I Hate People

Dear gods, today I got this link:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/08/20/yes-she-can-59-of-huffpos_n_264411.html

Is this really a problem? Why do the comments contain such vitriol and argument? Did I really have to spend 5 minutes reading this so-called article and getting steamed over the comments?

Life is too farking short for this shite. Because the gods know that the next terrorist attack will come from a Macy's cell pissed that she wasn't wearing capri's. Or perhaps the economy will further tank because of all the people losing their appetite over something so trite and ridiculous. Or maybe that's just my appetite.

To the 41% that believe they have the right to dress anyone other than their dollies, this is why I hate you.

School's Out . . . un, In

So I'm taking an online Literature class (yeah, totally useful), but since I'm the dork that will take classes until the end of time, without gaining a degree, I'm excited.

I had to write an "Introduction" of myself for the other students and the teacher.
This is my first draft, which of course, just proves I do not make friends easily.

Good day all. My name is [xxx], and briefly, I like sarcasm, crosswords, dark beer, and watching my 1-year-old fall down. I have an addiction to adjectives, and tend to ramble (my alter-ego is a cruel editor). I'm from everywhere, and may have magical powers.
I am trepidatious about taking a literature class, being the first to admit that while I love to read, and write, I am adverse to over-analysing. Yet I thrill to the challenge of different perspectives, applying cultural mores to fiction, and the opportunity to share.
I believe that this class will satiate my love and fascination of varying cultures. I have a fondness for history, often rereading Larry Gonick's Cartoon History of the Universe, which is wry, well-research, and hilarious.
I am taking this course online due to time and place constraints, having also had only positive experiences with English courses online. Plus, I do so love to wear comfy clothes and have a cuppa while reading, researching, and writing, so it's win-win for me.
I do look forward to becoming acquainted with everyone, doubtless exposing the fact that while my written word often seems to come from a stuffy 65-year-old British man, I am usually found to be channeling an immature foul-mouthed bar wench, or so my husband tells me.

yeah. that's me.

It's not a trend . . .

So whilst avoiding housework I hit one of my favorite blogs and read this:

BernThis.Com

I thought I'd share an episode of my B&N life:

Working at the Information Counter at Barnes and Noble provided an unparalleled experience at sadly information-lacking customers and opportunities to practice subtle mocking. Alas, I left the bookstore world having failed at the subtle part.

Soon-to-be-irate Customer: I need you to help me find a book.
Moi: Sure, what's the title or author?
STBIC: Oh, I don't know. It was on the morning show. Awhile ago. It's blue.
Moi: Blue?
STBIC: Yeah. Blue cover. It was on the morning show.
Moi: Er, which morning show?
STBIC: On channel 11? In the morning? Can't you look it up?
Moi: Um, do you know what the book is about?
STBIC: It's about a girl. And her life, and stuff. It's blue.
Moi: (heroically not sighing heavily) Okay, was it a biography? Or fiction?
STBIC: Well, I don't know. Don't you have a list? Or look it up on your computer there. Jeez . . .
Moi: Hmmm, well, come with me. Maybe you'll recognize it.

STBIC innocently follows me to the automotive section.

Moi: Here is the Kelley Blue Book. Is this what you wanted?
STBIC: What? Noooo. Wha . . . it was on the morning show!
Moi: Oh, hee hee, silly me. Follow me, please.

STBIC innocently follows me to the art section.

Moi: Here is a blue book. Is this what you wanted?
STBIC: Why . . . Wha . . . nooooo. It's, it's about a girl. And a swimming pool.
Moi: Oops. Oh, now I think I got it. Follow me.

STBIC follows me to the religious section ("But, no, no, it's about a girl!"), the teen section (huge sigh "No, no, I . . . it was . . . the morning show . . ."), the notebooks and frivolties section, and finally back to the Information desk.

Moi: Well, I sure am sorry I couldn't help you. Gee, I feel terrible. Let me call the manager.
IC: (no longer soon-to-be) Well, fine. I guess I should have . . .
Moi: Yesssssss?
IC: I guess I should have just asked the manager first.
Moi: Huh. Okay. Groovy, here he is.
Manager: So, how can I help you?
IC: I'm looking for a book, from the morning show, . . it's, uh, it's blue.
Manager: Uh, right. Do you know the author or anything about it?

At this point my manager, who knew me oh-too-well, looked at me sideways. He seemed to be trying to impress upon me the lack of my customer service ability, but I countered with a roll of the eyes that knocked over a stack of magazines and dislocated my left shoulder.

IC: It was on the morning show, . . . awhile ago . . . about a swimming pool. I think Oprah liked it.
Manager: Could it be this book here on the bestsellers kiosk? The one right next to the Information desk? The one that has been on ALL the morning shows?
IC: That's it! Wow! Thank you so much!
Moi: Huh.

Yes, it's all true. It happened more than once. I never did manage to help those poor readers. I did however get the enviable job of sorting new books and creating tasteful displays.

Maybe now it's becoming clearer why I should not have customer service jobs.