Halloween Haunts
With Halloween around the corner, one cannot fight the irresistible lure of the ‘Haunted House.’
After all, how can one not enjoy being scared witless (and denying it)?
In this spirit, myself and some fellow peeps rallied around my KIA (ironically, it was the only car that would fit all three of us, and they own Fords) and drove to “The Netherworld.” This haunted house was supposedly very good, along with being the easiest to find according to Mapquest.
I very nearly took several wrong turns anyway, but Lisa, with characteristic preparedness told me exactly which lane I should be in and when.
(For the record, Georgia roads are completely disorganized. Instead of having the turn lanes marked on the lane itself and on signs, the markings are faded hieroglyphs only on the pavement (if any). There was a heated argument debating whether this was because there was no snow to ever cover the roads, or whether it was because Georgia drivers do not heed normal driving regulations anyway.)
By the time we reached the parking lot, we had discussed in detail what we might expect. Lisa, who was in charge of planning the excursion, began with some general information. “This house has three different attractions, the first being the main event. The other two are 3D shows, and a themed maze based on Purgatory.” We thought about this. “How much will it cost to go to all three?” I asked. I am a bit cheap. “No idea. But I hope they accept debit cards.”
This led to another conversation about modern banking, and how since no one carries cash any more, it must be difficult to be a bum.
As we came into view of our destination, we noticed some very obvious indications that it was a house of horror. There was a huge spotlight of a Celtic Knot (I am doubtful of the appropriateness of that), and several hearses driving around the parking lot. In tried-and-true Michigan mentality, while appreciating the procession and the flags with skulls and crossbones on them, I couldn’t help but to joke, “Hey, if those hearses grab the last parking spots I will NOT be happy!” Parking is precious. I nearly ran over an evil-looking clown to get a spot, but I won it fair and square.
The clown later was being very ‘attentive’ to Lisa and Ashley as we waited in line. A demon with batwings also came up to grab Ashley’s arm. I was quick to tease “Hey, it is your ex!!” Not to be outdone, she retorted “yeah, why do I attract all the losers?” We continued to watch the demonic procession as we compared and contrasted haunted houses here from the ones in our native Michigan.
“This is so weird. We are on an access road and there are no corn fields in sight. Does anyone else think this is creepy?” Lisa had a good point. Instead of cornfields, we were going to tour an empty furniture warehouse. There was a nice waterbed in the display window. “Yeah,” confided Ashley. “If this line appears to be too long, we can just go loiter by the abandoned warehouse five blocks down. That could be really creepy.” We reflected on that for a moment.
“I know they have more money down here,” I commented, “but I miss the corn. There is something about knowing you can get lost and trip in a muddy cornfield where nobody will find you until morning that has an appeal.” There was a murmured consensus. At this point a tortured soul with cracked vertebrae was caressing Ashley’s arm. “Eew!! Go harass somebody else!” More exasperated than anything, she added “Why me?” and rolled her eyes.
“Because you are a petite blonde,” I replied. “And blondes have more fun.” We had to laugh at that. “Besides, I am 5’9 and a bit intimidating at times.” Especially if I smile. A wealth of information can be conveyed with one of my smiles. If you are a hot guy, you get treated the dazzling come-hither smile (just let me dream, k?). If you are a friend it is the casual-yet-very warm ‘you rock, great to see you!’ smile. If you piss me off, you will recognize the bared teeth for what they are: Impending Doom.
After giving what is best described as ‘evil Hagrid’ the bared teeth when he approached Lisa, we made it to the entrance. We had poneyed up enough money for the Main Event and a tour of Purgatory (called, appropriately, Oblivion), so we thought we’d be good for the night. For our brief tour of hell we were warned “Do not run, do not push, do not smoke. Do not touch the monsters and they won’t touch you.” The best part of this was that the speech was delivered by a giant ram/human hybrid, with a British accent. Blimey.
Because none of us are cowards, I was volunteered (this is what happens when you are shoved into the front) to lead the way, while Ashley generously offered to bring up the rear. Lisa was going to ‘keep us together’ by being in the middle.
For the record, isn’t it sad when you know somebody is going to jump out at you, you even see them and wave, but then you shriek anyway when they run at you with a chainsaw? There was a lot of running. I hit a few walls (this is where I swore between shrieks), but we made it out. There were HUGE ogres eating humans, torture chambers, ghosts, wigglies, you name it. There was even a spinning tunnel that really screwed up the sense of balance. In the end it was better than a cornfield, and there were even huge bruises to prove it (flesh and pride).
I never knew I could shriek the way I did. Go figure.
Good Advice
There is nothing more flattering than being solicited for advice.
Granted, this can be tricky. When a situation has evolved to the point where the dilemma warrants advice, it won’t be a simple solution. I have had such circumstances brought to my notice (either my friends are desperate, or I actually do have insight. I hope it is the latter).
Anonymous Male Friend approached me at work. He, one of the three male associates at Retail Hell (so much for anonymity, but none of you know him), had a problem. He needed to get his girlfriend a gift. As I am a woman, and seem to be cool (enough), he asked me for advice (my feelings of self-worth and my ego did puff up a bit).
After ascertaining his position (IE, time they have been together, seriousness of relationship, personality of Girlfriend) I decided to conduct market research and get back to him (if anything, I am thorough, and have no desire to give poor advice. I am also worried she may eat him if I miscalculate).
-As a rule of thumb I apply, advice should never be given unless asked for, and then the giver should not interfere with the course of action the decisionee ends up making (I sometimes break this rule, but it is because I get stubborn and just have to chip in my two cents. I am working on that).
With his permission, I immediately spread my information-gathering tentacles on the female end (my very diverse female end, I might add. It is important to cover the spectrum). My survey question was: “What does a 22 year-old man in a 2.5 year long relationship give his girlfriend for her birthday? She is 22 as well and somewhat demanding (although sweet).”
The responses:
1) “Something well-thought out and sentimental. He needs to show her he cares. I think he needs to plan a date where they met, and do the things she likes. It should be a surprise, but she should know in advance he is planning something she likes so she can dress appropriately. That and she won’t kill him thinking he forgot.”
2) “Something homemade. Even if it sucks, if he put effort into it, I would like it. Of course if it sucks, he’d better have some other trick up his sleeve as well.”
3) “Jewelry. If my honey bought me clothing, he would get it wrong. I don’t care as long as I adore it.”
4) “I am all for some thoughtful little gift, a nice dinner out, and maybe a rose. Or a dozen roses, but one can’t be picky. I like the yellow ones with the pink edges.”
5) “If my man doesn’t get me tickets to the Usher concert, he is in deep shit!”
6) “Mine made me dinner!!! We ended up at Taco Bell later, but it was so romantic!”
7) “We just need to be ALONE. Together. Alone… do you get it? Ok. Allooonnee.”
8) “I would be happy with a hug and an ‘I love you.’”
9) “He needs to do something so unexpected, and so sweet that I realize the effort he went to. That shows me he cares. Nothing is sexier than realizing your boy actually was paying attention several weeks ago when you mentioned you love the Care Bears, and he manages to find an out-of-circulation VHS tape and convert it to DVD. That is HOT.”
After conducting this survey, I hit the web. Looking at Dear Abby and Miss Manners (who appears to be rather grumpy, BTW) I have further learned that according to the proper rules of etiquette, giving jewelry or accepting jewelry from a member of the opposite sex (who is not family) is improper. This may be a little archaic by my standards, but I take each situation separately (As most of my jewelry was granted to me by default from relatives and friends whose ex-boyfriends are scum, though, I can see how this logic would make sense. Nobody wants painful reminders).
Heading back to Anonymous Male Friend with survey results and info in tow, I advised that he needs to come up with something smacking of his individuality (which seemed to be the underlying theme in most answers and what I would want in Girlfriend’s case). Odds are Girlfriend likes him because of his intelligence, creativity and sense of humor (most friends I know, both genders, think highly of these characteristics). In his case, anything he comes up with would get an ‘awwww’ anyway.
After staring at the list and wrinkling his forehead in deep thought, he asked if I had made these up (I was a bit indignant, and so I smiled. I have a certain smile that makes it very clear what I think. Come to think of it, it is closer to baring teeth). In the end, feeling somewhat less stressed, he decided to make her a card and a picnic lunch. Awww.
Much cheered, we began discussing WHAT he should make for said lunch, when our Boss’ boyfriend sent her roses. Yellow ones, with pink trim (Can you say VINDICATED?! HA!). After the collective ‘awww’ subsided from the female associates, and Boss left early to go out with awww-inspiring boyfriend, I saw the cogwheels turning as Anonymous Male Friend mentally added flowers to his list (although I think the roses did morph into lilies).
He should be okay.
Taverna Plaka
There are times you simply need to unwind.
I recently took one of these, after a particularly nasty day in retail.
The moment my shift was over, I ran screaming from the mall (almost as quickly as a man dragged in by his girlfriend, intent in her search for the ‘perfect’ poncho). Speeding somewhat conscientiously, I drove straight to Queen of Sheba (an Ethiopian restaurant), and immediately ordered myself a glass of honeyed wine.
“Jillers, what is with the wine?” My brother-in-law was a bit curious I had ordered a drink, as it is somewhat out of character. In case you are wondering how he ended up at Queen of Sheba, our little gang had planned this rendezvous for weeks. “It is my favorite,” I breathed between gulps. “It doesn’t taste like wine at all. Besides, we have to celebrate! Laura is home, and I had my first complaint today!”
I am afraid it is true. I was placed in Zone One (where we greet customers at the door and feign enthusiasm we may have once had). Because of our huge sale, it was extremely crowded, so I was shouting myself hoarse for five hours (in addition to having sore cheeks. Plastering on a smile for that long hurts). To make a long story short, I wasn’t attentive enough to a particular customer. With my luck she was the secret shopper.
“Ouch. Sounds like you had a great day.” Leave it to Lisa to make a statement I, myself, would have uttered. “Oh yeah,” I replied, sarcasm dripping in each word. At this point I was swirling the dregs of my glass, having downed two-thirds of it. “There is nothing like a public reprimand to boost employee morale.” Not that I was thrilled to royally piss off some older, rich woman, but hey. “Angelica understood we cannot please everyone, but she told me to make sure I addressed everyone’s needs. We need to take care of our customers, or we lose them.”
“Why don’t you just quit?” Laura, like Matt, has made it clear in the past what she thinks of my duties as a sales associate. More accurately, she has made it clear what she thinks of the size of my paycheck in comparison to said duties. “I don’t mind it, really, and I like the extra money. Besides, I like my coworkers.” I paused. “Anyway, Laura, how was the drive from Michigan?”
We continued to talk and eat dinner, which consisted of anjara (a type of bread that is used as a utensil), kitfo (ground beef), and yebeg tibs (lamb). It was very distinct, and very tasty. Ethiopian cuisine is always seasoned well, which is why it is a favorite in my family circles.
Post-honeyed wine, we drove to Taverna Plaka. This is what we had planned for, and where things got interesting.
Once valet parking took off with Matt’s car (I noticed the valet was a bit uncoordinated, but whatever), we made a beeline for the bar. Taverna Plaka is known for its martinis, and my relatives for their generosity. Unfortunately, Miles, our usual bartender, was in the front room at the more prestigious section. Cozying up to our favorite perch, we introduced ourselves to Omar, our ‘new’ bartender.
“What can I get you folks this evening?”
While everyone else asked to see the drinks menu, I asked for an espresso martini. I had planned this for weeks, after all. I was halfway finished with my first martini when my fellow barflies finished debating the pros and cons of Chihuly Sunset versus Athena’s Power, so on and so forth.
“Jill! You just downed a martini in under three minutes!” Matt was somewhat surprised because I am not terribly keen on alcohol. “Trust me, I cannot do shots,” I explained. “But this martini is really good.” Of course it was good. It had a LOT of chocolate in it. Most importantly, it had the power to keep me awake.
By martini number two we had moved into the prestigious section. Lisa waited no time before letting her inner wicked woman out. “Hey!!! Everybody is already dancing on the tables!!! Let’s go dance on the bar!!” Laura, eager to watch me make an idiot of myself, pushed for this end. “Jill, I want to see you dance on the ba- Look! Lisa, there is one of the belly dancers!” Yes, there are belly dancers. I have seen them before, but they still impress the hell out of me. Lisa was suitably impressed for her first encounter with them, as well.
Belly dancers aside, not one to corndog out on a perfectly entertaining-sounding proposition, I elbowed my way to the bar and asked if we could dance on it (just to say we danced on the bar, later).
“If you take your shoes off, go for it.”
After giving pause and contemplating what had rested on the surface of the bar, Lisa and I pulled off our shoes and climbed up. Two minutes later, after watching other women pointing and looking extremely (and deliciously, satisfyingly) jealous, another climbed up to join us. Not wanting to be elbowed off the bar by the attention-seeking redhead, Lisa and I climbed down where we validated the experience.
“Lisa, we danced on the bar!!”
“We rock!!”
Because we love to dance, we spent another two hours doing just that. It is nice being able to unwind.
Cravings
There are cravings, and then there are CRAVINGS.
I have seen both in action, and was most recently a victim of the latter.
The seriousness of CRAVINGS can be easily illustrated. Prior to my latest CRAVING, the last time I had a CRAVING was while I was in Australia. At this juncture, I was living in the ghetto (seriously. Karawara is the ghetto). Thankfully no CRAVING is powerful enough to make one consider a course of action potentially leading to bodily harm.
Needless to say, in the ghetto, one doesn’t go out alone in the evenings, especially if you are a woman (while the running joke is that would-be criminals would pay me to let them run away unscathed, I am simply not stupid or brazen enough to flaunt idiocy).
As memory serves, it was a Sunday evening, and for some reason Australia has closed shops on Sundays. This is especially annoying (but not as much as having stores close at six on weekdays). Regardless, I was watching the Simpsons with my flatmates when IT happened. I had a CRAVING.
“Hey, does anyone have any chocolate?”
“Nope.”
The thing about CRAVINGS is that they can affect the people around you. Nine times out of ten, if you are a woman living with other women, any time you have a CRAVING at least 75% of your flatmates will end up with cravings as well. This can average at about 85% contagious if the CRAVING is for chocolate (and while chocolate is pretty much guaranteed to cause cravings, it is the only substance in my knowledge that can cause CRAVINGS by association).
Within five minutes of my piteous cry, there were six women pawing through the cupboards. Rie’s cupboard: Negative. Julie’s: Nope. Louise’s: Nada. Tapuwa’s: Not even any hidden Tim Tams. Abby’s: A box of Milo (powdered chocolate milk mix. Nasty stuff). My cupboard yielded nothing, as we had eaten my M&M’s, Tim Tams, Chocolate chips, and anything chocolate-related several hours before.
BUT, there was a bar of baking chocolate discovered in the wreckage. Now, if any of you have ever been desperate for chocolate, and have actually tried this unsweetened abomination, it is nasty. The only reason I had it was because I actually was baking things at this point. Considering I couldn’t cook, I needed to do something to keep my housemates happy (especially since I am NOT a Domestic Goddess, as you well know).
The level of CRAVING, craving, and desperation boiled down to as follows: We couldn’t travel to a store, as they were closed. Louise’s car was a piece of crap, so it probably would have broken down anyway. This left six highly-educated, beautiful, competent women staring at a box of Milo and a baking bar.
I must have had one hell of a CRAVING. My five housemates actually drank the Milo (nasty Nasty NASTY. Milo is to Nestlé’s Quick what Vegemite is to Peanut Butter). Of course only Americans appreciate buckets of sugar dumped into their food, but I stand by my assertion that Milo is shit. Perhaps this is why in my moment of darkness, I sat down and actually ATE the chocolate baking bar.
Even my housemates were astounded by this ridiculous length I had gone to to get my chocolate fix. “Dear God, she is eating a baking bar!” spoke Julie in quiet shock. “I have never seen this, and I am studying Psychology!”
“Jill, it is all right,” soothed Tapuwa. “Tomorrow we will walk to the gas station and buy some overpriced ice cream!” Abby jumped in. “Jill, do you think you will have a craving for apple pie this weekend?” Rie commented as well. “I could go for some apple pie. Jill, can you make us apple pie? I suddenly have a craving for apple pie.”
Things went downhill from here. By the end of the night, we had eaten ice cream, whipped cream, apple pie, pickles, Milo, a baking bar, and in Louise’s case, a can of condensed milk.
Until last weekend, over half a year later, I have not had another CRAVING.
This brings me back to where I began. My most recent CRAVING attack was remarkably well timed. I had the house to myself, and anyone who dared stand against me was 800 miles away. This was great, because what I really missed were pickled eggs. Not to be deterred by warnings I would stink up the house (IE don’t do it), I went out and purchased $15 worth of eggs, vinegar, and jalapenos.
Well, I DID stink up the house. The cat was pissed. She ran outside and I didn’t see her until three days later. The smell didn’t really bother me; I lost my olfactory sensitivity in Organic Chemistry. I did leave an open box of baking soda out to deodorize the house as much as possible, though (Heloise Helpline from Good Housekeeping. –NO sniggering).
My directions said I had to wait at least three days, but when one has a CRAVING, three hours is the max. My pickled eggs turned out pretty well, actually. I have about $12 worth of eggs to go. And it is nice to have a snack my relatives won’t filch.
Although myself having been guilty of being the filcher one too many times already, I have no right to complain. I could not help but notice, though, that Lisa (my new housemate) has a really nice chocolate bar hidden in the butter drawer of the refrigerator.
Amateur.
Domestic Bliss
I am not a domestic goddess.
In fact, my lack of the feminine arts (in any category) is legendary.
I feel more at home mucking out a barn than while attempting to clean the living room. My bedroom, when I attempt to clean, is usually approached with the same battle weapons I apply in the barn: a pitchfork and a wheelbarrow. I have never really operated a washing machine until college, and even then I took as long as humanly possible between washes (not just because I was busy, but because I had to wait for my roommate to leave so I could deck the pitchfork and wheelbarrow to find my quarters to pay).
Those little household tricks my mother was supposed to impart upon her daughters for gleaming tables, immaculate curtains, etc. etc. missed all of us. The ones I did pick up (read outdoorsy tricks) have not served me well living alone (I really have no need to borrow my twin’s toothbrush and toothpaste to clean saddle silver here in Metro Atlanta. In retrospect I shouldn’t have put it back on her shelf, but I was ten, and somewhat vindictive about how she got to ride Shamu at Sea World and I did not).
The ensuing emergency phone calls home are usually of me in distress, with my mother likely wondering what she did wrong on the other end. Mother is good with everything. It is entirely unfair.
In my defense I have improved. Courtesy of my outdoorsy youth and living in the MTU dorms, I am not afraid of getting dirty. This is excellent, in that a cardinal rule of cleaning is “Something shall not become cleansed unless something else becomes dirty.”
I have finally picked up some tricks (courtesy of Mom, Heloise Helpline in Good Housekeeping magazine –no sniggering, thank you much- and Grandma).
It is a sad day when I finally run to Grams. I love her dearly, but nuclear power plants do not have high enough sanitation standards for my grandmother. This woman said my twin and I were unfit to live alone because we had no clue what a ‘dustbuster’ was (although we know the intricacies of shop vacs) and insists there is only one proper place to store properly folded towels (another topic in which my twin and I are deemed unfit).
Said Grandma is so organized, her furniture even has labels on it indicating who inherits what upon her death (this is rather creepy). And unlike my mother and I with our car troubles, Grandma has a photo album devoted to every single car she and my grandfather have ever owned (certainly creepy).
I have already commented on my KIA, and my mother’s van with the corn in the engine.
The Sum of My Domestic Know-How will now be imparted upon you lucky readers (don’t worry, it is rather short):
General Household:
1. If you have never had a dishwasher when younger, but did it all by hand, these machines are spectacular. Remember to load them so nothing breaks, and use the correct detergent (if you use the wrong detergent, you will find yourself mopping the floor). Other than the soap and no-break rule, easy as pie.
2. Pledge really is wood’s best friend. Use a soft cloth, not paper towel.
3. Change the vacuum bag (I once had a vacuum burst into flames on me, but that was entirely electrical)
4. Digital gas-ovens rock. ‘Cancel’ is the stop button.
5. Vinegar does something good. I forgot what that may be, but I know it is good.
6. Seal all sugar, honey, and dry goods in sealable, dry containers.
7. Store the trash OUTSIDE
8. Clean the bathrooms weekly. Otherwise, it they will be really hard to clean, and nasty.
9. Baking soda is excellent for deodorizing the refrigerator, shoes, and anything else (save the cat).
10. Lemon rinds/orange rinds will keep the sink from stinking to high hell
11. You CAN bargain with the plumber, especially if you are his last customer and he only reports he gave you a quote.
Lawn Care:
1. Cut no more than 1/3 of the blade length, or you will kill your lawn
2. Water early morning/late evening, otherwise the lawn will get diseased (midday wastes water)
3. Always mow straight up and down on a sloped lawn, so you don’t kill yourself (one of my Cross Country mentors cut his toe off)
4. Raking leaves actually helps the lawn, in addition to making a nice pile to play in.
5. Whether sitting your ass on a lawn chair, launching water balloons at the neighbors (gods, this is fun), or making a snowman, it is your lawn. Enjoy.
Cooking:
1. Butternut Squash makes an excellent soup. Sautee onions in a pot, then add mutilated pieces of squash. Add water, and boil. Mash later, and add milk. This is a creamy soup, and good with crusty bread. (It is kind of sweet)
2. Buy meats in bulk, but cut and freeze them separately in amounts you use to cook. This will save you grief, and your neighbors from watching you hurl choice cuts to the pavement in an attempt to break them apart.
3. Use fresh veggies when possible. They are cheaper, and better for you.
4. You CAN fry everything in one pan. Start with the meat, add the vegetables a bit later…. (all-in-one-pan cooking is popular and easy)
5. Never underestimate the power of cereals and soups, or of dishes that freeze well.
I’ll tackle any other problems as they come along. I just hope none of those happen to be plumbing again.
Six Flags Over Georgia
Approximately two weeks ago, my brother-in-law’s sister moved in with us. This pretty much guarantees some entertaining, sit-com worthy moments, while further demonstrating the kind and generous nature of my sister and her husband. The good will of my relatives is even more obvious in that my sister had to move back to Michigan to care for my mother for four weeks.
Poor Matt is therefore stuck here in Atlanta with his sister, and me. He jokes rather good-naturedly about how the hell this happened, and how much it sucks. (He and Laura jokingly refer to us as “my slave and your slave.”)
About three days after Lisa moved in, we decided to go celebrate her arrival and the last open day of Six Flags where we could use our season passes. Luckily we are all rollercoaster junkies, so we didn’t take long to pile into Matt’s Aztec (he also doubles as a chauffeur).
The day started off well.
“Jill, if you are dressing in shit clothes I will too!! But remember we are going to Church first!” -Lisa is good with remembering the order of things. As a result, we stormed the Church bathroom after service and tried sneaking out the side door so nobody would see how grungy we appeared.
It didn’t work. Blanche (I kid you not, that is her name) saw all of us and asked if we were going running. “Nah,” I replied. “We are going to Six Flags!!”
Having successfully begun our journey, we determined our plan of attack and undertook the necessary sunscreen applications. We sang to hip hop music, behaved like juveniles, and instructed Lisa on how to avoid the gauntlet at the gate.
(I should mention at this point we arrived at Six Flags parking. No joke, we drove down EVERY ROW in search of the closest parking spot. This wasted 20 valuable roller-coaster minutes, and I can’t say it is a guy thing because Lisa and Matt were rabidly intent on their search. I was in the back pointing out visible good spots 30 yards away, where we did eventually end up. My only criteria in parking is under a working street lamp, away from most bushes and shrubs)
“Sis, when you enter the park, there is an army of employees standing arm-to-arm. Every other person has a camera, and people dressed as Tiny Toons characters try to pose with you for a fee.”
I added, “Breaking through is like the Red Rover plan of attack. We split and aim for the weakest points. These are usually Babs Bunny and Daffy. When we break through, head right and we’ll meet by the Ninja.
“The Ninja? Is that a roller coaster?”
“Yeah, but there is a statue of a Ninja as well.”
“You know, Ninjas developed to fight the Samurai!”
"Sweet!"
Eventually we made it to our first coaster. As we were waiting in line, we read the signs comparing its height to Godzilla, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and other attractions. I was revved to go, yelling “We will ride them all until we puke!! No leaving until they kick us out of the park!!!” –This is a popular battle cry, as cheers began erupting from around us in line.
At the entrance, we had to divvy up who would sit by whom. After Matt and Lisa realized I hadn’t shaved for 3 weeks (I work long hours. In slacks) Matt generously offered to sit by himself. Lisa and I laughed. I like Lisa, who jokes “sometimes I go for four weeks without shaving! There are times it just doesn’t figure in, you know? Screw it, it gets cold!”
After that ride, we trekked to the next, a large tower that drops you. The rides are weak compared to Cedar Point, but they are still fun. It was after this second ride we realized we needed carnie food to continue (well, we could have gone all day, but we like carnie food).
In Miss Dixie’s Depot, I had what happened to be the most powerful Sweet Tea ever made. Sweet Tea is a southern drink, where they brew tea with sugar in it. It is good stuff. In any case, this tea must have steeped for 4 hours, and was mighty strong. To cover up the tea taste, they subsequently dumped 2 pounds of sugar in the canister. This overpowering combo of sugar and caffeine has what Matt dubs, the “southern crack” effect, and I went looney. I stayed that way for 5 hours.
To make a long story short, I ran giggling around the park, jumped up and down clapping my hands, pointed at all the good rides, and insisted we ride the Batman coaster in Gotham City twice because it was the best (I should mention I hummed the theme song incessantly). Later on we rode Monster Plantation which is essentially a bunch of muppets in an old plantation house. This ride is older than I am, and reminiscient of “It’s a Small World” at Disney. We all agreed it was the most frightening by far. The mold smell contributed to that.
In part due to my gregarious plan to conquer every roller-coaster at Six Flags, and because we all shared this dream, the day was really, really fun. While I was overly wired, I never reached the ‘annoying as hell’ point*. I was even told I was the most entertaining person to stand in line with. :-)
We only missed one coaster, and that was because they kicked us out of the park.
*the Annoying as Hell point exists and has been observed in individuals on a caffeine high. The exact amount of caffeine is varying, as individuals react differently. The most notable case of a person reaching the ‘annoying as hell’ stage occurred my freshman year when some idiot handed out caffeine pills in the dorms. The girl EVERYBODY adored was so wired she was singing and dancing through the halls at 4am.
Nice? Yes.
Funny? Yes.
Annoying as Hell? Yes.
Politics
I am not one of the Americans looking forward to November.
This has nothing to do with the onset of the Holiday season and its subsequent weight gain. Believe me, I enjoy the Holidays. Any reason to celebrate with friends and to eat what other people cook is a good reason to party.
These reasons include and are not limited to: a tradition started by some obscenely bored Pilgrims, the birth of the Messiah, spirits returning from the netherworld one evening per year, and realizing your housemate cracked before you did and bought the groceries. Knowing you don’t have to buy them: Priceless.
Regardless of my undying love for the Holidays, I still am dreading November. Why? I watched the first Presidential debate last night. America is in for some really tough choices: bad and worse. At least everyone is disgruntled enough to vote in this election. I hope we at least get 75% of American Idol’s voting public.
It is my duty as an American to vote. As a woman, I refuse to not vote knowing what we had to go through to get that right. As a person under age 25, nobody cares about my age demographic anyway and I will vote simply to prove we are not apathetic about our government. As an American, I will vote because I can (providing my township actually mails my absentee ballot this time).
Making my decision to watch the debates was not hard. I wanted to learn more about the issues, and I wanted to see if Bush would call Kerry a pansy-assed yellowbelly on the air.
(I had not bothered with Fox News’ interview with Bush earlier, knowing O’Riley would ask such fair and balanced questions as “Why do you think the left-wing liberals have so many objections over your extremely well thought out and effective strategy in the war on terror?”)
Although I knew the odds of actually hearing WHAT anyone planned to do would be slim, I had hoped to see a brawl. I know Bush insisted the podiums be placed further apart because Kerry is taller than he is. I can read up on the issues myself.
September 29th, 9:00 P.M. Nestled on the sofa, pen and scrap paper in hand, I tune into NBC. On the couch next to me are my brother-in-law, his sister, and an armada of Busch Beer cans. The strategy is announced: “Okay ladies, every time Bush makes a face, we drink. When he uses ‘uh,’ ‘um,’ or ‘mmm,’ we drink. When he says ‘Nucular,’ we drink. Everybody ready?”
-We all have leanings in favor of Kerry.
As the evening progressed, both candidates behaved. Kerry diligently took notes while the President may have doodled from time to time. We think Bush may have tried to draw an unflattering caricature of Kerry, or tried playing the dot game with himself. In either case, his rebuttals were not nearly as effective. Kerry is by far a better debater.
(Whether each has better policies is for you to decide)
I also like the night’s Bushism, ‘ferciferously.’ I think he meant vociferously (meaning loud and vocal). The level of public speaking was further demonstrated by my relatives’ slurred speech and query of “who the hell is this Al guy they keep talking about?”
Poor Osama.
Overall, the main points I pulled from this (as stated by the candidates) are as follows:
1. Bush is better than Kerry
2. Kerry is better than Bush
3. Bush says we will have an all-volunteer army
4. Bush made a mistake attacking Iraq, which was not a key factor in the war on terror… it was for oil and because of non-existent weapons of mass destruction
5. Kerry is wishy-washy
6. America’s credibility has been ruined by the war in Iraq, and the faulty intelligence
7. While Bush is busy running around, North Korea now has nuclear weapons, and our alliances are in shatters (except with England and Australia) This is bad for the war on terror
8. Kerry won’t cut taxes, but how his programs will be paid for we do not know
9. Bush cut taxes for the wealthy, and all our money is being squandered. Our troops don’t have armored tanks or protective vests. The borders supposedly suck
10. If Kerry is elected, and admits Iraq is a mistake, foreign leaders will doubt America’s ability to commit and succeed in Iraq and other endeavors
After watching this debate, I am still doubtful about the future of our nation. I have to say I am voting Kerry right now, but depending on pending world events and political aims, it could change. But probably not.
I hate it when I agree with some of what each candidate has to say.
Regardless of what your political affiliations may be, please vote. Voting alone is not enough, though. Please research the issues. We have to live with our decision for another four years (we live with the ramifications of our decision for even longer).
Hopefully the Holidays redeem November. I have been trying to figure out the perfect Halloween costume, and after considering my budget and sense of humor, I finally am ready. I will wear a garbage bag and go as white trash.
Work and Learning
I work part-time at a women's clothing store. I keep learning things there, much to my surprise.
Usually I find out the most interesting bits of gossip after the gate has been barred, and we all start dancing to hip hop on the radio. This is when discussions of relationships, lack of relationships, boyfriends, and other various related topics occur (occassionally we branch out to mortgages, banking, children, carrots as a source of nutrition for women over 25, and hurricanes, but not often).
-yes, apparently it is impossible to exhaust a topic, beat it down to nothing, and move on.
I have learned many things from these little chats.
1. If you have a wife, and she drops hints about receiving flowers for several weeks, only buying them after she throws a tantrum in the local grocery store is considered poor taste. Warning signs Husband missed as follows.
WARNING SIGNS OF IMPENDING DOOM:
a) Wife compares price of a single rose as being cheaper than a Whopper at BK.
b) Wife repeatedly oohs and ahhs over sentimental courtship rituals of other couples, namely, "Oh, Mike, Ron brought Carla a daisy he picked on I75 while stuck in traffic! Isn't that sweet? That traffic jumper gave him some extra time in his commute."
c) Wife flat out asks, "Why do you never bring me flowers?"
The round-table open-panel discussion resulted in our following rulings:
a) Husband should have poneyed up the $1.50 for a rose
b) Husband should have said something corny enough to wiggle out of buying rose, such as "Why do I need to buy a flower when I have the loveliest one here with me?"
c) Husband needs to at least take wife to BK, or bring something home with him so she isn't stuck with carrots.
2. If your boyfriend lies to you, dump his ass. Especially if he claims he was working overtime, and your friend spies him in a club making out with another girl. In your polo shirt. That you just had dry-cleaned. Remember to retrieve the shirt, first.
3. Love triangles in the military are a bad idea. Everyone has access to weapons and combat training.
4. Calling your girl every hour while she is at work results in a lot of swearing at her cell phone when she checks her messages. She is not happy, amused, or thinking that it is sweet. In fact, she wants to hurt you badly, and a rose may not save you.
5. An African-American woman's hair is extremely high-maintenance. A white girl can't even begin to understand the complexities.
6. Carrots are necessary for women over 25 to keep the pounds off.
7. Getting in good with the local bartender makes life grand, especially if he was voted hottest bartender in Atlanta by Giselle Magazine. (You are catalogued as obsessed by the panel when you budget your income so you can buy a silk camisole to wear to the bar, just for him. Think of how many girls he buddies up to in the bar....)
8. If you do upset anybody in a club, the bouncers never get to you quickly enough. Plastic surgery is needed in extreme cases.
9. For every good man you find, you date at least 5 losers.
10. Men who hoot and holler at retail employees qualify as losers (as are the ones who come in to buy clothing for their... sisters, etc. THEY ARE ONLY THERE TO FLIRT, AND TO MESS WITH YOUR CONVERSION FROM BROWSERS TO BUYERS).
There are more. Odds are if you have a question, I have already helped to field an answer. Scary.
Segueing into the world of a 'real' job, I have witnessed many battles. My position as a receptionist places me in prime location.
I have seen a 65-year old woman kick a Coke machine. I have seen the UPS lady attempt to flirt with my boss. I have called maintenance for microwave failures, fielded mass inundation of Avon catalogs, and killed a potted fern.
I have endured personnel meetings. I have stuffed my face with free pizza, Chinese cuisine, and bagels. I have slowly become used to opening other people's mail. People have tried to bum cigarettes off me on break (I don't smoke).
The security guards have become friends, I know the building manager because we exercise together, and I have had to babysit a parakeet we chased around the loading dock (the lost bird eventually died of exhaustion, and I had to dispose of him). I also was not the only woman caught shrieking at the mail processor.
Life at the office is never dull. Ever.
That is good because I enjoy being entertained
Shopping
Most people really don't devote much thought to the local supermarket (unless one attends Grand Valley State University or Michigan Tech, where, pending age 21, 24/7 convenience doubles as the local hangout).
While not sobbing over the loss of my cheap-ass university Wal-Mart (and it wasn't even a super-Wal-Mart), I have suddenly found myself fond of one particular store. Publix.
This Publix is five minutes away from where I work. It has a sandwich bar, a sushi bar (only in the city can you find this), and discounted ice cream. Because I head there every day for lunch, the employees have started to become familiar with me. One employee in particular has become my nemesis (on the plus side, my lunch hour is always guaranteed to have drama).
It started in the express lane. Armed with my sushi tray and chopsticks, I decided to be friendly with my checkout clerk (I have friends who worked in that position. They all claim it sucks, so I try to be nice).
"Hi. My name is Jill. What is yours? I see you every day!"
"My name is Kevin. You always eat better lunches than I do."
"What do you usually eat?"
"Potato chips and candy."
"Yeah, mine is better."
"So, do you work near here, since you are always in my checkout lane?"
"Yes, I work by Perimeter Mall. Are you a student?"
"No, I am working here part-time while I pursue careers in my degree."
"You have a degree, that is great! I am doing the same thing. What is your degree?"
"Physics. What is yours?"
"Biology."
"HA! You are a loser!"
This. From a physicist. I will not be mocked by a mere physicist (anyone else is fine). I CAN DO MORE THAN RESEARCH WITH MY DEGREE! (Well, not that much). He is basically a wannabe engineer (apparently with the same people skills as an engineer)! HA!
In any case, his last comment was uncalled for and childish. And stupid, considering he was facing an equally childish college grad armed with splintery wooden chopsticks.
Let's just say I did a lot of gesticulating with those chopsticks, punctuated with shrill-going-on-shriller protests of his put-downs of my career. I believe I did some slamming of my own, complete with some insult geared towards Schroedinger's equation (which I probably butchered. That is a physics one, right? Involving a cat in a box?). All in all, it was kind of fun. I enjoyed the stress-relief.
Now, whenever I warily enter Publix, I am on lookout for Kevin. Sometimes they place him in different locations around the store, resulting in surprise attacks. Recently I found myself tiptoeing down the cereal isle, all to no avail. If you have ever seen Scrubs on TV, our relationship is like JD's with the janitor. I wanted to be the janitor. Dammit.
To make my torment complete, he has even begun to mock my car. At least I have a car (or rather, a KIA).
I find it amusing I now have a favorite supermarket, complete with resident idiot. This raises the bar on shopping for groceries.
PART-TIME EMPLOYMENT
There is a time in all our lives when we encounter the part-time job. Perhaps it is to fund college spending, pay for housing, or (in my case) to simply eat. I think a red flag indicating I needed ANY source of income during my search-for-a-real-job came when I found bulk cereal on sale buy one get one free. I stocked up (meaning I bought all I was allowed, then begged my brother-in-law to go back for more). I have enough budget cereal to last 8 weeks if I portion it carefully.
Moments of clarity like this one (realizing that Life cereal made me ecstatic) are what placed me in the Lenox mall to turn in job applications (I will starve rather than return to fast food. Well, no, but I really hated it). After a week of rejection (apparently a BS degree in Biology makes me unsuitable even for retail), I received a phone call for an interview at an upscale women's clothing store (which shall remain nameless). I was optimistic that I could be friendly enough to acquire the job.
This is where I made some key judgment errors. Seeing as this is the fashion industry, and I was in the South, I tried to dress nicely -in brighter colors (did you know they wear COLORS in Georgia?!).
I think that flopped, but I may have earned points for self-expression.
I also tried to be funny. This can be hard; especially if your fashion expertise is based off which flannel pattern is the most cheerful for lining your jeans. At one point I was asked if I read fashion magazines ("does Glamour count?") followed by an explanation that it is important to keep current with celebrity trends (Like Demi Moore.... If someone wanted an accessory like the one she was wearing in Glamour, I would be expected to know it). I commented how her best accessory at press time was currently Ashton Kutcher.
If you have ever internally cursed yourself after doing something you realize is probably incredibly stupid, you know how I felt. My interviewer did laugh... 45 seconds later. I am sure the Career Center at my university would have loved videoing this interview to show ways not to behave.
To summarize this experience, I practically ran into the women's bathroom to be mortified in private, then drove home (there are many reasons women excuse themselves to use the restroom. Familiar ones include to gossip about her date, to leave her date, to actually use the facilities, or to throw a tantrum to any other woman who is also currently getting screwed).
Amazingly enough, I did get the job. Since then I have had some great stories, which I will share with you (well, parts of them).
Job training is fun. They pay you to watch videos that are on par with "And if you get any chemical on you, please report it to the TA. Neutralize the chemical with baking soda, then rinse with water. If the chemical is in your eyes, remove contact lenses before rinsing with water...." Goody. After training, they actually let you loose to wreak havoc.
My first assignment was Zone 4. Denim (and none of it flannel-lined). After locating Zone 4 (in the far back corner) I went to assist customers with excellent customer service in any way I could. This includes hunting for sizes, checking for sizes in the back, and developing a nervous tic when anyone completely messes up the pile of clothing I spent 45 minutes folding. Then there are the walkies. If there are any problems, like shoplifting, getting into a fitting room, or gossiping about anything, we can use our walkies. For the first week Juanice and I were flitting about answering queries with "Roger that," and "Over."
Come to think of it, we still do.
We did get Jephreda, Sharie, and Brandy in on it as well. The managers need some work.
The walkies are great because communication really helps us serve our customers. When we can identify their fashion tastes and needs, we can serve them better and make a positive statement with our brand. An example is the girls who came in and asked if I knew of any slutty see-through clothing. I radioed back for a response.
"Cecilie, do we have anything red, see-through and slutty?"
"Girl, what the hell are you doing out there?!"
"We have some customers who are going to a strip club with their men. They want to keep all eyes on their... assets instead of the strippers'."
"That is NOT going to work. Besides, do we look like Wet Seal?"
"I'll direct them to Wet Seal, then." --- "Ladies, I am sorry. We are a wear-to-work source for sexy, career-oriented modern women. As we no longer carry sheer items, perhaps you would find what you are looking for at Wet Seal. Victoria's Secret has some good tops too, and Try BCBG."
More examples:
"Oh my god, Jill, is that girl making out with that boy by the stone-wash super low rise flare-leg jeans?!"
"Margaret.... eeeww. Yes they are. Yuck!"
"Kim, are you watching this?"
"My god, they think that because they are behind a pillar we cannot see them."
"How can we not see them? They are sucking face in front of a wall-sized mirror!"
"Nasty! Get a room!"
"Margaret, don't you dare let either of them into a fitting room. DON'T YOU DARE!"
"Somebody should go over there. They are freaking out the other customers."
"Who is in Zone 4?!"
"Hey, watch those girls in Zone 3; I overheard one of them talking about taking something."
"Roger that. Over."
"Oh my god, neither of them has come up for air yet. Seriously, people!"
I also stink at advising men which jeans suit them (think hips). In a women's clothing store, I never thought I would have to do anything of the sort, yet I did find myself in this position. He ended up being a size 8, and his boyfriend thought he looked sexy. Thank goodness for the walkies, otherwise it could have ended very very badly (if any men reading this care for my opinion, skintight denim does not have the same effect on you. DON'T).
A different sort of experience came when my manager was watching me try to build rapport with a customer, to identify her needs. As my manager discreetly watched from a distance, my customer began sobbing. That looked great.
What happened was she came in, told me she wanted something to wear to a wedding at 5:00 that day, and then proceeded to burst into tears. She was from the Bahamas, Hurricane Frances was blowing away her home, and she hadn't seen her friends who were to be in the wedding since they graduated college. She didn't want to look frumpy and was having a very bad day. It didn't help she was completely alone and unfamiliar with Atlanta.
I am still the most satisfied with helping that one customer than with any other goal I have reached in that store. I took care of her clothing problem, gave her some information about Atlanta, and let her vent. She was feeling much more optimistic when she left, and it still amazes me how something simple like a hug can make everything seem okay (I do not normally hug my customers, to let you know).
There were many refugees from Frances lately. They clogged I75 so badly, golf carts were distributing water and gas. Hotels were booked solid, and people were flocking to malls to get off the expressway and to try to gain some levity or a mini-holiday from an otherwise bad situation. In an unfamiliar area, I guess malls are a safe bet for some familiarity.
It is amazing what you experience in a different region. I should note that most people have stated they prefer hurricanes to snow. They told me so when they found I was from MI.
Besides the people portion of fashion, the clothing is pretty interesting as well. Most items are quite nice, but some are hideously ugly. There is a luxury coat that looks like somebody skinned a Wookie and repeatedly ran over it with a tank. The remaining hide and fur was irregularly sewn together with dental floss to create a coat so revolting that NOBODY has even considered purchasing it. In a city of 6 million, this is a failure (there is always somebody out there with eccentric tastes, or taste worse than mine).
In any case, I enjoy my job. It isn't what I will do with my life, but it provides 8-12 hours of learning experience weekly. My coworkers are great, they feed us during staff meetings, and when we have product launches, we always find ways to enjoy them. Juanice even set up a rating system for the male models in the videos (the managers prefer us to remain focused). Those girls make me laugh.
-I think we just hired our second male employee (the poor man). There are over 20 sales associates.
To all of you reading this who work part-time jobs, I salute you. Raise your cereal bowls high! For those of you working real jobs.... I don't work on commission, but come buy from me anyway.
OPPOSSUMS
What is drama?
This is a question that has been posed by many television sitcoms, foreign films, and anyone who has ever watched MTV or witnessed the behavior of Greek college students.
-Well, those last two really don't count as drama (they pretty much consist of sex and hysterics, which some confuse for drama, but those two activities do have their pros). That is neither here nor there.
I recently had my own drama staged right in my house.
Did I sleep with my sister's girlfriend's lover's cousin's babysitter? No.
Did I audition for American Idol? Ha.
Did I find out my father is an alien here to study earthlings? Not yet, but this would explain much.
Instead, my lovely sister returned home after working the overnight shift at Fox5 to find me in my pajamas, wearing gloves, holding the laundry basket, and clutching my camera. My brother-in-law was in his boxers, holding a golf club, and brandishing a dustpan. We were on the front lawn.
Before one even tries to draw any conclusions from this, let me place this scenario into context. My family is unconventional. We have done, and continually do, stupid, idiotic, and crazy things. We have a lot of fun with this. As a result, situations like the one described are rather blasé in this household. Also, Laura works in media. She knew there had to be a rational explanation.
The thorough journalist she is, she calmly looked to Matt to deliver it.
"Honey..... Guess what the cat dragged in."
Funny how everything can be summed in one statement.
Duchess is an average-sized, insanely gorgeous Himalayan cat. She has long creamy fur, delicate ears, and graceful conformation. She is the archetypical FancyFeast poster cat. This poster cat, however, has no desire to eat horsemeat out of a crystal goblet.
In fact, this cat is a survivor. I should mention she was found a de-clawed stray. We often wondered how long she was alone until the day she adopted us. Our estimate now is even longer.
Her Grace enjoys bringing in presents for us. At first we thought the moles, birds, and mice were tokens of affection or gratitude. As they began coming in increasingly alive, we started to realize Duchess regarded us as 'slow' children in desperate need of hunting lessons. She was working to improve our skills.
I suppose we did improve enough for the final exam.
Matt wakes up earlier than I do to shower and get ready for work. The morning of drama, there was a soft knocking at my door. "Jill, I am sorry to wake you up, but you have to see this."
Following into the bathroom, he points into the bathtub, looks to me and asks "Is that what I think it is? I almost stepped on it."
"Matt..... that is an opossum."
"Yeah. Thought so. Where is the cat?"
"Oh GOD."
"What do we do?"
"Opossums are the only marsupials in North America. They are nasty disease vectors and should be approached with caution."
"Rii-gght. Suggestions, WorldBook?"
"Do you have any thick gloves?"
As we determined a course of action (coaxing the bath buddy into the laundry hamper, then depositing it in the front lawn so the cat in the back lawn, if still alive, would not bring it back in) we did accomplish some prep work.
I, in my infinite wisdom, insisted on photographing this (not because I wanted proof mind you, because I only wanted to temporarily 'blind' this nocturnal creature and make it more compliant). In addition, we consulted some web pages and determined that adopting wild opossums is far more prevalent than any of us had ever known.
While working to protect wildlife, I work to protect my habitat as well. I draw the line at opossums and raccoons sharing my bathroom.
Once we had the creature scooted into the hamper, it closed its fists around the latticework, curled its tail and began to climb. This involved some yelping (It was all Matt, I swear) and some swift hauling ass to the door. Once outside, we tipped the hamper over and the possum casually sauntered under the nearest bush.
We congratulated ourselves on a job well-done. It was only after ten minutes of searching for the cat that we encountered stage two. We had given up on Duchess. We knew she was out in the kudzu somewhere, but were too tired to find her. Which is why when I was eating breakfast in the kitchen I was surprised to watch her run in, jump on the counter, purr to me, then jump back down. She promptly looked at me, turned, and ran yowling to the refrigerator.
Oh heeeellll no.
Yes. She was directing me to opossum number two. At this point I did some cussing, some laughing, and some quick reconnaissance of the rest of the house. Matt and I then proceeded to move the fridge, move the counter, apply some fancy footwork, and prod the marsupial with a golf club to secure opossum number two in the trusty laundry hamper.
It was right after this one sauntered away into the bushes that Laura arrived. While we left for work, she left for the vet with our increasingly unhappy feline.
Duchess is now confined indoors at night.
Perhaps it isn't sex and hysterics, but it was drama.
Starbucks
I have undergone many trials and experienced many new occurrences since having graduated from college and moving down to Atlanta from rural Michigan. I have survived rush hour. I have gone to famous places, seen celebrities up close, learned how to live with an indoor dog (who has higher status in the house than I), developed a resume that makes my lack of experience, skill, or knowledge seem attractive, and met a real live beggar (he was nice). All of these new experiences pale in comparison to the greatest trial I have ever encountered in my self-styled boring life; surviving Starbucks.
Starbucks is an immensely large, powerful corporation whose reach is incredible to fathom. It has been mentioned on CNN, Britney Spears has lattes flown to her from a specific shop in L.A., and Lewis Black has even featured it in his stand-up comedy routine. His assertion that the end of the universe is in Houston, Texas because there are Starbucks across the street from each other is pretty damn funny.
I always laughed at the Starbucks phenomenon. I hate coffee. I hate high prices, and I hate people who think walking around with a designer label makes them look cool (you need to be cool before you put them on to successfully pull it off). In any case, because of a free coupon (and a sewage problem), I found myself in one of these places.
The inside reminds you of an old bookstore/cafe. There are cushy chairs, mahogany tables, and oldish-looking stuff. I didn't take the time to notice this at first, as I sprinted into the restroom. (Sister's plumbing began backing up when I decided to be helpful and do her laundry. Because of a root problem, let’s just say my attempt to be helpful set me back in my attempts to be an unobtrusive guest). Once I emerged, I decided to actually use my coupon.
The overly chipper (obviously caffeine-afflicted) woman behind the counter kept chattering at me about what I should order, and how confused I looked, and what was I interested in, and did I want to try the coffee of the day, and did I want a cookie with that, and what size would I want, and was it take away or no. Yeah. I know.
Finally I stammered that I had this coupon, for buy one get one free, and could I please use it to buy the first one, and get a voucher for later, because I couldn't possibly finish a second one, let alone with a cookie, even if dining in. She said no.
To this I remarked that coupons are marketing tactics to get customers lured into the door instead of a competitor's. I explained that I would rather not walk across the street to Caribou Coffee where they would honor the Starbucks coupon, happy to steal the patronage of such a highly reputed establishment. It would be unfortunate for the clever marketing strategy Starbucks employed to benefit another corporation, and also nowhere in the fine print did it specify acquiring both beverages at once. To deny such is fraud.
In the end, we reached a compromise. I got a free sample, no cookie. The people in line behind me did not offer to kill me to move the line along. Their twitching movements were beginning to scare me, anyway (there was this woman, obviously a regular, giving my chattery server moral support). -Perhaps I was a little grumpy, but if you spent three sweltering days in Georgia without plumbing, you would find yourself grumpy, too. That, armed with the knowledge of what you must do once the plumbing is fixed, is enough to make anybody extremely grumpy.
In a court of law, six people could testify I threw a creamer at myself from five feet away, and as I would be the only dissident it could bode ill in the trial.
This is where I realized how effective Starbucks marketing policy really is. Not only did they get me in the door and deny me my free beverage, the bastards found a way to addict members of the population who HATE COFFEE and who don't consume much caffeine. They added CHOCOLATE to their drinks.
Son of a bitch.
Yes, there is coffee in my java chip frappucchino. Yes, it contains caffeine. But what sucks is that is tastes damn good, and that a small cost me $4. AND NOW I AM BEGINNING TO CRAVE. As if fighting off the chocolate Achilles heel was difficult enough, now I may have to actually struggle against caffeine, a chemical where there are physical side effects from withdrawal.
Suddenly, the cashier is not so annoying, or rapid-fire. Suddenly, I find myself comfortable in my new environment. Suddenly, the plastic cup in my hand doesn't appear so foreign. And suddenly, I think I found where the inspiration to produce the Stepford Wives movie came from.
Think about it; although the novel the movie is based on is from the '60's, the premise is similar. A woman enters a new environment and finds that all the women are being replaced with robots/clones/whatever. In the real world, real people are being replaced by coffee guzzling psycho-drivers with SUV's. AND EVERYONE THINKS SOMETHING IS WRONG, BUT CAN'T QUITE FIGURE OUT WHAT! -Seriously, addiction to Starbucks may be outpacing addiction to tobacco or alcohol. I would worry if I were in either of those industries.
Think about it: If they combine the patch with a latte, how much more success will those trying to quit smoking achieve? If you enjoy coffee-flavored liquor, say goodbye to beer. The world is changing, my friend.
If I ever go camping and end up with iced lattes instead of having a cooler filled with beer and pop, I will abandon my fellow campers and hitchhike home. Considering hitchhiking would be how I got there -as my car is destined to die during rush hour- this would not be too much of a problem.
I lift my latte in salute to Atlanta.
The KIA in Crisis
My car has had problems. Some say this is because it is my car, others maintain it is because I own a foreign POS KIA. I believe it to be a combination of the two. After all, my mother’s car had mice living in it for a while. As a result she had corn in the engine, much to the shock of the guys who volunteered to jump it after she left the lights on. Perhaps I was doomed from the beginning.
In the ongoing saga that is my car, I have had to crawl into it through the trunk, have ended up in several ditches, slid down three hills, pried open the hood with a screwdriver via the front grill, have outlived three windshields, a mysterious ‘brakes gone wild’ problem, and almost unfroze my gas tank top with a portable hair dryer. Almost. The stupid car won’t stay in park either. Jason is lucky he still has his feet. Then there was the episode where my windshield wiper fluid froze on me. Great. Just great.
The most current car problem started simply enough as a harmless Wal-Mart run. I forget what it was for (likely chocolate and hair dye) but Emily and I thought it a grand plan at the time. I unlocked the car door, climbed in, and shut it. The stupid door would not remain closed, but instead happily bounced open with every attempt made to close it. So in a “screw you, car!” moment (I outdid Adam Sandler from Happy Gilmore), I hit lock and slammed it. Hard. Well, that was several months ago, and since then I have had to enter and exit the car through my passenger door. I have gotten quite good.
In any case, this brought me back to my friendly neighborhood KIA dealer courtesy of my 5 year 100,000 mile warranty. There was almost an audible sigh as I rolled in. They know my car… and its driver. In fact, the last time I graced the dealership with my presence, I maintained that the car only needed a routine checkup, despite the alignment problem and the fact they had to keep it parked in a heated garage overnight because “there is so much snow packed in this thing, that it appears somebody picked it up with a forklift and dropped it in a ditch.”
Well, subtlety isn’t my strong point either. In any case, Jon, the friendly technician and I had a nice chat while a receptionist called in a shorter mechanic (no joke). Apparently the mechanics are either all taller than I am, or not as limber. It took a full ten minutes to categorize the current problems with my car, and sometime after hearing the words “corrosion” and “your gear shifter” I found out Jon is a college grad from Minnesota who was premed, but decided he hated it. I made a mental note to apply to grad school after all.
There is something to be said for patience. I waited in the ‘customer lounge’ for four hours while they dismantled (and I mean dismantled) my car. And that isn’t the worst part. I was sharing this waiting room with distressed personalities all grieving for their KIAs. Moans of “please take care of my baby” and “Dear god, say it is still under warranty!!” echoed through the garage where we could watch the carnage through the conveniently located glass windows. It was exactly like a bad 1950’s movie where the expectant father walks around with cigars and soaks up sympathy for his strife with the other patrons. In my case it was the smart-ass “hey! Check out that red Sephia! The entire drivers’ side is gone save the door!” that finally pissed me off.
The damn door is still stuck. I have to go back next week to get a new one (they had to order parts) and they assured me the short mechanic will be in. I doubt he is happy about it, but I was amused watching him try to get in the car to drive it out. For the rest of the time his feet were sticking out the passenger door, and I think he may have had blood rushing to his head. Better him than me.
Moral(s) of the story: Be nice to mechanics, apply to grad school or get a job, eat chocolate, and do not run over your friend’s foot. Also don’t leave the car lights on, but if you do, warn the mice.
