude is going to bite me in the ass, but I don't care.
If you want to buy some books, you buy them all at once. That is, you set them on the counter, I ring them up, you pay me, I bag them, and you leave. You don't bring up some books, have me ring them up, tell me to bag them, and then let your four year old granddaughter prance around the store with them for THIRTY MINUTES while I wait for you to decide what else you want. That is not how it works.
Also, if you have store credit, you either give me your credit slip or, if we have it on file, you tell me so and give me your name so I can like, I don't know, look it up? I mean, that sounds pretty logical to me. But you know what isn't logical? Staring at me blankly for about thirty seconds, then sputtering, "what do you mean it's thirty dollars? We're part of your book club thing!"
"'Book club thing'? You mean you have credit?"
"Yeah, that."
"Do you have your paper, or -"
"You never gave us one!"
"Okay, then you left it here?"
"Yeah!"
"Fine. What was your last name, please?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know."
"I think it's under [name]."
After a few moments of searching:
"Okay, found it."
"Why didn't you have it before?"
Yeah, um, that's annoying.
"Because I'm not actually telepathic. If you have credit I need you to tell me."
"...Oh. Well, we didn't know that."
"No problem."
I applied their credit, adjusting their total accordingly, and naturally, Grandma Genius (who, by the way, was neither senile nor particularly old, just dumb as a freaking post) decided to pay me almost exclusively in change. I swept the change into my hand one veritable pound at a time, and she shoved four pennies across the table with a condescending:
"You forgot these."
I raised my eyebrow. "Actually, I didn't. But thank you for assuming otherwise."
Luckily, she didn't get it.
And yes, I know that one day my attitude is going to bite me in the ass, but I don't care.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Maturity
...is when, faced with a paper tablecloth and a cup full of crayons, you and a friend decide to debate whether writing "THIS IS ART!!" does, in fact, constitute art.
Then you roll up the tablecloth and take it with you when you leave.
(I wish I had a picture of this masterpiece in its entirety, as it was sheer brilliance. Particularly the drawing of George Costanza/Ghandi.)
(Also, Roma's, I apologize for acting like a precocious third-grader...but sometimes it just needs to be done.)
Then you roll up the tablecloth and take it with you when you leave.(I wish I had a picture of this masterpiece in its entirety, as it was sheer brilliance. Particularly the drawing of George Costanza/Ghandi.)
(Also, Roma's, I apologize for acting like a precocious third-grader...but sometimes it just needs to be done.)
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