Calculating Persistence

The beginning of a new year means we’re going to get new stuff. We look forward to the big chunk of money tax time brings every year to make improvements we can’t otherwise afford. This year, we’re changing up the kitchen. Having no upper cabinets, we just don’t have enough storage. We hit a couple of furniture stores to price sideboard type units in which to hide dry goods.

Furniture stores in general are annoying. Intrusive, aggravating employees that work on commission hover over you desperate to write up a sale. Usually the magic words, “We’re not looking to buy today.” makes them magically disappear. This was not so in the last place we visited.

Finding  a piece we would likely consider, Dewie and I were carefully investigating the potential wear of a buffet when we were approached by Julie. We swiftly told her that we were not buying at that time and were just considering our options. She would not be deterred that easily.

“You know, Friday we’re having a sale. Everything is 20% off.”

“Good to know, Julie. We will keep that in mind.” Julie was not deterred. She whips out a calculator and started punching in numbers.

“That would mean this piece would cost you…” (tappity..tap..tap)

“ $320. 20% off of $400 is $80.”

“Ummmmm…” (tappity…tap, tap) What the hell is she still typing? Even if I had not just given her the answer, she shouldn’t have to put in that many numbers.  She looks up at me sympathetically. “Actually it would be $280, so that’s even better, right?” Her lipstick caked lips part in an excited “O.”  What the hell did she do? That’s not even close, and her condescending overreaction has me suppressing the urge to slap that calculator out of her hands.

“So… Julie. If %10 of 400 is 40, then twice that would be 80, right?”

“Oh, I guess you’re right when you put it that way. I wonder where I went wrong?” Her face falls and that stupid suprised face droops in frustration. Suddenly, I feel bad for her. The deep lines in her face tell me she wears this expression often. I give her an out.

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll keep the sale in mind if we decide to go with this piece.”

Trying to redeem herself, she starts tapping again. “Well, the total price with tax and a $50 delivery fee would be…” (Tap, tap, tappity, tap, tap…) Trying to be polite, I wait for her to finish. It seems really important to her that she gets this one right. A full minute passes. Oh come on! Say $392! Come on, Julie… you can do it. $392. I try to telepathically send her the correct answer.  She has a calculator for crying in the sink.

 “$375.” Ohhh. So close. Perhaps they should add a basic math skills test to the hiring process.  At this point, I’m tired of this game, and frankly I’m just ready to go, so I don’t bother to correct her.

“Ok, then. Thanks, Julie.”

“Well if you decide to buy, please remember to ask for me!”

Don’t worry, Julie. You’ve made a lasting impression...

Master Procrastinator

It’s Saturday and Dewie had to work. My only job today was to go to Publix to restock our fruit bowl and pick up some bread. With it being cloudy and uninspiring, I laid around in my pajamas for most of the day. Before I knew it, it was nearly four and I hadn’t even brushed my hair, much less made it to the grocery store. Knowing I had to get this one little errand done before Dewie got home, I hurriedly dressed and took off for the store. Publix is only about a mile and half from my house. If I work efficiently, I could shop, put it away and cook dinner before 6. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be.

I hadn’t been in the store 5 minutes before I hear someone call my name. I turn around and see Devon. Devon is in his early twenties, of Indian descent, and has a tone to his voice that reminds me of a cartoon villain. He tries desperately to be helpful, but once filtered through his developmentally disabled brain, his good intentions are sometimes annoying.

 “Hey Molly. 755-4386. Area code 386.”

“Hey Devon. What ya been up to?”

“How come your phone number don’t work anymore?”

“I haven’t had that phone number in 5 years.” His lips curl up into a mischievous grin. The walking yellow pages already know the answer to his next question.

“What’s your new number?”

“Can’t tell you. It’s top secret. Did you wander over here by yourself or is your mom here?”

“She’s here. You wanna drive me home instead?”

“Devon if you get in my car, I’m going to take you to the zoo to live with the monkeys.”

I start to walk toward the produce section. Devon follows, his laugh sounding like a whispered witch cackle. “You still at the workshop?”

“Have you seen me at the workshop? Did you think I was just really good at hiding?”

“No.” he whispers his witchy laugh again. “Maybe you’ve been under your desk.” Now he’s cracking himself up. I can hear the timer counting down in my head. I’m going to have to cook something easy when I get home. I’m running out of time. Devon looks at me, all dancing eyes and white teeth. “Do you have Wendy’s phone number?” Wendy is my best friend. We worked at the workshop together.

“Nope. Wendy doesn’t have a phone. If you want to talk to her you have to send smoke signals.” I pause for the giggle. “Say Devon… It would really help me out a lot of you could pick me out two of the prettiest green apples you can find.”

“Ok. I’ll find some with no bruises or red parts.”

“Awesome. You da man, Devon.” Devon’s giggle fades into the background as I head over to the bananas. As I’m reaching for the greenest ones on the shelf I feel someone walking up to me.

“Hey. How are you?” I can’t place her. She’s familiar, though. I’m sure I know who she is.

 “Hey! Good. Just picking up a few things.”

“Yeah, me too. How’s the flea epidemic?” Ahhh. The tech from the vet’s office.

“Better. Still more scratching going on than I’d like.”

“Yeah, it sometimes takes time to get rid of them when they get real bad like that. I spend nearly $500 treating all my animals. They’re really bad this year.” I tried to hide my shock. $500? Surely she’s getting some sort of discount, working at the vet’s office and all. How many damn animals does she have?

“They are bad this year. Well. It was good seeing you.” I smile my best “I’m not being rude, I’m just in a hurry” smile and head toward the grapes. Is everyone I’ve ever met in freaking Publix today? I drop the grapes into my basket and consider what else I need. Apples. Crap. I forgot about Devon. I head back to the apples. Devon is leaned over the case, poking at a green apple.

“How’s it going, apple expert?” He pulls one out of each jacket pocket.

“I think these are the best ones. This one has a little red on it though, but no bruises. Is that ok?”

“These are the most perfect apples I’ve ever seen. You must be the best apple picker in all the land.” Devon giggles.

“You need me to get anything else?”

“Nah. You did good. I really have to run though.”

“Ok. I’ll tell Calvin I saw you.”

“You do that. Tell him I said hey.” I held out my fist and he bumped it. “See ya later, Devon.”

I head toward the check out and there are exactly three registers open, all of which have at least three people in line. They all look bad. I randomly pick one. I glance at my watch. 5:40. Looks like it’s sandwiches for Dewie.

Political Asylum

Just because I don’t endlessly discuss politics does not mean I don’t care what’s happening in this country.  I would wager that roughly half of the posts on my Facebook page and maybe a third of my personal emails contain some sort of political agenda. A large majority of my friends and family obsessively discuss, debate and rant about potential presidential candidates, and frankly, I’m bored.

No matter how many times you express your opinions, people will always hear what they want to hear. Discussing political views with anyone that disagrees with you is like having an argument with a three year old. No matter what you say, you’re going to get mostly “nuh-uhhhh,” “I know you are but what am I?” and “You’re stupid.” type of responses. It’s exhausting and fraught with circular reasoning.  People you once liked and thought reasonably intelligent are suddenly deemed imbecilic jackasses. Discussions of this sort are a big fat waste of time and energy and usually end with a feeling of wanting to stab someone. Why would I purposely allow others to fill my own head with hopelessness and rage? I can do that just fine on my own. Debating politics with someone that agrees with you is just as pointless, unless you’re in desperate need of a mutual stroke fest which will again eventually end in that same hopeless rage once you compare notes of the number of idiots that you know that are blindly misinformed.

I stay informed. I listen to what the candidates have to say. I process it, and then keep it to myself. I don’t want to be angry with everyone I know, and I don’t want to feel like the world is full of idiots that will ultimately destroy themselves and everyone around them.

Now if you want to eat, sleep and breathe politics, that’s totally your right, but I don’t have to engage in your pointless arguments. Good luck to you. I hope the constant stress doesn’t make your heart explode.

A Similar Jaguar

Recently Dewie and I were watching a true crime type show. The show alternated between reenactments and interviewing the law enforcement officers involved in the case. All was well until a backward cop from Las Vegas said he found the “Jagwire aflame in the desert. Then I seen there was a body in the back seat.” Really? They couldn’t find a smarter guy to interview for a television show? I’d hate to read his actual report if this was the extra professional TV version.  Not to mention that he managed to hit on two of my major pet peeves in about 5 seconds. Now, I’m not claiming to be an expert on the English language, but some things are just inexcusable. Since I think it’s rude to correct the grammar of an adult (children are fair game under the guise of teaching), I’m going to get it out of my system on paper. Well, on screen. Let’s start with the desert cop. I want to believe that maybe English is not his first language, but his accent was pure hillbilly.

“Jagwire”

Whether you’re talking about a cat or a car, the word is “Jaguar.” I know it sounds somewhat awkward, but everyone else is not saying it wrong. Say it with me. Jag-war. Good. Moving on.

“I seen”

Actually, you saw. It is never ever acceptable for the word seen to follow the word I. Accept maybe at the extreme redneck training camp.

“Simular”

There is absolutely no “u” in the word similar. Unless you mean to actually say “simular” which means imposter or simulator, but honestly, no one really uses that word in normal conversation.  What you likely mean is similar, meaning kind of the same. Sim-i-lar.

“Pacifically”

Lest you’re making some strange reference to the Pacific Ocean where it was necessary to use pacific as an adverb, what you probably mean is “specifically.” Yes, the “s” is important.

“Irregardless”

This one is huge for me since it is not even a damn word. When I hear it, it’s like an ice pick in my ear. I shudder and have to resist the urge to become violent. If “irregardless" was a word, it would technically mean the opposite of the way it’s used. Please, for crying in the sink, just say, “regardless.”

Instantaneously

Ok, so this one is a legitimate word, but unless you’re talking about physics, it’s just not necessary. It’s pretentious and annoying. Just say, “instantly.”

“Nucular”

One “u”. Nuclear.  Noo-clee-er. Just stop it. Please.

There's Something in my Third Eye

So I recently had a dream about a friend I haven’t talked to in a while that stayed with me. I dreamed that she was emotionally in trouble and I couldn’t stop thinking about it so I dropped her a line to make sure she was ok. The conversation went like this:

Me: “ I had a dream about you last night that left me feeling kind of unsettled. Don't worry, it wasn't all sexalicious, you were depressed and emotionally in trouble. I don't believe that dreams are prophetic or anything, I was just thinking about you so I thought I'd check in. You doing OK?”

Friend: “I’m doing well these days! Now if you had had that dream a couple years ago, well I would've gotten you a turban. But I’m doing fine now! Thank you for checking.”

This got me thinking… how cool would it be to have a turban? People would totally assume that you are a good psychic, even if you were full of crap. The turban automatically makes you completely credible. I mean, who besides a world renowned psychic and fortune teller wears a turban? Well, Muslims, I guess, but I haven’t perfected my seductive eyes yet, so no one would believe that. Besides, my turban would have one of those fancy medallions in the middle with a feather sticking out of it. A purple feather, because purple is the preferred color of mystic type people.

Maybe I can get my own show, guessing the names of dead relatives and making comforting comments.  “I see the spirit of a man standing behind you.”

 “Yes! That’s my old boss that died recently!”

 “I see the letter… M…wait no…the letter P… but it could be an R”

“Oh my gosh! His name was Ricardo!” (glad she offered that, dodged a bullet there…)

“He wants me to tell you that he’s at peace now and to keep up the good work.”

“This is unbelievable! He used to say ‘keep up the good work!’ all the time!”

I could be a super star… all because I acquired a turban. Better yet, I could take a page from the pet psychic and pick an audience that offers absolutely no validation at all, like babies. I could be a baby psychic.

“Your baby just adores formula. He also wants to tell you he likes the color red. He wants you to dress him in red more often.  Oh and his tushy is a little sore. He wants you to use more baby powder. That will be $150.”

The turban holds infinite power. I gotta get me one of those.

Temporary Insanity

I’d imagine PMS is as close to experiencing schizophrenia a sane person can come. Ridiculous mood swings, insatiable appetite for sugar and salt, impulse control issues and little voices that tell you to hurt people are all common symptoms to me. Although I’ve never had very regular cycles, I usually get a heads up when I find myself feeling kind of “stabby.” I call my little voice Papi, because I imagine that he’s a little bad ass Mexican gangbanger, and I am most definitely his bitch for 4 or 5 days out of the month. His voice is pretty hard to ignore. That’s why it’s in red.

Example #1:

Dewie: Are you going to eat that whole bag of peanut butter M&M’s?

Me: What do you care? You can’t eat them, your foot will fall off (she’s diabetic).

Dewie: You’re going to feel like crap.

Me: Stab that bitch in the face. Right in the effin face, man. You need to back the hell off.

Example #2:

Dewie: You look nice today. I like that color on you.

Me: You know you’re all bloated and sh@!. And that color red really brings out the inflammation in that big effin crater on your chin. She’s patronizing you. She’s making you look like a bitch, man. *Bursting into tears* Leave me alone! I’m a monsterrrrr!

Example #3

Me: I feel like crap.

Dewie: I know, just chill, I’ll take care of dinner.

Me: She thinks you’re a lazy bitch. She doesn’t believe you when you tell her I’m using your ovary as a tether ball. She thinks you’re a useless piece of crap, man. FINE! I’ll do it. Jesus, just get the hell outta my way!

Example #4

Me: You need a effin filet-o-fish man. If you don’t get a filet-o-fish you might actually die. I wanna filet-o-fish.

Dewie: Then go get one.

Me: Man, that bitch don’t care about you. If she gave a crap about you she would go get that filet-o-fish for you, put it in a gift box and wrap it with a shiny bow. She hates you. She haaaaattteeeessss youuuuuu, man. You hate me. I neeeeed a filet-o-fish.

Dewie: Then go get one.

Me: Don’t tell her she should go get it. She should know that. You’d better get one quick, it’s the only thing in the whole world that will make you feel better. I need one right now.

Dewie: You want me to go get you one?

Me:  That bitch is lucky she figured it out. Yes, please. That sh@! better come with a bow.

Example #5

Me: Where the hell is Dewie? She knows you don’t feel good, man. She’s just ignoring you so you can wallow in your misery, man. She don’t love you. Deeeeeewie! Where arrrrrre you?

Dewie: In here, playing on the computer.

Me: She loves that stupid game more than she loves you. I’m lonely.

Dewie: Ok, I’m coming. (Dewie comes in the living room and sits beside me on the couch.)

Me: Look at her, just sitting there. She’s always watching you, controlling everything you do. She thinks you’re some kind of bitch that needs supervision, man. Don’t take that crap from her. Why are you always watching me? I don’t need a babysitter.

Dewie: Ooookay. I guess I’ll go finish my game then.

Me: Of course she will. That’s all she cares about. Wait! Don’t leave me.

Dewie: Christ, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT FROM ME???

Me:  I. DON’T. KNOWWWW!!!!

And I don’t. It’s all about what Papi wants. And he’s a fickle little dude.