So, good to know:
#1 - If you buy a dress from a large, well-known store (we’ll make up a name: Sinny’s) and it has a slight deodorant mark on the inside, if you try to return it they'll insist you must have worn it, because what person in their right mind would WEAR DEODORANT WHILE TRYING ON A DRESS IN THE STORE.
#2 - If you buy a dress from Sinny's, it won't matter that the price tag is PRISTINE and STILL ATTACHED or if you have the receipt, because:
#3 - If you buy a dress from Sinny's "Formal" section and the large tag on the side was taken off (not the price tag, which is different) prior to you purchasing the dress, not only will they resist a return, THEY'LL ACCUSE YOU OF STEALING THE DRESS.
Seriously? I shouldn't have to threaten to show sales managers my receipts from my hotel stay for 4 nights and a wedding invitation ALONG WITH OTHER PEOPLE'S PICTURES OF WHAT THE HELL I WAS WEARING for each of the 5 days.
Hello, I'm a grad student. I DID NOT GO TO PROM. Oh, and by the way, I bought the dress last week. It is NOT PROM SEASON.
Oh, and the whole CRIMINAL ACCUSATION THING?!
How in the WORLD would I have walked out of the store WITH A PRINTED RECEIPT WITH THE SALESPERSONS INITIALS CIRCLED AROUND THE OPTIONAL SURVEY CODE?!?
How, Sinny’s, how?
A customer who is telling the truth should not have to suffer accusatory stares, remarks, and YELPING that your employees decide to throw at an innocent person. Worse, because I was at the service counter at the front part of the store, not only did the waiting customers see your behavior, but your idle shoppers did too. You created a scene, not I. I kept my voice low and calm. Not you. I almost called security...because I thought I was in danger of being attacked from behind the counter. You were THAT angry.
Oh, and BY THE WAY, Sinny’s, the day I was trying your dress on, a customer -- get this -- PEED on your dressing room carpet and one of your employees had to CLEAN IT UP ON HER HANDS AND KNEES. Additionally, the employee told us the fun tale of having to pick up urine in bags, vomit, tampons, and sanitary pads out of the dressing room during her tenure with your company. I know not all of your locations are as filthy as this one, but this is no excuse. I feel sorry for your employees. And also, I’m really sorry that your other customers try to deceive you insomuch as you would accuse another customer of engaging in the same behavior.
Sorry for the craptacular picture, but I would love some opinions.
I have a summer wedding to attend this week. The ceremony begins at 7:30 p.m., so it is an evening wedding. It is located in a metropolitan area, but it's smack dab in the middle of the country (so we aren't talking super-glam NYC or LA or anything).
I know both the bride and the groom. Joel is the best man. Their wedding colors are deep purple and rustic copper.
Thoughts? What should I wear?
...why are they
still talking to the media?
I'm not a celebrity follower. I don't have cable television (I kid you not). I don't subscribe to US Weekly or People magazine or read celebrity blogs.
But somehow, somehow, I still know all the details of Jon & Kate's nasty divorce. Why? Because it is plastered all across every website (check that link out, it's CNN.com!), every magazine, every television screen within earshot in shopping centers.
Jon and Kate, would you like some unsolicited advice? Well, that's okay, because I'm going to give you some anyway:
No, I'm serious. I'm so serious I'll say it in Spanish:
"¿Por qué no os calláis de una puta vez?"
Well, a dirtier version nonetheless.
Unless you are money-grubbing fame-whores, *clears throat*, you don't need to be doing this. Do you know we have a term for this? It's called airing your dirty laundry, and you are doing on a national level. Take your mess and go home.
And if anyone likes to watch/follow Jon & Kate, sorry if I offended, but really. Why do we need such trash? WHY ARE THEY STILL TALKING? Probably because someone is still listening...
This is probably one of the funniest real-time quotes I have heard in a long time. I’ve been looking at adding a macro lens to my camera bag (mainly to replace my only lens right now, the kit lens), and after researching which lens for weeks, I found a website that was selling them with a rebate. The problem was that they were backordered, and I was curious as to how long the backorder would last.
I called the helpful 1-800 number, and I was connected shortly with a male service representative. I started reading the SKU number for him, and he interrupted me halfway through and said, “Okay, so you are after the Canon Macro lens, 100mm? I don’t have that lens in right now.”
I patiently said, “Yes, I know. I just wanted to know how long the wait on your backorder would be.”
He replied, “Well, you’re buying it at the worst time of the year, really.”
I kind of scratched my head in thoughtfulness, thinking of car sales and how it’s best to buy the previous year’s version right as the new models are coming out, around August and September (in general; this is not a hard and fast rule). But, I couldn’t come up with a reason for why lenses would be cheaper or more available at any point in the year.
Then he helpfully informed me, “Well, the best time of the year to buy is during the fall or winter. Right now, there’s a bunch of housewives being bored and buying expensive macro lenses to take pictures of their flower gardens in their backyards, so it’s just not really a good time. In the fall and winter though, everything’s dead, so they give up the photography habit for a while, which makes it a really good time to buy.”
Overheard walking across campus this morning, behind a group of incoming freshman Japanese students and a very blonde (read: not Japanese) campus representative:
Rep: "Have you heard the new rap song from the artists who did the Soulja Boy song?"
Student: "The one where he call himself a nee-ga?"
Rep: "Well, uh, we have a large African American population on this campus, so the proper term is African American."
Student: "Oh, so you have gangsta here?"
Rep: "Well...uhh...yeah, I guess you could say we have some gangstas here."
Student: "Neega! Neega! Nee-ga gangsta."
Rep: "No, I'm serious. We don't say that in America. It's wrong. Luckily this is a pretty tolerant campus, but in some cities, you'd get shot."
So, three awesome things that happened recently:
1) I PASSED PRELIMS! How awesomely fantastic is that? I am now, officially, a doctoral candidate. I wanted to have a moment where I went running from the building, skipping as I opened the door, and in slow motion, flinging my notes on statistics, research methods, computational modeling, organizational studies, all of it, up into the air while some rockin' music accompanied me. Instead, I quietly spent an hour today tucking away all my notes back into their respective binders, shelving the binders, and returning borrowed books. You never know when that one equation I wrote down that one day in multivariate statistics MIGHT come in handy. It's the academic in me. Otherwise, a person might say, "That's what Google is for."
2) Trooper learned to retrieve! Like, adequately! When I was first teaching him, I relied on the treat method for the toy replacement, but he'd get so excited about the treat that he would just drop the toy on his way back. This evening I absentmindedly grabbed one of the retrieving toys and brought it out to the front yard when I let him out after dinner. I gave it a good throw, just to run some energy off of him, and BOOM! he took off like a shot. There was a lot of bouncing involved, and Joel is convinced he's more Tigger than Lab, but, holy cow, he brought it right back to me!! Fifteen times in a row!! I was so impressed with my retriever that he had lived up to his name...finally. He's not graceful or coordinated like Cosette is by any means, but he tries. And, he Tigger bounces, so that's a bonus. I think.
3) Strike the third thing. I originally had something here, published it, then changed my mind. Basically, to sum up: I do not like Person A, and Person A is generally liked by others, which is infuriating because it's all a show. There are a few who dislike Person A, but not many. The people who do dislike Person A can usually be found after Person A insults them in a deranged manner, becomes rip-roaringingly drunk, screams at them, asking themselves, "What did I do? I was just trying to be nice!" Person A recently had a social opportunity with many supporters, and revealed their true colors to everyone they were with. Person A is no longer liked by the rest of my social circle. This is awesome because they no longer want to hang out with Person A, and I'm just glad I don't have to worry about being in the same zip code as the person anymore.
To reiterate, I PASSED PRELIMS!!!, my retriever retrieves, and karma is excellent.
Okay, wait, so I have to tell you about this one before I leave today.
So last night, I went into the kitchen to take some medication, and I had many, many things on my mind. I retrieved a cup from the cabinet, poured a glass of water and even filled up the Brita filter, and then put the Brita back into the refrigerator. I opened another cabinet and pulled out the medicine bottle, uncapped it, took one out, threw it into my mouth and swallowed it with some water. I was mid-way through another gulp of water when it suddenly struck me:
WHAT HAD I JUST INGESTED?
My mouth still full of water, I looked down at the bottle I held in my hand. It was green, and not what I was intending to take. I read the label in horror:
Patient Name: Trooper
OH. MY. GOD. I just took my dog's medicine!!
I raced past Joel into my office, and sat down at the computer immediately. "What's wrong?" he asked, perplexed. "Uh, I just swallowed Trooper's medicine. Don't ask me why, because I don't have a good answer."
I Googled "Cephalexin" and the second hit on the list read "Cephalexin (Keflex)." I shot straight up out of my chair and shouted, "KEFLEX!! KEFLEX?? I TOOK KEFLEX?!?! I'M ALLERGIC TO KEFLEX!!" I shakily ran to my files and dragged out a copy of my medical records. "Known allergies...Keflex." SHIT!
I brushed past Joel and said, "I've got to throw it up. I'm allergic to Keflex." A slight look of horror came across his face, and I reassured him that the last time I had taken Keflex had resulted in a rash and hives, nothing life-threatening. But still. I didn't want any of it in my system.
I marched into the bathroom, got down on my knees, and pried open the toilet seat. I looked down at the water and thought, "Really? I have to do this? It's not fair! I'm SOBER!" The next few minutes were not pleasant, and I'll just say this: I'm not sure I'll be able to eat Tom Kar soup at my favorite Thai restaurant anymore, and I would be a horrible bulimic. I couldn't hardly get anything up. Maybe I wasn't trying hard enough, but I thought to myself, "You know, this is not a good time to not have high self-efficacy about your ability to gag yourself." I finally managed to get something up that resembled a capsule, and I flushed the toilet and washed my hands. I came out of the bathroom, and said to Joel, "I don't know what the hell that was about, but, I'm going to make sure I'm a little more cognitively present the next time I attempt to take medication. RIDICULOUS."
Well, Internet. I have another confession to make.
I almost passed out at the optometrist's office today.
I've had it happen before, but, I had a scratched cornea then, and well, that was just a whole mess in and of itself. But this, this was nothing. This was for no good reason.
I filled out my medical information, and checked the box where I requested no retinal scan (an extra charge) and no eye dilation. I knew I just wanted to see if I needed glasses or something because my eyes were fatiguing after reading for hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and...so I didn't think I needed any fancy tests.
I walk back with a woman who gives me several visual tests on three separate machines, lined up right in a row. First, a test with a dot in the middle and wavy lines on the side, then a focusing and unfocusing barn that I'm supposed to look at, and then she says, "And right over here, this will deliver a puff of air to each eye."
"No," I say. She looks up from her paperwork, trying to determine if I'm joking. "No thank you," I say. "They'll do one in the back then," she says, tightening her mouth and marking on my medical sheet. We'll see about that, I think.
So, I'm led back to the darkened office where a nice enough doctor sits me down. She asks me a few questions, and then asks if I want contacts or glasses. Neither, I say, I'm not really here for those - I just want to make sure my eyes are okay, to see if I need glasses or something. She gives me a funny look but proceeds with the eye exam. She has me focus long-distance with each eye, and then places the viewer with the different lenses against my face. Which one is better, 1 or 2? 3 or 4? and on and on she goes. I start to panic a little because some of the lines I'm not able to see. They become very blurry to me and I tell her my eyes are hurting. I have to take a break and squeeze my watering eyes shut. I start to panic a little. Why are my eyes so blurry? How has my vision become impaired so quickly? (This is the moment where I have stopped thinking rationally. Because if I were thinking rationally, I would reason that I have 20/20 vision, and the lenses she is having me peer through are corrected, which makes my own vision appear blurry. This is supposed to be happening.) What is wrong with me? Oh my gosh, she's trying out so many different measurements. Maybe I have cataracts or something. Oh shit, are they going to have to do surgery? Maybe I'll have to have surgery. This month. Maybe this week. I should arrange this before I take preliminary exams. What if my eyes are totally screwed?!
I start to fidget and notice how warm it is in the room. I look over at Joel, who is sitting patiently nearby for emotional support. He looks so calm over there. How can he be so calm over there when I am sitting here, I'm going to have to go into surgery this week and HOW IS HE SO CALM? Why is my doctor not saying anything? Is she going to wait to break the bad news later?
My doctor pulls the viewer away from me and pulls out two instruments, each which shine a light into my eye. She edges closer to me, close enough that I can smell her perfume. It smells like a mix between something Elizabeth Taylor and a heartbroken teenager would wear. It makes me a little sick. And, heaven help me, the room IS SO HOT! I'm going to pass out. She pulls away and sits back down, making a few notes on her chart.
Okay, here it is. I'm feeling a little woozy but maybe I'm going to make it. She has to tell me the bad news. "Well, you've got good vision - 20/20 in both eyes, you are maybe a little near-sighted in your right eye, but it's not enough to make any kind of difference. As for the eye fatigue and headaches, I'm just going to prescribe a light prescription for reading glasses for you. And you should get a glaucoma test soon." That's it?, I think. I'm not going to die? A surge of endorphins races through me and I don't feel so well.
"Can I lay down?" I ask. She looks at me strangely again, and I apologize sheepishly. I pull myself out of the chair and kneel down against the wall. "It's hot in here, isn't it?" she says, and I mutter, "Yeah, a little."
She looks down at me with her hand on the door handle, pathetic me, curled up like a baby on the dusty tile, and suddenly I feel very small and not very intelligent. She inquires again, "You're a doctoral student?" I look up at her. "Yes." She looks back down at me, and then opens the door. "Huh," she says.
Me: "...I'm not having blurry vision, it's just, I'm a doctoral student, and I've been reading a lot lately for an upcoming test. My eyes are fatiguing very quickly and I'm getting headaches. I just wanted to get an eye exam."
Optometry receptionist: "Well, I guess you could just cut back on the reading."
Me: "Or, I could keep reading and pass my test."
Receptionist: "Well, there's that option I guess."
Last night, Joel and I went to a popular sports bar and grill and chose to sit on the patio to get away from the noise and visual assault of all the surrounding t.v. screens. Our hostess showed us to a table next to a sprawling hulk of a table with about 12 college students lounging around it. They had taken all the seats from our table, so the hostess had to go inside to retrieve two chairs for us. We stood awkwardly next to our table, waiting.
After we were seated, we began to look at our menus, but became distracted very quickly by the table beside us. Most of the patrons were clearly buzzed, and not in a way that says, “I’m high on life and isn’t life great?” but in a way that said, “I was drunk last night, I’ve had a house party at my house all day today, I’ve been drinking beer and carrying on, throwing horseshoes, tumbling into bushes after losing my balance playing beer funnel, and oh, man, am I HUNGRY and need some WINGS! GIVE ME SOME WINGS! WORLD, DO YOU HEAR ME, I SAID I’M HUNGRY AND NEED SOME WINGS!!”
That kind of buzzed.
They continued to holler as loud as they could, with fuck being the operative word. In fact, if they were not allowed to use ‘fuck’ as part as their vocabulary, I’m not sure if they would have been able to communicate. The well-groomed girls sat interspersed throughout, giggling at the boys’ loud voices. I have some tolerance for being loud; it’s a Saturday, the weather is awesome, and life is good. But. There is a limit to how much I can tolerate – and I don’t know if it’s the fact that I’m getting older, that I was never one to hang out in large obnoxious buzzed groups, or if it’s the knowledge that any one of them could be my students (given their age).
If you are offended at explicit language, turn away now. Go look at the puppy pictures.
“Aw, fuck man, geez, fuck. I mean, that was fuckin’ awesome, okay dude, I mean really fuckin’ awesome.” “Shit dude, that’s so fuckin’ awesome.” “Yeah, dude, I know, right? I was like, fuck.” At this point the loudest one raised his chin to the sky, pounded on his chest and said something like, “OH MAN DUDE, I WAS LIKE FUCK, I’M GOING TO SHIT IN YOUR MOUTH ASSHOLE! Tracy, wasn’t I like that?! Yeah, it was awesome!” His girl turns and giggles and says, “Shhh…!! Hehehe!!” He continues, “Oh, yeah man, fuck. I was like, FUCK, I am going to SHIT in your MOUTH, FUCKER! LITTLE MOTHER FUCKING FUCKER!!”
Joel and I stared at each other during this whole exchange, as we had given up on audibly talking to one another. We had lost track of our waitress, but we caught another waiter and told him we were moving to an empty table across the patio. We took our menus and walked over purposefully to the empty table. The loud table started cackling and cooing, the girls giggling, and the guys whooping and hollering even louder. They turned to look at us once more, and then drunkenly carried on.
We had just been served our drinks when all of a sudden, my eardrums started bleeding and fell onto the pavement. No, I’m kidding. The loud table had caught wind of the outside speakers’ broadcast of Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’.” Here, let me reenact it for you.
“She’s a GOOD GIRLLLLLL, loves her MAMA!!!!!!! Loav;lksjdfl;sdkfj asdf AND AMERICA TOOOOO!!!!........long drunk pause….AND her boyfriend too!!! FUCK!!.....shit dude, be quiet, no SERIOUSLY BE QUIET!! Hahaha…..oool…. FREE ….FREE FALLINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN….yeah I’m FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, free FALLINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN.”
They grew tired of themselves after about 2 choruses, thankfully. I learned two things: don’t go to that grill on a Saturday night, and two, I will never be able to think of that song the same way without picturing the polo shirt wearing, highlighted hair, aviation glasses donning undergrad with some very loud vocal chords, leaning back into his chair, and SCREAMING his love of this song to the world.
“I’m FREE!!!!!!! FREE FALLIN!!!!!!”