Pushed to the Limit

Guy, to girl: Did you want to look around a little longer?
Girl: No. They don't sell these books. (Turning to me) Right? Ma'am? These books aren't for sale, are they?
Me, confused: Er...no, they're for sale.
Girl: Really? Then what are these stickers?
Me, dismayed: Price tags?
Girl: Oh. Where's the price?
Me: It's the number on the bottom. With the, uh...with the dollar sign in front.
Girl: I don't see it.
Me: (Bangs head against wall)

I swear to God, I cannot take this anymore. Each day finds me buried beneath an avalanche of breathtaking stupidity, and I can't - keep - digging - myself - out. I'm done. I give up. Apathy, be quick.

Just please, for the love of God...make it stop.

Praise Be to Boing Boing

For they have shown me how to save my poor, decrepit Converse.


Yep, those are knitted Converse tops. Granted, the soles of my Converse are a bigger problem than the tops (the bits of rubber on the heels that say All Star, for example, have ceased to be), but still, replacing the tops would help.

I am so tempted to try this.

Link

To Hell and Back

...In which Sam is forced to attend an utterly asinine two-hour customer service training seminar given by an obnoxious jokey douche bag who fills her with thoughts of rage and causes her to overindulge in adjectives of negative connotation. Told in seven parts of varying horror/inanity.

Part 1: Damn It.

I am incredibly hungry for unhealthy food, and have decided to share this piece of news with my co-worker.

"You know what I could go for right now?"
"Hmm."
"A soft pretzel. A great big one with a cup of melted cheese to dip it in. Or - a soft pretzel on a stick, coated in cinnamon."
"Those are disgusting."
"Yes. Yes, they are. And yet, they're delicious."
"Um, no they're not."
"Well, whatever. I just wish there was someplace downtown that sold them."
"Sucks to be you."

This last comment is quickly proven true, when my boss comes in and announces that I will be going to This Really Awesome Customer Service Seminar!! My co-worker had gone to one this morning, but a doctor's appointment had gotten me out of it. I'd thought I had escaped it entirely, but as luck would have it, there's an afternoon seminar as well. Of course we have to leave immediately, so I don't get time for lunch, which sucks, and the seminar is two hours long, which sucks more, but oh well.

I have no choice. To the Holiday Inn I go.

Part 2: Attempt at Optimism Crushed By Reality

I drag myself into the conference room, silently cursing myself for working a job where this sort of thing is required. I consider bailing right then, becoming a freelance writer or a dutiful housewife with seventeen children and one more on the way, or living on the streets of Rapid, recycling glass bottles for quarters...and then I see the pretzels.

Yes, pretzels. Soft, warm, lightly salted pretzels. And cheese. A huge pot of cheese with a stack of little white cups leaning against it.

Suddenly, it's worth it.

I take two pretzels and three cups of cheese (I'm hungry and cranky and damn it, I deserve it) and sit next to a white-haired, red-suited woman with a clipboard, who rambles for a few moments about how absolutely brilliant this speaker is before asking if I would please move over so she has a place to set her clipboard and plate.

I do so, and then I realize: I'm relinquishing my chair to two inanimate objects that would have been equally apathetic on the floor. Also, the salt on this pretzel is not evenly distributed. Screw being positive: this place sucks.

Part 3: Wait, What?

The speaker is, naturally, an assclown, and his customer service experience appears to be limited to this one time? when he worked in a gift shop?, which is obnoxious. Still, at least he's boring, and thus easy to ignore. That is, until he says something so witty, and yet so deep, that I am struck dumb by his profundity. I stare reverently at his douchily animated face and bask in the glow of his beauteous words of wisdom, desperately wishing I could come up with something as enlightening as:

"Remember, we are human beings, not lima beans."

Except, wait: what the hell does that mean? Beings and beans are two entirely different words, so there isn't even a pun in there, but more importantly, what particular undesirable traits do lima beans possess, and how could they be confused with human ones? I'm not light green and chewy. Children don't hate me. (Although, when I was a kid, I loved lima beans. God knows why. I hate them now.) Why do my differences from lima beans need to be mentioned at all? Frankly, Mr. Promotional Speaker, I'm offended. In fact, that one phrase has put me on the fast track to hating you. Do you have anymore tricks up your sleeve? Anything that rips off/cheapens Lewis Carroll, perhaps?

I think you do.

Part 4: Cheshire Cat Rip-Off

"Does anyone have a co-worker who doesn't smile? Anyone? A co-worker who never smiles? Surely someone does. Someone who never smiles at customers or the people they work with? A co-worker who never smiles? C'mon, people, I know one of you has one..."

A lone hand emerges from a sea of blank faces, waving slowly back and forth like a broken car antenna. When Mr. Assclown leaps to her side and presents her with his World-Famous Smile On a Stick, I die a little inside.

The Smile On a Stick is precisely what it sounds like - a paper cut-out of an obnoxiously toothy grin glued to a cheap wooden stick, meant to be held up to one's face when one's frown won't reverse itself. It's creepy as hell, as disembodied facial features generally are, but even worse, it's a Cheshire cat rip-off.



I swear to God, that's exactly what that damn smile looked like - overly curved, lip-less, and no bottom teeth. The only difference was that it couldn't levitate.

Part 5: My Body Stages a Protest

Damn, I need to get me some glasses. I'm squinting at his power point presentation, taking careful note of every misused or conspicuously absent apostrophe, feeling my blood pressure rise every time I read a phrase like "customer's who leave," and my eyes just won't take it anymore. No, they plead. Stop. We can't read anymore. We're tired. Don't you love us?

I look down at my empty plate, and my stomach swells with dissatisfaction. I wanted a pretzel on a stick. Can't you do anything right?

My brain shouts at me to, just this once, take a nap. No one will notice. Please? Every word from this man's mouth is a kick to my frontal lobe. Every sentence is an angry black bruise. Do you know what a brain bruise is, Samantha? It's a concussion. You are giving me a rapid series of concussions, and that's abuse. If you don't get me out of here, I'm going to call a neurosurgeon and have him transplant me in a nicer girl's head.

I disregard their pleas for mercy. I tell my brain, oh, but won't this be something to blog! I tell my stomach to shut up and think of the starving children in Argentina. I promise my eyes a pair of shiny new glasses. I pacify them with words as cheap and empty as the ones my ears are trying desperately to ignore, and the guilt overwhelms me.

Part 6: No, Really, What?

Mr. Assclown Promotional Speaker has run out of things to say. I know this, because he has resorted to making us speak. He asks each of us to state the most important thing we've learned today; the one piece of advice we plan to follow religiously, no matter how asinine it proves to be. I stare at his pompous jackass face and think, damn. What a pompous jackass. Then I think, oh, shit - does this mean I have to talk?

He starts with the opposite side of the room, and at first I'm amused by the uniformity of everyone's replies. "I'm going to go above and beyond what my customers request." "I'm going to smile all the time." "Use customers' first names." "Have fun at work!!!" But after awhile the repetition starts to get to me, and I realize that if this doesn't stop, I'm going to...actually, I don't know. But it will not be good.

When he gets to me, I promise to use customers' first names. It's not a lie, since I do it already, and it's boring enough that he doesn't ask for details or congratulate me on my Really Hot Idea, thank God. Instead he moves on to the next woman, who says she is going to "be more intentional in my customer service." She says this as though struck dumb by her own brilliance, and I am reminded of a girl I once worked with at a job hated. This girl was perfectly nice and had an upbeat, positive attitude. She was also dumb as post, and spoke as if she was constantly in the middle of a religious epiphany. This is the girl who once said to me, "I think I'm going to stop sleeping with guys I don't know!" as if the suggestion to stop hooking up with every available guy in a fifty-mile radius had come straight from the mouth of Jesus. I stared at her, watching her open a bag of cold chicken with a steak knife, and then I said, "well. That sounds like a plan."

But let's be fair - not sleeping with strangers is a noble goal. I can't fault her for it. I think it was a smart move on her part, especially since it meant I no longer had to listen to stories that began, "so, this one time, when I slept with four guys in a row?" Good girl.

And at least Dumb Formerly-Trampy Girl's comment made sense. Because, really,"I'm going to be more intentional in my customer service," makes about as much sense as "we are human beings, not lima beans." I'm still not sure what that woman was trying to say. Was she saying that she intended to be more conscientious while dealing with customers? Or was she saying that her customer service skills are usually a happy accident, and that from now on she intends to think while answering the phone?

I just don't know.

Part 7: My Really Hot Idea

I'm standing in the lobby, waiting for my ride. I'm cranky and pissed off and seriously disappointed with the quality of the soft pretzels sitting like wet lumps of clay in my stomach. Outside it's raining, which under normal circumstances would have thrilled me to no end, but I'm too annoyed to appreciate it. Then I see one of the women from the audience, the one with the co-worker who never smiles, run outside. She has an umbrella, but it doesn't protect her Smile On a Stick, which she holds out to her side. And as the corners of that repulsive disembodied grin bend beneath the weight of the rain, turning the smile to a toothy grimace, I realize what I want to do with my life.

I want to have my own seminar. A seminar for customers. I will call it the How Not to Be an Assclown Seminar, and it will be wonderful. It will include such topics such as "I Don't Want to Know About Your Incarcerated Child-Molesting Son" and "No, You Really Can't Have My Phone Number." The only items on sticks will be soft pretzels, and I won't compare my audience to legumes.

Mr. Promotional Speaker, you're more than welcome to attend.

There Are No Words

My Religious Epiphany

A few weeks ago, en route to my blog, I made a simple typing error and became lost. By switching the s and p in blogspot, I found myself in a crazy religious site run by people who think that, since I am a Catholic who sins frequently and flippantly, I am going to Hell. Which is entirely possible, I suppose, but something tells me that God would decline to share such a juicy piece of gossip with self-righteous borderline-psychotics.

Anyway, I thought it was odd for a religious site to have http://www.skippingpastconclusions.blogpsot.com as their URL, since 1. they're not a blog, and 2. "skipping past conclusions" is meant to imply a lack of both focus and knowledge. (Although, maybe that's why they misspelled "spot.")

Then this morning, on my way to Carrie's blog, I once again switched the s and the p, and, once again, I wound up in Psychotic Pseudo-Christian Land. This seemed strange, so I started testing other blogs, and the same thing happened every time. Rachel, it works for your blog. It works for the Guerrilla Knitters as well. It works for everything.

And that's when I realized - the roads to hell are both profuse and varied, but all it takes to bring us to Jesus is a simple typo.

Thus, stupidity saves.

In Praise of Linnea

So, I realize that there are an infinite number of childless people who nonetheless have very strict notions of what constitutes good parenting. I like to think that I am not one of those people. All I ask is that when children come into my work, they speak in a reasonable tone of voice, don't run around knocking things over, and if they do, that their parents make some effort to control/discipline them. I have no intention of procreating, so I rarely start sentences with "if that was my child I'd...," because it sounds strange to me. I can't picture myself with a baby. I would be so bewildered by a a baby's presence - the sort of person who would be confused at a newborn's inability to use a spoon.

That said, I do have one very strong belief, one I would certainly adhere to should a baby fall from the sky and into my lap, and that is the belief that every little girl should have a floppy doll.

Specifically, Linnea.
I had the one on the right, and she was awesome.

Linnea rocked because she was smart, she liked to garden, and she wore a cute hat. Also, her hair was adorably low-maintenance, and although she dressed well, she was not afraid to get her little cloth hands dirty. She had a pretty name, which she shared with a flower, but it was an unusual flower name, nothing obvious like Rose or Lily. (Not that I don't like those names - I'm particularly fond of Lily.) She only had one pair of shoes, but they went with everything, and dammit, she just looked a little kid.

I hadn't thought of Linnea in years, but that all changed yesterday, when I found a Linnea doll in an antique/gift shop. She was perched on the edge of an antique bureau, and I literally jumped for joy when I saw her. She was a little bigger than the one I had, and she wore the dress and apron of the doll on the left, but everything else was the same. I almost bought it out of nostalgia.

Apparently, I'm the only person who has walked into that store and recognized Linnea for the amazing, kickass little gardener she is, and that makes me sad. Linnea was genuine. She was sincere, she was happy, and she had her own almanac.
She was a chatty, enthusiastic little kid utterly lacking in vanity, and the birds just flocked to her. Sure, I had Barbies, and I liked them, but they lived such complicated lives. Some were adopted, one was diabetic, and Ken's foot had been gnawed off by a vindictive rabbit. Linnea was just a nice, sweet girl, and she had no taste for sequins or backless gowns. A rabbit would be too charmed by her to gnaw off her foot - in fact, if I remember correctly, she made friends with the rabbits. If I had a kid, I'd name it Linnea. Even if it was a boy.

So it's probably a good thing I don't want kids.

And that was my shiny happy post.

Never Thought I'd Try This, But...

On Sunday my mother informed that I am too negative, and pointed out that one day I will be old, and how would I like people mocking me on a blog, and although I do believe she was being facetious, maybe she has a point. On the one hand, I love being negative. I delight in my cynicism, wallow in my sarcasm, and enjoy nothing more than trekking through the torrential rains of my contempt. On the other hand, negativity is all I know. Perhaps if I tried my hand at optimism my mind would be opened to a world outside my bleak, dusty little corner: a world of sunshine and daisies and rainbows that aren't the faded watercolor strips which so disappointed me a child, but huge arcs of poster paint stretching from my apartment building to Egypt.

Perhaps.

What the hell. I'll give it a shot. I'll give it a great big shot of...

The List of Things That Make Me Happy, Or Would If They Were True:

1. My boss is George Carlin. How amazing would this be? I could spend eight hours a day mocking people with George Carlin. Every time someone asked me for books on horticulture and insisted I was spelling it wrong because, duh, it starts with a w, George Carlin would be there to point out that Whorticulture sounds like a porn video that takes place in a flower bed and involves gardening tools in odd places. Not only would George Carlin be there to say all the things I'd like to say but can't, but because he is my boss that can't would become can, and although we would probably frighten away all our customers, at least we would have a good time doing it.

2. The customer with the imprisoned, child-molesting son who, to her mind, wouldn't even be in jail were it not for his lying brat of a daughter has not been in lately. She definitely didn't come in yesterday, have me ship more books out to him, and inform me, as I was packing them up, that his lying brat of a daughter is grounded until he gets out of prison, and hopefully she'll learn to stop running her mouth, that little lying brat. Also, said customer finally found a bra, so that never again will I wonder why her stomach looks deformed, sort of forked, and then realize that I am actually seeing her breasts, swinging back and forth like two opposing pendulums. I thought the whole "she had boobs down to her waist" thing was just a myth, but apparently not.

(And yeah, I know it's cheap and a little tacky to poke fun at someone's appearance, but she had it coming. God, I hate that woman.)

3. This is my boyfriend:


And that's not even a very good picture of him. I tried to find a picture with him in glasses, because no one looks better in square black frames than Rodrigo Santoro, but there were none to be had. Stupid Google Image Search. You'll just have to take my word for it. Man looks gorgeous in glasses - kind of a shy, nerdy, completely-unaware-of-how-heart-stoppingly-gorgeous-he-is look. Which, as everyone knows, is the best look of all.

4. I am writing an episode of Seinfeld. They're not bringing the show back permanently, they're just doing one episode, which is unfortunate, but still: I get to write it. George, Elaine, Jerry, and Kramer are my marionettes, and I'm pulling their strings in whatever directions I fancy.

Really though, it's always been my dream to write for Seinfeld. I don't know what the story would be, but it would be glorious. Elaine would date somebody who was actually attractive, and Jerry would have to settle for a woman who was actually in his league, and George and Kramer would stick to what they're best at - lying and hijinks, respectively. Nothing would please me more than writing an episode of Seinfeld. They wouldn't even have to pay me for it.

And that's the end of the list. All this dissatisfaction with life as I know it masquerading as optimism has left me exhausted.

Hmm. You know, the sun is shining, and quite brightly too. I don't see any poster-paint rainbows though.

Back to being cranky.

Frustrations

Hello, and welcome to my place of employment. I am very pleased to be of service to you. Truly. Pleased as punch. And what can I do for you today?

Ah. Computer books. Sixty year old women in search of computer books. This should be a kick.

Computers for Dummies? Well, actually, there isn't a book by that title -

Yes, really.

No, I'm not kidding.

No, ma'am, there is no book called Computers for Dummies. There is Buying a Computer for Dummies, there is Laptops for Dummies, and there is Computers for Seniors for Dummies, which, unbelievably long and clunky title notwithstanding, might be right up your alley. I can order it for the low price of $21.99.

But no, there is no Computers for Dummies. It doesn't exist, see. And trust me, PCP for Dummies is not what you need. I'm not saying it wouldn't help, but it isn't necessary. Not for you anyway.

You might be looking for PCs for Dummies, which, I'm sorry, but we don't have that in right - well, yes, I can order it if you'd like. No, it wouldn't be a used copy. You want the copy that was printed in the 90s? Well, the newest edition was just released last year, that's all I can really - oh, you have a new computer? Well, the new edition would probably be best then anyway.

Okay, wait. So you have a new computer, but you want the old book? Do you realize that makes no sense whatsoever?

What was that, ma'am? Um no. No, HTML is not a "style" of computer, and Windows 98 is not a company. Ergo, your computer is not an HTML model from the Windows company, and it was not built in 1998.

Yes, I agree - computers sure are confusing. Especially when you're clueless. I mean, yeah, I know you're old, and I sympathize - I realize all this new-fangled technology is befuddling at best - but, and this is important, you are not senile. Also, I am not an idiot. I can help you, really. I would like to help you. It is my duty.

What was that? You've decided on Microsoft Word for Dummies? That's the book you need?

No, it isn't! Open your mind! Help me help you help you.

...On second thought, forget it. I just can't wrangle up the energy to care.

Thank you ladies, and have a terrific day.

A Post About Nothing

My birthday was over ten weeks ago, and I just finally finished the cake. Which grosses me out the more I think about it. But refrigerated red velvet cake was all we had at work to eat, and my co-worker and I were hungry, and, well, it seemed like an interesting experiment. I hope I don't die.

Isn't there a Seinfeld episode where Elaine eats a $20,000 piece of antique cake? (That's a rhetorical question, of course. It's in season nine, and she waltzes around her boss's office speaking in a British accent while she does it.) So it's not really so bad. I was just emulating Elaine.

(Actually, that's awful. Never mind.)

Anyway, assuming I don't die, I don't think I'll ever be able to eat red velvet cake again without thinking back to that one fairly-edible-but-repulsive-in-theory slice. Conversations while eating cake should be pleasant and centered on something other than how disgusting the cake is, yes? And if you are going to have a conversation about disgusting cake, it's probably best not to have it when there numerous inquisitive customers in the store. I now fear that I will be immortalized in the minds of said customers as the girl who ate ten-week-old cake and engaged in a running commentary with her co-worker detailing the quality, or lack thereof, of each disgusting bite.

"This icing is crumbling. Like a cracker."
"Hey, did you notice that the color of the cake is -"
"Bleeding into the icing and turning it pink? I know."
"I'm surprised it's not molding, actually."
"Yeah, me too...maybe it is and we just can't see it."
"Can mold camouflage itself?"
"I hope not. Wouldn't that be awful?"
"That's gross."
"That would make me cry."
"Please don't."
[Hacking cough]
"It's a bit dry, isn't it."
"Pieces keep getting lodged in my throat - it's repulsive."
"You want some tap water for your stale cake?"
"Yeah, that'd be - oh, ew."
"What?"
"Nothing. It's just, um, that piece was disturbingly moist."

I've got to learn to cook.

Shut Up.

"I need some books to send to my son in jail. He shouldn't be in jail. They teach them damn kids too much in school - about sex. My son wouldn' let his daughter date - at fourteen - so she went and accused him o'molestin' her. And now he's stuck in that damn jail, and it's all her fault."

I feel ill.

Help Me Justify My Incessant Bitchiness and Win a Place In My Heart

Disclaimer: This post contains even more venom than usual - so much venom, in fact, it's literally toxic. It's the blogging equivalent of nuclear waste. Consider yourself warned.

I have decided to give out an award. I shall call it The Dumbest Customer Ever Award. This award will not be a statue or plaque; it will be a small piece of my brain forever devoted to mocking the one lucky customer who wins it. Every time my conscience taps against my skull and suggests I lighten up, cut people a little slack, whatever, I will take shelter in that piece of brain. And I will call it...

The Center to Promote Justification for Contempt.

There will be seven contestants. Seven, because I'm still trying to think of an eighth. Oh, what the hell - seven is fine.

OK.

Now, there are rules to this contest. The first rule is that none of the nominees be mentally retarded. By definition they must be at least somewhat deficient, but I draw the line at retarded. See? I can be nice. The second is that they must be eighteen or older. No minors shall be ridiculed in this contest, not because I'm nice, but because it's too easy. I shan't abide laziness. The third is that English be their first language, as it seems unfair to make fun of people when the problem lies in faulty communication instead of thought (or lack thereof). And the fourth is that rude behavior and weirdness on the part of the nominees not be factors in voting. Voters should base their decisions purely on stupidity.

So, without further ado, here are the nominees:

Contestant #1:

Woman standing at cash register with book in hand: I'd like to check this out.
Me, having misheard her as saying "I'd like to check out": Okay. That'll be $6.36.
Woman: What do you mean?
Me: This book - it costs $6.36.
Woman: But I don't have any late fees.
Me: Late fees? ...This is a bookstore, not a library.
Woman: Really?
Me: Yes...
Woman: It looks like a library.

So many clues revealing the function of this business...so few powers of observation. Did she not notice the price tags? The sign out front advertising "Book Trader: New & Used Books"? What about the signs explaining our credit policy, or the cheery, brightly-colored ones alerting the world that, yes, "WE HAVE GIFT CERTIFICATES!"? I can forgive her for not seeing the cash register, since we ring up transactions on the computer and the cash drawer is hidden below the keyboard, but good Lord, lady, unless you've never shopped before, that's no excuse.

Contestant #2:

Woman holding up two different books: What is the difference between these two books?
Me: Well, um, they're different books...
Woman, condescendingly: Yes, I know that. But what is the difference?
Me: I'm sorry, but I'm not really sure what you're asking me.
Woman: I mean, are the stories different? Are they by different authors?
Me: Well, yeah. They're different books.
Woman: That's not what I asked.

This one baffles me because, while it apparently did occur to this woman that these two books were not the same, she was at a loss as to how this was so. One would think that to move past point A (these books are the same), one would have a reason (because they look nothing alike), which would take her immediately to point B (there is no need to ask such an asinine question). Not this lady. I would love to get inside her head to see in exactly which directions her neurons fire. Something tells me it's a mess in there, like a Christmas tree with too many lights - or my apartment.

Contestant #3:

Woman with preteen daughter: What is fiction?
Me: What is it...?
Woman: Is it true? Or not true?
Me: Oh! It's not true.
Woman: Really?
Me: Yep.
Woman: I thought it was true.
Me: No, that's non-fiction.
Woman: Oh. Huh.

This one isn't as outrageously idiotic as some of the others, but it's idiotic enough, and there is the added horror of the fact that this woman has a child. Who needed a work of fiction. For a book report. You want to know why our nation's children are so stupid? Too many morons never practiced putting the condom on the banana in sex ed. Most people can figure out how to get it on themselves, but let's face it: some people need assistance. Solution? Bring in the bananas. And the condoms. And do away with this abstinence-only crap once and for all.

Contestant #4:

Woman holding up book with sticker reading "signed by the author": Signed by the author? What does that mean?
Me: Um...it means it was autographed by the woman who wrote it.
Woman, blankly: Whatever that means.

How can you not know what an autograph is? That's what I want to know. Or an author? Or a signature? Or...ugh. I don't even know what to say about this one. My wit has failed me. Damn you, wit. Damn you for deserting me when I need you most.

Contestant #5:

(I feel silly posting this again, since all you really need to do to read it is scroll down to the previous entry, but for the sake of completion I will include it a second time.)

Middle-aged woman with husband, reading title of book: Old Money. That's money that's not new. All rich people now are new money. And that's why we had the Titanic, so we could kill off all the old rich people and start over with new rich people.

Quickly followed by...

I told you Condoleeza would run. She'd make such a better president than Hillary - I really hope she wins.

Let me get one thing out of the way right now: conspiracy theorists annoy me. I'm not exactly a history buff, but it seems to me that history is interesting on its own without making up crap about aliens, or poisoned produce, or, I don't know, crashing ships into icebergs so rich people die. As for the second quote, let me first note, in fairness, that she was looking at a copy of this book. That said, when was the last time she watched the news, opened a paper, or crawled out from beneath the rock she apparently lives under? That's right - never.

Contestant #6:

Woman, to friend: It says here this book is $15.95. Is that closer to fifteen dollars, or sixteen?
Friend: I'm not sure. I think it's fifteen.

I almost didn't include this one because it's so stupid. It's the kind of stupid that makes me wonder if including it violates my rule about exempting the mentally challenged. It illustrates the same problem suffered by Contestant #2, but it's so much worse. At least with Contestant #2, getting to point B involved looking at two books and noting the differences. With this, all you have to do is recognize the number nine. So if it turns out that these women are mentally challenged, I apologize. Aside from this exchange, I saw no others signs of it.

Contestant #7:

Obnoxious guy at cash register: Senior discount.
Me: Sorry, we don't have a senior discount.
Guy: Well, maybe you should get one. Say, right now.
Me: I'm sorry. I would, but that's not my decision.
Guy: So I have to pay full price for this?
Me: Well, yes...
Guy: Why can't I have a senior discount?
Me: That's not my decision to make. It's up to my bosses if we have a senior discount or not, and as of now we don't. I'm sorry - I'd give you one if I could.
Guy: [Mumble] must be a republican.
Me: Um, no, they're not republicans.
Guy: No, I said you must be a republican.
Me: No, I'm not.
Guy: Then why can't you give me a senior discount?
Me: Because I'm not authorized to do so. I'm just doing my job.
Guy: Well, I don't like the way you do your job.
Me: That'll be $5.30.
Guy: What would it be with a senior discount?
Me: I don't know.
Guy: I bet it'd be less.
Me: Yes, I'm sure it would.
Guy: This is a ridiculous price for this book.
Me: It's 80% off the cover price, which is more than you'd get at most used bookstores.
Guy: Oh.

At first glance this is more rude than stupid, but then again, a lot of rude people are stupid, and this guy definitely qualifies as such.

There is, for example, his belief that calling me a republican will shame me into handing out a discount, when in fact it just annoys the crap out of me, because I am not a republican, thank you very much, and what does that have to do with senior discounts anyway? Then there is his insistence that $5.00 for a hardback is outrageously expensive, which clearly even he doesn't believe, since he paid it. Most importantly, there is this mindset that since being an asshole is often instrumental to attaining success in the corporate world, it works for everything else. Well, it doesn't. It pisses me off and makes me mock you for the arrogant jerk you are. I was inches away from doubling the price out of spite, and you know what? In retrospect, I kind of wish I had.

So there they are: the seven horsemen of my diminishing capacity to be pleasant and open-minded. Place your votes...every comment helps fund The Center to Promote Justification for Contempt.

Quotes of the Day

Middle-aged woman with husband, reading title of book: "Old Money. That's money that's not new. All rich people now are new money. And that's why we had the Titanic, so we could kill off all the old rich people and start over with new rich people."
A few minutes later: "I told you Condoleeza would run. She'd make such a better president than Hillary - I really hope she wins."

I actually heard these things. I don't think her husband did, however, if his blank stare was any indication.

How I envy him.

Rachel, we need to move to Ireland/Scotland/wherever. Like, really, really soon.

Awkward

Woman holding copy of Edible and Medicinal Plants of the West: "I had some friends in high school who went camping and decided to do the natural eating thing, and they all ate the wrong mushrooms and they died. I wish they'd had this book when they went on that trip."

What does one say to a thing like that?

At least she bought the book.

So, As It Happens, I'm a Money-Grubbing, Low-Talking Moron

I never claimed to be all that intelligent. But surely I am intelligible?

Well, I used to think so. But I guess not.

Every freaking day I have about five dumbasses who misunderstand our policy for accepting used books, and it's always my fault. Always. I didn't explain it clearly, I didn't speak loudly enough, I didn't illustrate each step with huge fucking signs in primary colors and block letters so their attention couldn't wander. Sometimes the problem is that I didn't explain it at all - I glossed over all the important details in an attempt to Rip Them Off. Or maybe I'm not an evil money-grubbing parasite. Maybe I'm just really, really dumb, and they're really, really smart, and I need to understand that they are superior, and maybe take an ESL class, because I clearly am having trouble communicating.

But that's all bullshit, because my neurons fire quite well, thank you, and I can speak English, despite having been born in southern Ohio, and as far as ripping people off goes, I lack the ambition and/or appetite for self-destruction.

Oh, and one other thing - if you really want to prove how smart you are, you should probably make an effort to pronounce the names of your alleged "favorite authors" correctly. Jodi Pi-COLT-ee? Steffin Ambrose? WHY-la CAY-ther?

Dumb dumb dumb.

P.S. Jodi Picoult sucks.

Weird Celebrity Crush My Friends Don't Understand

So, it's true that my job sucks, and for multiple reasons. But I am getting paid a whole, um, $6.75 an hour to watch The Colbert Report, knit, and drink tea, so, you know...

Anyway, I am officially adding Stephen Colbert to my list of reasons why I will never, ever get plastic surgery. It doesn't matter how wrinkly and unattractive I get - yeah, it'll suck, but I can cope. I will gladly allow my face to shrivel like a raisin on the long road to death in the hope that, one day, it will be as expressive as Stephen Colbert's:


Truly, the man has a face made for satire. Not only that, he has a handsome face made for satire. It almost satirizes attractiveness. The jaw, the eyes, the eyebrows - yeah. And of course it helps that he's hysterical.

The second-happiest day of my life was the day I learned that Stephen Colbert was coming out with his own ice cream. And the happiest? The day I bought that ice cream, and ate Stephen Colbert with a spoon.

So thank you, Stephen Colbert, for being who you are. I have nothing but fangirl-style adoration for you and your freakishly dramatic eyebrows.

A Voice to Be Reckoned With

URGENT MEMO
To: Sam

Hey, doll. Brain here. Look, sweetie, I know you're a bit stressed, but, I swear, I can help you. All you have to do is listen.

First off, there is a filter between your mouth and me. Just because I say "man, that guy's a real asshole, huh?" doesn't mean those words need to leave your mouth.

And second of all, I was very disappointed in your actions last night. I know you're sick with The Crud, but never again do I want to be dragged along to a night of listening to Jewel and reading The Crucible while you eat cheese and crackers and sip dry red wine. Okay, actually, last night would have been fine were it not for the Jewel. The Crucible is a good play. I like cheese, I dig crackers, and wine is great (in moderation, that is). But Jewel? Well, she has some nice songs, but none of them are on the This Way album.

Seriously, what could have possessed you to listen to songs with lyrics like "we'll be a team/our two will be one/love will be our fortress/when all else comes undone"? Have you no sense of decency? NO. MORE. JEWEL. When you get home tonight I want you to listen to Black Rebel Motorcycle Club while you eat a turkey sandwich, some grapes, and drink a tall glass of orange juice. Then you're going to watch some Seinfeld, and, since you're going through one of those phases where you like to read plays (god knows why, but whatever), you're going to read Death of a Salesman. I promise, it'll be worth it. Remember how Jerry compares George to Biff Loman? You like George, in spite of his personality; I'm sure you'll like Biff.

As for your customers, I know some of them are dumb. Like the lady who was just in:

"Um, I'm looking for a book I had years ago. It was like - it had words in it. It was called...it was called The Word Book. It had, um, lists of words. But it wasn't, you know, like those others."
"Okay, so, it wasn't a dictionary?"
"No, but we used it for um...computers and -and spelling and stuff. It was called The Word Book. It was very helpful. Do you have anything like that?"
"Well, I can't think of anything exactly like that - but anything similar would be over in Reference, which is this section here."
"It wasn't a dictionary. It didn't have, um - what it meant. The words. What the words meant. It just had words."

Or the lady who just argued with you over something she was wrong about, and accused you of being "not very nice," when you were actually quite nice. I understand you don't want to admit to doing something you didn't (or not doing something you did), and I sympathize. But hey, it's part of your job.

And speaking of your job...

Get a new one. Your bosses have had financial problems for awhile now - you know this, because you've been getting the collection calls. And now that one of your uninsured bosses in laid up in a hospital in North Dakota with a broken leg, elbow, several broken ribs, and a minor spine fracture, those problems are only going to escalate. If you don't take care of this soon, you won't have a job to leave.

Lastly, but by no means leastly (yes, I know leastly isn't a word - I'm your damn brain, after all), your bathroom ceiling is revolting, and your landlord's promise to fix it "once the girl upstairs moves out" is unacceptable. Your whole apartment smells like mildew, and aren't you sick of staring up that creeping blue mold every time you take a shower? Face it, sweetie, your ceiling looks like moldy cottage cheese, and that's gross.

What you should do is convince the IRS that you don't owe them $15,000, and then get into low-income housing. The apartments are cheaper, bigger, and significantly nicer. Also, you should get a damn car.

Remember, Sam - you're nothing without me. Listen. Listen and learn.

Love,
Your Neglected Brain

Um, Yes, the World DOES Revolve Around Me

I wish I was better at hiding my contempt. Actually, I wish I was just less contemptuous, but I don't think that's going to happen any time soon, so for now I'll direct my efforts toward being less obvious about it.

Botox might help. Then I wouldn't be able to move my face. My brow would never furrow; the corners of my mouth would never turn. Or I could come to work drunk. Yes, that would be messed up, but I think it might actually improve my customer service skills.

Or maybe - just maybe - people could stop being worthy of my contempt. Please?

When I worked at Quiznos, well, I was completely goddamned miserable. Who wouldn't be? I came home every night smelling like mayonnaise and sub-par swiss cheese. I worked with a bunch of meth addicts and one sober douche bag who had lost his color vision three years before when he opened an oven full of nitrogen and who was therefore convinced I was a blond. A hot blond, as he informed me on numerous occasions, definitely a hot blond. When I pointed out that I was, in fact, a redhead, he compared me to a stripper he knew in Vegas, which is stupid, because last I checked, strippers are supposed to be well-endowed. But anyway -

I blame my contempt for my Quiznos customers partially on the fact that I loathed my job with the core of my being - enough to make myself nametags with fake names, like Scarlett and Scheherezade, in a desperate attempt to conceal my true identity. (No, I wasn't surprised when it didn't work.) I hated the black visor, the matching apron, and my possibly drug-addicted boss, who bounced around like a fat, balding Tigger, clapping his hands maniacally and encouraging us to "move quick, move quick, gotta get this done." Having people order a sandwich and get all upset when it came with onions, as stated on the fucking menu, was really more than I could cheerfully deal with. The only good thing to come out of that job was that I perfected the Withering Stare From Beneath the Brim of My Visor, quickly followed by the Wide Eyes and Innocent Surprise when faced with a Completely Unwarranted Look of Annoyance From Dumbass Customer.

The thing was, when I quit/got fired, I thought I would never have to use the Withering Stare or Wide Eyes again. I thought, yay! A bookstore! My ultimate dream job! No longer will I feel contempt. I will be content. Which is good, because I find content slightly easier to pronounce.

Until I realized: I am not cut out for customer service.

There are certain customers that I really, really like. And contrary to what the contents of this blog might suggest, my first instinct is to be pleasant. But when someone is rude, dumb, a lousy parent, or speaks in a baby voice despite not being, you know, a baby, I have trouble coping. I don't know if that's because I'm hypersensitive, prematurely curmudgeonly, or just a mean, mean person, but whatever it is, I'm not sure it can be changed.

When I was a kid I wanted to be a writer. I didn't know what I wanted to write; I just had this dream of sitting at home with a bottomless mug of coffee (well, not coffee - maybe kool-aid), surrounded by loose sheets of paper with words scribbled in every margin. I pictured myself writing with pencils whittled down to within an inch of the eraser, wearing a top hat like Winona Ryder in Little Women. (I can't remember if Jo wore a top hat in the book or not. Mental note: check.) But I could never finish anything, and all that I scribbled in the margins were loose phrases that would pop into my head randomly, but which I could never attach to anything.

I know I need to go back to school. People have been telling me that for the last two and a half years, and I've never disagreed. But I feel like I've been coasting on potential my whole life, and I don't know how to change that. To put the potential into action. To write on command. To get a car, move into an apartment where the ceiling isn't being eaten away by mold (god, it's gross), to cook myself an actual meal. Hell, just dating someone who isn't an asshole would be a start.

And I guess the reason I'm so sensitive about how contemptuous I am is that I know I have no reason to be. I haven't really accomplished anything. My supposed superiority stems from all the potential I allegedly possess. "Well, you may have a degree, but I'm naturally smarter." Which may be true, or may not, but as long as I'm making $6.75 an hour whilst attempting to explain to my customers what "signed by the author" means, it really doesn't matter.

And even though this is definitely more appropriate for my personal journal, I'm going to post it anyway, because, well, it's all typed and everything, so why not?

Douchettes of the Week

Yes, Douchettes. I think I may have made that up.

Anyway, the Douchettes of the Week are two Girls Gone Wild types named Nisreen and Sarah. Here they are:


Apparently, they're 18, although they look pretty used up for 18. It's Lindsay Lohan Syndrome, I guess.

Anyway, Nisreen and Sarah have somehow have gotten it into their heads, and subsequently onto CNN, that they are too pretty to fly. Truly. According to Nisreen, she never received any water during the flight, and either one or both girls (the details are fuzzy) got in an obscenity-soaked argument with a fellow passenger over who was next in line to use the bathroom. And these travesties occurred not because Nisreen and Sarah are two insufferable brats whose parents told them they were special way too many times, but because they were just so damn hot.

Or, to quote Sarah: "There was no one else on the plane who looked like us, except us."

Okay, the obvious first: no shit, Sarah. I've never boarded a plane and just happened to sit down next to my long-lost twin. And, um, I don't mean to be catty - truly I don't - but neither of you girls are hot. I'm sorry, but it's true. I love the part in the video where Nisreen is going on about how she thinks she was treated poorly because of her looks, and the cameraman does a slow pan of her body from her feet up, lingering on her legging-clad saddlebags as if to say, "I don't know about that."

The fact is, chickies, being a "young and decent-looking girl" will not result in a negative flying experience. Being an arrogant airhead with tacky fake pink nails and a penchant for stating both the obvious and the laughably stupid will. If I was a flight attendant and you were bitching about not having any water, and then getting into catfights over the bathroom, of all things, I'd ignore you too. I mean, what if you drank the water too fast and had to pee again? Best to stop these things before they start.

So, Sarah and Nisreen, congratulations. You may not be hot, but you are on YouTube. You even made it onto an assortment of blogs. You even made it on to mine.

Something tells me this is the most either of you will ever accomplish.

Random Opinions On Inconsequential Matters

So, as usual, I neither 1. watched the Oscars or 2. saw half of the movies that were nominated, since good movies never come out to our shitty little movie theater, and even if they did I turn down 99% of the guys who ask me out, so I never go there anyway.

That said, I do have opinions. I always have opinions.

Opinion 1:

Juno should not have won best screenplay. I don't know what should have won, but I'm positive at least three of the other nominees were better. It was a cute movie, for sure - I loved Ellen Page, and Michael Cera is truly the perfect First Boyfriend (far superior to mine, anyway), but the constant wiscracks and obscure hipster references got really old, really fast. Diablo Cody not only has the absolute dumbest pen name I've ever had the misfortune to hear spoken aloud, but she is so self-conscious and desperate to seem "in" that I actually started to feel sorry for her. "This is one doodle that can't be un-did, home skillet"? Ugh. Diablo, you bitch, don't ever call sweet little Ellen Page a home skillet again, or I will - I don't know - undo your doodle. Whatever that means.

And by the way, your dress was seriously ugly.


Opinion 2:

Sweeney Todd didn't even get a nomination for Achievement In Makeup?

Achievement In Makeup is one of those categories I usually forget about, because, really, who cares? But the makeup in Sweeney Todd was so incredibly perfect in every single scene that even as I watched it I thought, this better win that makeup award thing. Seriously. The makeup is part of what makes the movie.


Look at them. They're grotesque! There's a great scene in the film where Helena Bonham Carter's character is daydreaming about picnicking on the beach with Sweeney, and it shows them relaxing by the ocean with the sun shining down on them, and they look so sick and depraved and out of place - and it's perfect. Absolutely perfect.

I didn't see La Vie en Rose; maybe the makeup was better. Maybe it deserved the Oscar. But how could Sweeney not have been nominated?

Opinion 3:

What in God's name was SHE doing there?

For some reason, I just hate Jessica Alba. I really do. And I'm not exactly sure why, since she's really just your average vapid starlet who can't act her way out of a paper bag, but for some reason she represents, for me, everything that is wrong with Hollywood. She's utterly worthless in every film she's in, and only gets the roles she does because of her body. And I find it hard to like a person who constantly makes rude, tacky comments about her ethnicity. (My personal favorite? "Mexican men love to spread their seed. And the women just pop them out.") Plus she just looks like a bitch. Look at those cold eyes and pursed lips. Bitch bitch bitch. Honey, you should get down on your knees and thank God you were let through the door.

Come to think of it, being on your knees is probably what got you there in the first place. (Oh, snap!)

Opinion 4:

Katherine Heigl, I like you. Really I do. And it's out of concern, not nastiness, that I must inform you...


THAT HAIRSTYLE MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE A QVC SALESLADY.

But otherwise you look lovely.

Eh, that's enough for now. I have no other Oscar-related bones to pick...at least not until I see the movies.

If You Have to Self-Publish, Maybe You Shouldn't

I think the most depressing part of working in a bookstore is seeing the complete and utter crap people come out with. I don't mean the mountains of books by Nora Roberts and Danielle Steel, since Roberts and Steel are not people but robots - well-oiled machines churning out exactly one predictable, easily digested mockery of the English language a month. And I don't mean books like The Secret, which, shallow and unsophisticated though they may be, are phenomenally marketable. I mean the self-published books. I mean the books written by poor, deluded souls who have spent countless nights in front of computer screens, coasting on nothing but black coffee and the words of sadly misguided middle-school homeroom teachers encouraging them to Express Themselves.

It's not that I think I'm a brilliant writer; I don't. But were I to write a fantasy, and were I to title it "Sword of Souls," I like to think I could find a better way to describe it than to say, "Sword of Souls launches just after the fall of the Ramadan tribes by the merciless red bearded Tarvas who invade sparing only the women and the young children in their brutal endeavors of destruction."

Seriously, what? Have the merciless red-bearded Tarvas outlawed commas? Were the Ramadan tribes Muslim? Was "endeavors" really the word Douglas Taylor, the self-proclaimed "authoritative and brilliant mastermind of the Chronicles of Caladon series," was looking for? These questions are going to keep me up all night, I just know it.

Look, I don't think all self-published books are crap. But I do think that before you spend $14.95 per book in publishing costs, you should make sure your writing is good enough to warrant it. Otherwise, not only have you wasted an insane amount of money on something nobody is ever going to read, you have also made me sad.

If you enjoy writing, awesome. But enjoying something does not make you a brilliant mastermind. I like playing guitar, and I don't think I suck, but I know I'm not good enough to make a career of it. Accept your limitations. Don't label yourself as something you aren't. I know there are legions of self-help books telling you that You Are Worth It, and maybe you are, but not everything you create is.

I know, I'm mean. I'm not trying to be, I just...am really sick of bad writing. I'm sick of every child being special. I'm sick of this idea that in every person is a creative genius just waiting to be unleashed. I don't think writing poems describing how you feel when you go walking in the rain automatically makes you deep, or that every life deserves a memoir. And I think letting people believe their writing has merit when it doesn't does them a disservice.

Especially if they're paying to self-publish. Seriously, that shit's expensive.