The universe of customer service is clearly out to get me, that's the only explanation. In the past week alone:
My flight home from New Orleans was canceled for no apparent reason, leaving me stranded for many tearful hours in Philadelphia, forcing me to eat a half pound of melty mints. Okay, I probably could have avoided that last part, but can you realistically tell me a single way to pass time in an airport that doesn't involve drinking or eating? I was also reading, but eating half a pound of melty mints helps to distract a person from the discomfort of airport "seating."
I discovered my new Macy's charge card actually had two separate accounts attached to it, due to its having a Visa logo, and that because I'd only made one payment (hello, it's ONE card) the other account that I did not know existed was now overdue. I talked first to a heavily accented Indian woman about this issue, and after reading her my account number and having it incorrectly read back to me for the fourth time (honestly, look, I don't really have a position on outsourcing one way or another...it's a dicey issue, but for the love of god; ENGLISH. You may not like it, but that's what we speak here in dumb old AMERICA, so if you INSIST on sending our jobs out to India, at least hire someone who can SPEAK IT. GOD.), I politely asked her if I could just try again with someone else. I even threw out the "we must have a bad connection" bone, rather than bitching at her.
She transferred me, however, to Rita. Or, as I refer to her, "&*%$##-ing Rita."
Rita was also heavily accented, but in a clipped, "Bitchy Southern Woman" way, the type that would have looked on quite disapprovingly at the shenanigans of the girls in "Shag."
Rita talked to me like I was an idiot, wouldn't let me finish a sentence without cutting me off to contradict what I was saying in the most condescending voice possible, refused to walk me through the website to show me how to make these two separate payments for the SAME GODDAMN CREDIT CARD I apparently have to make every month, and HUNG UP ON ME when I informed her I wished to speak to a supervisor.
I'd even done that in as polite a tone as possible, throwing her the "I'm sure we're just both having bad days, but I need to speak to someone else that might be able to better assist me" bone. BITCH. HUNG. UP.
The next day, I had to go to the doctor for my annual "we're just going to put this doohickey here and you're supposed to just relax and stuff" visit.
"Your appointment was yesterday."
"Um, nooo it wasn't."
"Well that's what we have in here."
"Well I actually specifically requested any day but that one when I called, because that's a day I have a major report due each week at work. So I never would have agreed to an appointment on that day."
"Well, I guess we're going to have to try and fit you in *sigh* but I can't make any promises."
"Well, I guess you're going to have to, because I left work to come down here and it has to be this week so I can renew my birth control prescription before it runs out."
"Well, we'll see."
So I sat there for over an hour, watching countless other young women, including a (quelle scandal!) pregnant girl who looked no older than 15, be shuffled in and out, getting their bits examined without delay. Fucking hell. What about my bits?
They did eventually get er done, but never did apologize.
THEN, I ended up being informed that the UPS guy delivered my Harry Potter book on Saturday, and left it "at the front door." There is no way this happened, as I was actually at home at the time they claimed they delivered it.
The next day, I swung past Dunkin for an iced coffee, was informed they were out of sweet n' low and "running kind of low on donuts."
Dunkin. Donuts. "Running kind of low on donuts."
This has not been a good week for FuService.
July 23, 2007
July 18, 2007
Jambalaya!
First, I so need to go on The World Series of Pop Culture. I'm recruiting a team right now, and will take whoever comes up with the best team name. I'd prefer a 90210 reference, but am willing to consider anything.
I was going to go with "8 Year Olds, Dude," but I'm afraid people will get the wrong idea.
I'm just pissed as hell that my sister, of all people, had a pub trivia team a few years back with what I'd most like to have gone with, "Lumberg Fucked Her." But I guess that's really too dirty for VH1 anyway.
So, what do you got, people?
As for my trip to New Orleans: FUN. The following happened, not necessarily in this order.
1) I innocently put my hand down on a branch to steady myself on a path leading down to a river (toobing is fun!), and wondered, when I pulled it away, why I was suddenly wearing a glove. FIRE ANTS!!!!!! I managed to only get bit four times, but let's just say I considered peeing on myself to ease the pain. I ended up peeing in my tube later on anyway, laughing so hard at the 18th beaver dam or whatever that we ended up ensnared in, but didn't manage to get my hand under there fast enough.
2) Shortly after arriving home from the toobing, was viciously attacked by a wasp. WTF, mates.
3) My sister got so drunk that she ended up refusing to tell our "designated" (as in, she was the least drunk) driver how to get home. She somehow blamed the entire debacle on me, which is, let's face it, entirely possible after 11 shots. Even if they were mostly chick shots.
4) Jambalaya at the Gumbo Shop = best Jambalya I've ever had. Granted, the only other jambalaya I'd had came in a pouch.
5) The Gumbo Shop also serves a frozen drink that, no lie, tastes precisely like Peppermint Stick ice cream............oh, sorry, I just peed a little. (It obviously don't take much.)
6) A rousing game of "I Never" at my brother-in-law's birthday party in which I learned things about my sister that, let's just face it, I cannot unlearn.
7) I cried in front of various gate agents in the Philadelphia airport.
8) Lost voice...gained seven pounds. I'm thinking my seven pound voice now resides in my ass.
All in all? Good times. Didn't meet any boys, but boys are dumb anyway. And it's kind of hard to fool around when your hand is swelled up with fire ant welts.
I'm on Day 3 of my latest attempt at detox. I expect to last until Saturday. At least I'm realistic this time...
I was going to go with "8 Year Olds, Dude," but I'm afraid people will get the wrong idea.
I'm just pissed as hell that my sister, of all people, had a pub trivia team a few years back with what I'd most like to have gone with, "Lumberg Fucked Her." But I guess that's really too dirty for VH1 anyway.
So, what do you got, people?
As for my trip to New Orleans: FUN. The following happened, not necessarily in this order.
1) I innocently put my hand down on a branch to steady myself on a path leading down to a river (toobing is fun!), and wondered, when I pulled it away, why I was suddenly wearing a glove. FIRE ANTS!!!!!! I managed to only get bit four times, but let's just say I considered peeing on myself to ease the pain. I ended up peeing in my tube later on anyway, laughing so hard at the 18th beaver dam or whatever that we ended up ensnared in, but didn't manage to get my hand under there fast enough.
2) Shortly after arriving home from the toobing, was viciously attacked by a wasp. WTF, mates.
3) My sister got so drunk that she ended up refusing to tell our "designated" (as in, she was the least drunk) driver how to get home. She somehow blamed the entire debacle on me, which is, let's face it, entirely possible after 11 shots. Even if they were mostly chick shots.
4) Jambalaya at the Gumbo Shop = best Jambalya I've ever had. Granted, the only other jambalaya I'd had came in a pouch.
5) The Gumbo Shop also serves a frozen drink that, no lie, tastes precisely like Peppermint Stick ice cream............oh, sorry, I just peed a little. (It obviously don't take much.)
6) A rousing game of "I Never" at my brother-in-law's birthday party in which I learned things about my sister that, let's just face it, I cannot unlearn.
7) I cried in front of various gate agents in the Philadelphia airport.
8) Lost voice...gained seven pounds. I'm thinking my seven pound voice now resides in my ass.
All in all? Good times. Didn't meet any boys, but boys are dumb anyway. And it's kind of hard to fool around when your hand is swelled up with fire ant welts.
I'm on Day 3 of my latest attempt at detox. I expect to last until Saturday. At least I'm realistic this time...
July 11, 2007
The Weekly Numbers, Trebek Style
Ah the Weekly Numbers. That's why I enjoy running features. When my lazy ass has absolutely dick-all to say, I can always just fire off a few "Weekly" numbers for you. There's actually a mishmash of crap to discuss from recent weeks, so the Numbers also provide a good medium to barf out all the potpourri ("Your mother's a whore, Trebek!") in my overloaded keppy.
Onto the numbers...
1: Number nights I got to stay in my beloved D.C. for a business trip a couple weeks back, and, incidentally, number of people who gave me "poor" feedback on the presentation I conducted while on said trip. How dare they. Don't they know I hardly worked at all on it and didn't practice that much?
Approx 13: Number of drinks I had in me before getting on board my flight home, after an after-work happy hour and a two-hour airport delay (that I of course spent in the handy bar right next to my gate). How is it that people are always getting thrown off planes for being intoxicated? I mean, unless you're on the side of the road in the middle of the night trying to recite the alphabet between the letters "L" and "T," it's really not that hard to disguise utter smashedness. Just keep your mouth shut (unless you're sticking gum in it).
2: Number of guys I met at the airport bar during said delay.
1: Number of guys I met at the airport bar during said delay that were actually on my flight, AND asked for my phone number (look at Fu, picking up dudes in an airport!).
1:30: Time in the MORNING the Airport Guy called me (SIX days after our Airport Meet-Cute), drunk and surrounded by hooting friends, wanting to know "what I was doing." I'm sure the response he was hoping for was not "What am I DOING? It's 130 in the morning, DICKSLAP!" but rather, "Well pretty soon I'm gonna be doing YOU, Airport Guy! Purrrrr!"
243: Approximate number of bottles of booze on the counter at my fourth of July party, I think we made it through about 156 of them.
3: Attempts it took before I figured out how to work my dad's grill. (I may be leaving out the fact that I had to call him up in Phoenix and ask him to tell me how to work the grill, for fear that after my first two attempts I might actually vaporize the deck, the house and the surrounding property and be left standing in the middle of it with soot all over my face and my hair standing on end, like when Wile E. Coyote's Acme bomb goes very, very wrong.)
3: Attempts it took before I actually figured out how to cook a hamburger on said grill. (I may be leaving out that after the first two burgers incinerated and fell apart in gooey chunks respectively, I had to call up Dad again to ask advice on proper burger cookage.)
1: Number of blind dates my parents' best friends have offered to set me up on with their neighbor, who may or may not be an ex-con.
0.0002: number of seconds after hearing this offer that I began to feel reeeeeeally pathetic.
2: Number of planes it's going to take me to get to New Orleans for my brother-in-law's birthday party-slash-girls' weekend with my sister and many friends tonight.
141483:1 : Odds of me actually getting on second leg of journey, as am flying standby and may end up curled up in an airport all night. You ever wonder why homeless people don't just go live at the airport, like that Tom Hanks movie? No one ever hassles people sleeping on the ground in an airport, they just assume they are stranded. Not like staying in an airport is awesome, but at least it's warm in the winter and stuff. Plus they could probably score a lot of those little mini liquor bottles, and pretend they are giants!
5: Time in the morning it was on Sunday when a friend and I rolled back into her apartment in Boston after partying all night on Saturday.
4? Approximate number of times I barfed after the lethal combination of "Many (delicious blueberry) Beers," "Many Shots," "334 Cigarettes," "Tragic Loss at Wii Bowling," and "2 Cupfuls of Turpentine Red Wine at 4 a.m." This is only a guess, as I hardly remember it, I remember only the horrendous splitting headache I woke up with on her futon at 7 a.m. after curling up there in a pathetic heap with no blanket or pillow.
28: My age in years, in about two months. Now go back and read the previous paragraph again. Now come back and slap me upside my stupid head for continuing to act so foolishly. Then make me repeat: "Just because my friend is 22 does NOT mean I am too" 50 times. Then slap me in the head again. Then hit me with a shovel to remind me how I felt that morning and why I should never, ever, ever, do that again.
25: Number of minutes until I leave work. I'd better wrap things up....
Onto the numbers...
1: Number nights I got to stay in my beloved D.C. for a business trip a couple weeks back, and, incidentally, number of people who gave me "poor" feedback on the presentation I conducted while on said trip. How dare they. Don't they know I hardly worked at all on it and didn't practice that much?
Approx 13: Number of drinks I had in me before getting on board my flight home, after an after-work happy hour and a two-hour airport delay (that I of course spent in the handy bar right next to my gate). How is it that people are always getting thrown off planes for being intoxicated? I mean, unless you're on the side of the road in the middle of the night trying to recite the alphabet between the letters "L" and "T," it's really not that hard to disguise utter smashedness. Just keep your mouth shut (unless you're sticking gum in it).
2: Number of guys I met at the airport bar during said delay.
1: Number of guys I met at the airport bar during said delay that were actually on my flight, AND asked for my phone number (look at Fu, picking up dudes in an airport!).
1:30: Time in the MORNING the Airport Guy called me (SIX days after our Airport Meet-Cute), drunk and surrounded by hooting friends, wanting to know "what I was doing." I'm sure the response he was hoping for was not "What am I DOING? It's 130 in the morning, DICKSLAP!" but rather, "Well pretty soon I'm gonna be doing YOU, Airport Guy! Purrrrr!"
243: Approximate number of bottles of booze on the counter at my fourth of July party, I think we made it through about 156 of them.
3: Attempts it took before I figured out how to work my dad's grill. (I may be leaving out the fact that I had to call him up in Phoenix and ask him to tell me how to work the grill, for fear that after my first two attempts I might actually vaporize the deck, the house and the surrounding property and be left standing in the middle of it with soot all over my face and my hair standing on end, like when Wile E. Coyote's Acme bomb goes very, very wrong.)
3: Attempts it took before I actually figured out how to cook a hamburger on said grill. (I may be leaving out that after the first two burgers incinerated and fell apart in gooey chunks respectively, I had to call up Dad again to ask advice on proper burger cookage.)
1: Number of blind dates my parents' best friends have offered to set me up on with their neighbor, who may or may not be an ex-con.
0.0002: number of seconds after hearing this offer that I began to feel reeeeeeally pathetic.
2: Number of planes it's going to take me to get to New Orleans for my brother-in-law's birthday party-slash-girls' weekend with my sister and many friends tonight.
141483:1 : Odds of me actually getting on second leg of journey, as am flying standby and may end up curled up in an airport all night. You ever wonder why homeless people don't just go live at the airport, like that Tom Hanks movie? No one ever hassles people sleeping on the ground in an airport, they just assume they are stranded. Not like staying in an airport is awesome, but at least it's warm in the winter and stuff. Plus they could probably score a lot of those little mini liquor bottles, and pretend they are giants!
5: Time in the morning it was on Sunday when a friend and I rolled back into her apartment in Boston after partying all night on Saturday.
4? Approximate number of times I barfed after the lethal combination of "Many (delicious blueberry) Beers," "Many Shots," "334 Cigarettes," "Tragic Loss at Wii Bowling," and "2 Cupfuls of Turpentine Red Wine at 4 a.m." This is only a guess, as I hardly remember it, I remember only the horrendous splitting headache I woke up with on her futon at 7 a.m. after curling up there in a pathetic heap with no blanket or pillow.
28: My age in years, in about two months. Now go back and read the previous paragraph again. Now come back and slap me upside my stupid head for continuing to act so foolishly. Then make me repeat: "Just because my friend is 22 does NOT mean I am too" 50 times. Then slap me in the head again. Then hit me with a shovel to remind me how I felt that morning and why I should never, ever, ever, do that again.
25: Number of minutes until I leave work. I'd better wrap things up....
July 7, 2007
Am I Too Young for Nostalgia?
There is literally nothing on TV this summer.But SoapNet is in the middle of first season re-runs of 90210. It's like sixth grade all over again!
Except...wow. First off, in the sixth grade, I really don't recall wearing some of the daisy-covered crap currently burning my retinas (though I guess I can admit to an actual plaid blazer with shoulder pads that I lusted after in the Gap...luckily my mother refused to shell out the fifty bucks; she recognized the hideousness thank the lord).
But what's bothering me the most isn't the clothes (all the girls wear mom jeans that give them huglely massive gunts--they can't weigh more than 120 or 125 each (which yeah, was actually pretty fat compared to today's 98-pound weaklings), but those damn things make them look freaking porky! No wonder boot-cut low-rises came in, sheesh), or the ridiculous storylines (Brenda meeting beatnik types at a coffee house and doing "stand-up comedy" in which she complains that housesitting is hard?), or even Steve Sanders' fro-mullet.
What's bothering me is that the object of my undying preteen lust, one Dylan McKay...well. Hm. I actually had a poster of this man that I kissed goodnight on a nightly basis in my room. And while real-life Luke Perry was only about 25 when the show started, younger than I am now...well the receding hairline (sideburns don't hide that, chief) and massive forehead wrinkles?
Why was everyone all over Steve Sanders and Andrea Zuckerman for being the token oldies?
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