More cleaning lady excitement

So . . . FINALLY heard from my cleaning service. The “boss lady” left her typical voicemail, to let me know that it’s time for my cleaning service. My cleaning day usually falls on a Friday, but she wanted to know if the ladies could come this Thursday instead.

Only after she ran through the schedule did she acknowledge my message of nearly a month ago that complained about my back door being left open. She apologized that it’s taken so long to call me back. She went on to say that she did ask the ladies whether or not they had left my door unlocked, and they assured her that the house was secured.

Now . . . before I heard that message, I actually entertained the thought of letting them come and clean one last time. I planned to be present during the cleaning, and instruct them to leave the key when they were finished. However, her message completely pissed me off, and I made the snap decision that this service needed to cease immediately. So, I left a return message stating that I was putting the service on hold indefinitely. Yes, I could have simply said “you’re fired,” but thought that would have been unnecessarily rude to leave with an answering service.

She left a reply message, sounding disappointed, wanting to make sure that I was happy with the cleaning service.

I was so tempted to call back, and leave a scathing message that explained that while I was mostly happy with the cleaning service, I could have done without a few of the byproducts — a bit of negligence, a cracked mirror, and a few items that are oddly missing. I could have also done without the groundless protection of the cleaning ladies on her part. I mean, seriously . . . would I have been LYING about my back door being left open? I think not.

But, I didn’t say any of those things in the message. I thought it best to leave a message, simply asking that my key be returned. Let’s let her guess why I cancelled — although if she had a brain in her head, she could figure it out.

So . . . this is a pyrrhic victory for me. Maybe I showed her that I don’t take shit from service providers, and the victory for me is that I stopped my services. How I’ve cut off my nose to spite my face is that I now have to seriously look for another service. And I say “seriously” because it’s now been 30+ days since my house had professional cleaning, and trust me when I tell you that it could use some attention. Ugh!

Still a Facebook reject!

Now I’m getting seriously pissed off. And I have no way to retaliate. When I receive less than satisfactory service, I typically have something that I can hold over someone’s head – like the name of a supervisor, or a threat to use my media reach for evil, not for good.

For example, Tomek (alias Tom) of Stanley’s Granite and Marble, the contractor who installed my countertops some months ago managed to dent my (brand new, expensive) microwave in the process. I only used Tom because he was referred by a friend who’s a restauranteur, and now I regret it.

I didn’t notice the dent until he had conveniently left, with my final check for the job in his hot little hand. When I called him, five minutes after he had packed up and was on the road, he seemed apologetic and really nice. He promised to call with a plan. After a few weeks of promises, promises, promises, I began to seethe with anger – particularly since I have to look at that dent every single day. It’s like a knife wound on the cheek of a beautiful woman.

I’ve been relentless about calling him. I think he thought I would walk away after his refusal to answer the phone multiple times. Not so much. There’s a note in my office, on my computer screen that reminds me to call him at least twice a day from all four of my phone numbers – cell phone, blackberry, office phone, home phone. I’ve even sent a few text messages. Contacting Tom is as much a part of my day as going to the bathroom.

I’m like that stalking crazy ex-girlfriend that eventually receives a restraining order from her exasperated ex-boyfriend/obsession. The exciting part about this, however, is that I’m legally in the right. He can take his happy, microwave-breaking ass to the police if he wants to. In fact, I wish he would so that we could get this over with.

I finally caught up with him last week. The conversation went something like this:

Tom: This is Tom
Me: Hi this is Gina – the person who’s been trying to reach you about the microwave?
Tom: Oh, Gina! Hi! I know . . . I’ve been meaning to call you about the microwave.
[Nervous laughter on his end. Icy silence on mine]
Me: Yeah, well we need to straighten that out.
Tom: Will you be home tonight?
Me: No, but I will be home tomorrow.
Tom: Okay. I come tomorrow [sic], and we’ll get this straightened out
Me: Great. I’ll be home around 6:30.
Tom: I will see you tomorrow evening.

I called him the next day to confirm, even dangling the bait of potentially having more work for him (yeah, like I’d ever hire him again). No response. And as I suspected, he didn’t show.

Could I be angrier? Probably not.

So . . . I’ve decided to use my talents to get back at him. (Not what you’re thinking! )

The first step was to amass a list of the most popular review sites for home improvement (if anyone has a suggestion, please leave it in the comments).

The second step was to leave a scathing voicemail. Up until now, I had hoped to kill Tom with kindness. Now I’d like to kill him with the nearest blunt object – or perhaps wrestle my dented microwave from the wall and crack him in the head. But, since orange isn’t my color, and I don’t think I could bear sharing a cell with Da Brat, I decided that a mean message would have to suffice.

“Hi Tom. This is Gina. I think you know who I am. I’ve continually attempted to contact you regarding my microwave, and it’s become increasingly clear that you have no plans to fix it. Which is a problem. It’s a problem for me, because it’s entirely unacceptable for you to break things in my home, take no responsibility for it, and continue to waste my time by allowing me to think that you’re going to fix it, when you clearly have no intention of doing so. Until now, this hasn’t been a problem for you, which is very unfair. So . . . here’s what I’ve decided to do. Just to balance this situation, Tom, the first action I will take is to give you bad reviews. On every website. With every person I know. With every contractor. With every friend. I’m going to give you tremendously bad reviews because you deserve them. It will be my personal mission. If you would like to fix the microwave, I will stop. If not? Well . . . let the games begin. You have a great day.”

Now . . . there’s a good chance that Tom will never listen to that message. If I were Tom and I saw a message from me, I would be less than enthused about picking it up. I would even delete it before listening to it. No problem. Even better if he doesn’t, actually, because he will go online one day and do some ego-surfing, at which time he will be surprised at what he finds.

He might never pay for the microwave – in fact he probably never will. But I’m certainly going to make this situation memorable for him.

I haven’t yet figured out step three, but when I do, trust me when I tell you that it will be a whammy!

The moral of this story – don’t fuck with the appliances of a vindictive woman.

If you see me on Judge Judy one day, don’t be surprised.

Bus doors and Gator

So, the other day, at 7:35 am, I was getting off the bus to go to work. It was Monday morning, and if I measured my interest level in going to work on a scale of 1 to 10, it would land somewhere at 1.2.

I got off the bus at the back door, and felt the door slip behind me as I made an attempt to hold it. In case you’re not aware of the back doors of CTA buses, they have hyperactive hinges that snap shut, and will catch and decapitate you. If anyone has trouble applying strength to push a heavy door, they should make their way to the front of the bus, where the often surly bus driver will fling it open for you without any expenditure of energy.

I was making my brisk walk down the street toward my office building, when a man walking on my right began to mutter something in my direction. He was an older guy – I’d give him about 55 – a non-descript black man with teeth that have earned him the nickname of Gator.

I’m not really social in the morning (or with strangers on the street), and try to avoid any pre-8:00 am chatter (or any chatter at all that involves a stranger on the street).

I wrinkled my face in clear annoyance and said “What?”

Gator repeated himself, “You should hold the door open for a guy the way he would hold it for you?”

More annoyed, I said, “I’m sorry? What are you talking about?”

I quickly determined that he must have been behind me on the bus, and was upset because he felt that I had dropped the door on him. But instead of explaining that like a normal, communicative human being, Gator decided, instead, to repeat his ridiculous assertion: “A guy would hold the door for you.”

At this point, I rolled my eyes and kept walking, face forward.

I didn’t know what else there was to discuss. He took it personally that I let the door slam behind me. I can recall SEVERAL times where I thought that the person in front of me could have taken more time to hold the door for me. But you know what? Shit happens. Especially in morning when people have a lot on their minds. Those door-droppers weren’t trying to be malicious to me – they were just in their own worlds. And, given the amount of time I’m in my own head, I certainly can’t fault anyone for being in their own world – that’s for sure. The fact that he was making this a male-female issue was uber-annoying.

But did it stop there? Did he just let me continue to work and drop the conversation? Oh no. Gator had to repeat himself — AGAIN. I don’t know what he expected. At that point, he wasn’t getting an apology. Speaking to me in an accusatory manner never gets a good result.

So, I turned to him and said: “You know what? I don’t think I’ve ever even SEEN you, much less deliberately slammed a door on you. I suggest you get over it and move on to another problem in your day. And if this is your biggest problem, congratulations!”

I didn’t add what I wanted to say: “Yeah, I’m sure you’ve been the perfect gentleman your entire life, and have never wronged a woman. Maybe some woman did you wrong and left your splayed-tooth-having ass. I’m certain that’s where this hostility about an irrelevant bus door comes from. Well, leave me out of it. In fact, now that you’ve pissed me off, the next time I will deliberately slam the door on you, at which time you should just open it for yourself and shut the fuck up. Punk.”

Impressed at myself for avoiding an irrational rant (although it would have felt SO gratifying), I glanced over at him while he attempted a rebuttal that began with “I was just saying that . . . “, and gave him a cursory, dismissive “Whatever” and crossed the street.

Don’t give me any credit. I’m really not that mature. Of course I’ve looked for him the last few days on the bus, hoping that I would get the opportunity to exit in front of him and actively push the doors closed behind me.

Yes, I know. This is how people get shot in the street.

Bar reviews and pushy men

Just returned from reviewing People, a fantastic place in Wicker Park on Milwaukee. The staff is great, the owner is very personable, and the chef is talented — and very much fun. I had a great time.

I get really chatty with the staff while doing reviews. I’m not there to give a bad review — I’m only trying to educate people on how to have a good date in a fun place. Once I tell the owners/managers and staff that whatever I write will be positive, they pull out all the stops — not necessarily giving me free food/drinks — which is against Tribune policy — but in a personal way. The guards come down and I get to know them as people. It’s the best part of writing this column — getting to know more people.

The irony of this is that I was totally annoyed by another person that I met at the bar, and I don’t really know why. During my conversation with Matt, the chef, a couple sat down at the bar on the other side of me. They overheard me talking about RedEye, and asked me if I write for the paper.

The guy immediately started in on me — telling me that he needs relationship advice. I asked if he was “with” the woman that he was sitting next to. She shook her head violently, insisting that they had been friends for about three years. He went on to say that he’s in media and that we should connect. It was almost pushy in a way. And funny at the same time. I accused him of having bad pickup lines — because, essentially, that was a pickup attempt.

His friend and I had a conversation about how we feel about guys who have cheesy lines. She confessed that she liked cheesy. I asserted that I don’t. He chimed in to say that he was just being honest. I told him that the problem was more his tone than his message. What I didn’t share was that his message didn’t come across slimy — on the bad-pickup-continuum, I would consider him more on the goofy side than the slimy side.

So, apparently he does a radio show and is legitimately in media. I’ve never heard his show because I rarely listen to radio, but he suggested that I come on his show and asked if I do any community work. It doesn’t sound like our content aligns — his is more about social awareness, and mine is more about . . . well . . . frivolity, really. It’s serious, but it’s not that serious.

Then he asked me why I didn’t immediately want to network with him. Then he asked for my phone number, which I refused to provide, however I did provide the e-mail address that comes straight to the Blackberry, which is more than I give most people that I don’t know.

I was really put off by this guy, and I couldn’t figure it out at first. I can be a bitch from time to time, but I had to give myself a break on this one. Was I really being bitchy? I decided that, no, I wasn’t being bitchy. But he was being pushy!!

The bottom line here is that I don’t like pushy men — or pushy people in general. The best way to unleash my inner bitch is to become pushy.

I was trying to work and he came in, inserted himself into my conversation and then started making suggestions (demands) about who I should network with and what I should do with my time. And then I got caught up in it and began explaining myself — to a person that I don’t know. So, I instantly stopped — because if I don’t feel the need to explain myself to my parents who are responsible for giving me life, a stranger gets bupkiss — which of course made him think that I was standoffish.

I actually had a better conversation with his friend, whose profession is more in line with something that I would actually write about.

Pushy man KEPT talking, chastising me for preferring his friend to him. I wanted, SO badly, to say “You want relationship advice, buddy? I have four words of wisdom for you — shut the fuck up!”

But of course, if I do that, I’m the bitch. In fact, it’s a story-worthy account for him to pass along to his equally pushy friends. And it will sound something like this: “I met the girl who writes that G-Spot column in RedEye. Man, she’s a bitch!”

People like him take no responsibility for what they might have done to elicit the bitchiness. They don’t understand that their personalities might be pungent, and that others might be so desperate to get rid of them that they have to resort to drastic, unnaturally rude measures.

Oh well . . . I guess I’m going to have to get used to having the bitch reputation.

bad names and other observances

I’m always amazed at what people decide to name their children. How could you work to conceive something, carry it for 10 months, gain 40+ pounds, endure an entire day of labor, only to squeeze it out in a bloody mess and name it something like Velashae. Seriously, people, WTF??? Velashae? Really? Are you KIDDING me?

And yes, I saw that name on a name tag, and was driven completely to distraction. Hours later I couldn’t remember if I’d even gotten my credit card back. It was just that traumatic.

I think that people forget, when they have a child, that they’re not just adding to their accessories. That person will have to live his/her life with whatever their parents either recite dutifully during the pregnancy, or utter spontaneously in the delirium of having been ripped in two. This person will need to get a job, and explain for the rest of his/her life the origin of his/her name. She doesn’t want to tell friends or future employers that her parents got her name off of a medicine bottle, or that her father was crazy about Velamints, and her mother loved shea butter, so they combined the two and got Velashae!!

Or, one of my teacher friends told me that one of the children on her class roster is named Chez Paree. I SO wish I were kidding, but I can’t make it up this good. I laughed until I realized that poor Chez Paree has to put that on her — at least I hope it’s a her — resume one day.

And there are other names and spellings that perplex me. Some people start off with a good idea, and then they fuck it up with a bad spelling.

For example, I once knew a man named Dennis. I’m sorry . . . I misspelled his name. It’s actually Denis. And sure, Denis Leary uses the one ‘n’ spelling, but I can help but think that some people must refer to him as Dean-us, and that when correcting unsuspecting people on the spelling of his name, he says “It’s like penis, with a d.”

It’s because of these people that I often get asked how to spell my name. It’s Gina, for Chrissakes! A four-letter word. G-I-N-A. A common name in Italy and the US. Think Gina Lollabrigida or Gina Gershon, NOT Geena Davis (whose name is actually Virginia). No, it’s not Jena, Jeanna, Jeana, Jeena, Geena, Gena, Giina, Ginaa, Geeeeeena, Xpefina (the x, p, and e and silent, and f makes the g sound — in some country somewhere, maybe), and for God’s sake, NO, it’s not Gyna.

So, do me a favor, would you? If you’re pregnant, all I ask is that you give your child a chance. Admittedly, I’m not wild about kids, but I’m really not excited about children who are named after illnesses, vehicles, snack foods, clothing designers, weapons, or candy bars. Also, I’m a bit put off by Americans whose childrens’ names contain too many consonants, misplaced vowels, and clicking sounds.

And on another note — on the Spears front (speaking of unfit parents) — I was cracking up when I accessed the website of RedEye, and saw the news item that Britney Spears has mental issues. Hmmm . . . YA THINK????

Things that women do that men should never do

I will admit that I spent a good percentage of NYE watching a few episodes of Keeping up with the Kardashians. I’m in disbelief of that household. My parents would probably not find the humor in a gift of a stripper pole in their bedroom. I would find it uproarious, personally, but in an I-can’t-wait-to-see-their-faces-and-I-hope-I-don’t-get-slapped kind of way.

I also find it interesting that Bruce Jenner, lucky stepfather of the Kardashian girls, looks like he’s had about $50,000 worth of plastic surgery. He almost looks fake. WTF? He’s certainly having a Jocelyn Wildenstein moment.

So, the Jenner observation prompted a big rant about things that women do that men shouldn’t do.

1. Excessive plastic surgery. It’s not attractive on a woman, but I don’t want to see a guy with a face pulled so taut that it’s shiny. Ever so un-cute. Barry Manilow is also the poster-child (or should I say poster-old-man) for egregiously having his face sliced and pulled.

2. Fur coats. I have no trouble with fur in and of itself. I own fur. But if my man came home wearing a fur, I might find a tranquilizer gun and try to put him down. It’s not a good look for any build. If the guy is big, he looks like a better groomed version of Bigfoot. If the guy is skinny, he looks . . . well . . . like a pimp. Or maybe a rat. Whatever the case . . . not cute.

3. Purses. I don’t mind the masculine man bag, but I saw a guy on the bus that was carrying a closer to what I would consider to be a purse. It’s a bit too metrosexual — or should I say hetero-flexible — for me.

4. And speaking of hetroflexuality, I’m not into nail polish, or should I say Male polish. A big-ass no-no. Particularly on the feet. Seriously. I don’t mind the buff finish, but the shiny finish has got to go! I know that there are men who will defend it by saying that they’re taking care of themselves. I don’t mind a man who takes care of himself, and hate crusty hands and feet more than most. However, I never, ever, EVER want to hear a man tell me that we have to wait until his toes dry before we go out. Did I say never? I meant NEVER!

5. Blow-dried and curled hair. Think Al Sharpton. Don’t do it!

If you have any more, leave a comment!

Yes, Leslie, I AM crazy

I was writing a note to Leslie, who asked an innocent question — “how are you?” That question started me thinking. How AM I? The answer is that I’m SO not into Christmas, and SO tired of being inundated with things that I should be doing. And then I started on a rant that I thought was more fitting if shared with the readership of this blog (all two of you).

For example, I should have made a Christmas list. In fact, I should have done that a month ago. Oh well. I also should have sent Christmas cards. Maybe next week. I should find a way to be less annoyed by the holiday croonings of certain recording artists who arguably shouldn’t be singing outside of their shower stalls, much less bastardizing holiday favorites. And I should get on board with finding joy in Toys R Us, and even being able to walk through there without wanting to drop-kick the first whiny toddler in my path. But, because I don’t think I can handle stifling that urge, I should stay the hell away from toy stores.

Because I’m ensconced in Scroogery, which comes with a healthy dose of assholishness, I need to find a way to make this easy for myself. So, here we go.

1. I’m keeping gifts to a minimum. This includes my parents. They’ve long since stopped giving me gifts, and they hate whatever I give them. They only want pictures of me and my godchildren anyway, so I’ll spend the $20 and make them a photo album. Problem solved.

2. Of the girlfriends that I plan to exchange gifts with, some of them have children. If you are one of those girlfriends, please know that I will not be exchanging gifts with your children. My relationship is with you. I am not trying to slight your children. Your kids are already spoiled, and have no need for any of the clothing or toys that I would buy them (which I wouldn’t be able to do without having a nervous breakdown in the Target toy department or even worse, Toys R Us [gasp!]).

2a. If you are one of the mothers of my godchildren, ignore #2. You’re getting the shaft, big time. The kids get everything.

3. I will drink profusely at Christmas parties. I’m just letting you know. And God only knows what will come out of my mouth.

4. And speaking of my mouth, I will not yield to mistletoe. If you have to dangle mistletoe in the faces of [drunk] women, you probably have low chances of getting kissed in sobriety. Beat it!

5. I will not eat nasty food. If I come to your house, I will not humor Auntie Edith by choking down a piece of her infamous gas-inducing cabbage souffle, or fruitcake. Especially fruitcake. Do yourself a favor and follow suit. Let me give you a rule of thumb . . . if that old biddy hasn’t cooked anything delicious in 75 years, it ain’t happenin’ this year.

That’s it for now. I’m sure I’ll think of more. This is actually kind of fun. Thanks, Leslie!

The Close-Talker

I love personal space. I don’t want to be in anyone’s circle of comfort. I especially hate when people stand too close to me when I’m eating. I have no idea of what kind of particles can fly from your mouth, or off of you and onto my food. Yuck.

I work with a woman who is a major close talker. I swear it’s like a Seinfeld episode. She has NO CONCEPT of personal space. Talking to her is like a bad dance. She moves in on me, I inch away. She moves closer. I inch further. It’s a dance that I often lose, simply because there’s usually limited space behind me.

Typically I place myself on the other side of a barrier from her so that she can’t possibly get within one foot of me, i.e. a table, her desk, etc.

This week I’ve been battling a bad case of stomach flu, and I don’t know about anyone else, but when I’m sick, I don’t want anyone to come too close. I don’t want to smell what you’re eating, I don’t want to feel the heat of your breath. As disgusting as that is when I’m healthy, it’s horrifically so when I’m nauseated and potentially have a fever.

Close Talker was organizing our charity gift collection, and I was having trouble with wrapping paper. I was standing in the kitchen, and she was holding a bowl of oatmeal. She was smacking her stinky concoction, and comes and stood right on top of me as I was trying to keep my bite of banana from being regurgitated. She was just talking and smacking and talking some more. In the meantime, I could barely stand it. I had moved as far away from her as possible and she had me cornered into the side of the table. I was soon very sorry that I didn’t just run out and get my own freakin’ wrapping paper!

I wanted to say, “Back off, bitch! We’re not in a fucking third world country! There is plenty of space for me, you, and everyone. So exercise your American privilege, and stay the hell out of my atmosphere!”

Instead I said: “You should probably stay away from me. I’m very sick.” She finally backed off, reluctantly.

I wonder how many illnesses she catches every year from being close enough to literally suck the germs from the mouths of strangers.

Yesterday, one of my colleagues complained of “spider bites” on her arms. Those turned out to be chickenpox. I wonder if Miss Close-Talker managed to become infected. Then again, I’m sure she’s had them already as a result of invading someone else’s space.

Remove your shoes . . .

I’m one of those people who will make you take your shoes off before entering my home. And it’s not strictly because I’ve so concerned about the integrity of my wood floors (although they are a bitch to clean – and fortunately I don’t clean them myself). I’m not trying to be annoying, or expose your holey, mis-matched socks.

I insist on shoe removal strictly for health purposes — because God only knows what the hell we walk through outside on the street.

Case in point, I drove to work today and as I was exiting the vestibule of the parking garage, there was a “street crazy” inside, facing the corner with his hands somewhere near his crotch. I didn’t know what he was doing. I didn’t WANT to know what he was doing.

But, as I pondered what he MIGHT have been doing (none of those were great visuals at 7:20 am), I walked outside and nearly stepped in what he had DEFINITELY been doing prior to entering the building, which was peeing on the street. I’m assuming that he thought it was appropriate to pee against a building on Franklin and Van Buren – right in front of everyone – and then go back into the building to . . . ummm . . . readjust himself.

The point is that I almost stepped in his cheap-wine-vodka-whatever-the-fuck-kind-of-$1.00-swill-he-could-get-his-hands-on piss. There would not have been enough disinfectant in the world to get my shoes clean enough after that experience.

And then I suppose I would walk into my house with that toxic mess on my feet, and then perhaps lay across my floor and watch TV or exercise? I really don’t think so. To do that would be to voluntarily roll around in bum piss, or dog poop, wasted food, or whatever there is to be stepped on in the streets. Yuck!

If anyone else thinks it’s appropriate to further expose themselves to atmospheric filth, have at it. Not me. I’m filthy enough as it is.

Having said that, don’t ask questions . . . just remove the shoes.

The nosy

I’m a pretty inquisitive person. If I don’t understand something, I’ll ask. If a friend alludes to something that might indicate a deeper story, you’d better believe I’m asking for back-story. If I’m curious, I can rarely hold back.

But here’s the thing . . . I reserve that behavior for people that I actually know.

I do not feel that I have the right to demand the same information from complete strangers. And I wish they would feel the same about me. I pour my heart out here and in the column, but I’m a private person in my day-to-day life, and hate giving out any additional information.

I often complain about the security guards in my office building. My more corporate day job requires that I show up at the Sears Tower on a daily basis, so I have to deal with having any bag that’s larger than a purse x-rayed upon entry. Some of the security guards are overly flirtatious — occasionally to the point where they might actually threaten our safety.

When a security guard is x-raying our bags, they should be looking for weaponry, explosives, or any other ominous substance that could threaten the lives of the inhabitants of the Tower. Anything else they see should fall within the realm of “things that are none of my business.”

So, imagine my irritation when one of the security guards actually had the audacity to comment on the contents of my bag last week. I was returning from my lunch workout at FFC on Jackson, and as the guard x-rayed my gym bag, he asked if I was planning to workout. I gave him an icy stare, and said “no,” without offering any additional information.

Was that an “evil bitch” move? Perhaps. But seriously, what business was it of his? I guess if he saw a tampon in my bag, he would feel the right to ask if I was on the rag? I don’t think so.

I’m also offended by nosy cashiers in the grocery store. Let me be clear — I don’t have problems with the cheerful ones — the ones who say hello, ask how I’m doing and tell me to have a nice day. I welcome those sentiments, and gladly reciprocate the pleasantries.

When they start asking my about my purchase decisions is when I take a nasty turn.

I LOVE the self-service lanes, because there’s nobody to ask me about the items that I’m purchasing.

I actually had one woman bag an item, and then remove it from the bag to further examine it while I was attempting to hand her my money. I asked if there was something wrong with the item, and she said no, and that she’d never seen it before so she wanted to look at it. She then started asking me questions about the item, and whether or not it works (it was some sort of cleanser). I didn’t really answer — I can’t really remember what I said. I can confirm that I did NOT say what I was thinking, which was “If you’re curious, you can find it in aisle 4 on your break. Now throw it in the bag and take my money so that I can get the hell out of here.”

Another cashier found it humorous that I was buying 20 cans of cat food. “How many cats do you HAVE?” she said with a snicker. Instead of telling her the truth, which was that I buy in bulk because I hate returning to the grocery store repeatedly to consort with the likes of her nosy-no-home-training-having ass, I just gave her what is becoming my signature icy stare and said absolutely nothing, which willed her to stop the laughing and get to bagging.

Now, those who are more sympathetic will tell me that their jobs are boring, and that they’re just trying to infuse some fun into their day. And, personally? I could care less. Aren’t things like grocery shopping and going through security enough of a pain in the ass? Do we really need the added pressure of having to explain what we’re buying or carrying (if it’s not a security violation)?

On another note, I get the occasional piece of fan mail. I also get occasional hate mail, but that’s a totally different story. I usually try and respond to all of it, unless it’s so ridiculous that I wouldn’t know where to begin. Or if it’s someone looking for advice and I don’t know where to start. Anywho . . . I got a letter last week from someone who wanted to know a) my real name; b) where I live; and c) how much I get paid for writing my column. I chose to ignore that letter (far better than the response of my dreams: “Bitch, are you insane?”). I’m sure I’ll get a followup letter telling me that I’m a total bitch for not answering those questions.

Oh well. It’s Sunday, which means a return to the grocery store. I’m asking the Universe for serenity.

Thanks for entertaining my rant. I feel so much better now.