Monthly Archives: April 2012

Like a good, passive-aggressive, neighbor…

Pretty sure I made Insurance History today when the Insurance Lady I was speaking with on the phone hung up on me before I was finished asking questions. After I paid the balance on my account, our conversation went like this:

Insurance Lady: Your card has been charged a zillion dollars. I also see you do not have an auto insurance policy with us. Have you been offered a quote on auto insurance?
Julie: Oh, well, I actually don’t have a car.
IL: I see. Thank you, and —
J: Lady? Actually, I was wondering if…
IL: — have a —
J: Could I get a copy of my policy —
IL:  — nice day.
J: I was told you could fax it…?
IL: Goodbye.
*click*
J: I’m sorry – what did you..? Hello?
J: Wait, what just happened?
J: Hello?
J: Seriously? Did I offend you?
J: I’m sorry, Lady. I’m sorry I don’t have a car.
J: Are you there? Is this a fake hang up?
J: Hello?
J: I’m sorry, did you say something?
J: No. Still not there, eh?
J: Nice. Real nice, Lady.
J: I’m still talking to myself, aren’t I?
J: Fuck.

I’m a money-flavored sucker.

I look forward to a trip to Target the way some folks might anticipate a Disney World vacation.

Okay, so that’s a slight exaggeration… But for realsies, yo: no other store I’ve visited has this effect on me.* Something – the layout of the store? The selection of items? The mind-control gas they pump through the ventilation? – reduces me to a slack-jawed, open-walleted mess when I walk through those automatic doors. I’m not usually a materialistic person, but as I roam those bullseye-ed aisles it takes very little to reveal that particular ugly streak.

Truth is, I’m quite susceptible to product-display tricks of lighting and color [see my Tervis-induced catatonia] and I’m hardly the only one. How long is the average Target trip? I’ve wondered. My local store is a ten-minute drive: not a place I pop into when I need a quick something-or-another. In other words, it’s the destination, not a side trip. I could easily spend an hour there, and thusly:
Other local retailers do not hold the same sway over my bank accounts, and here’s why: My area KMart is laid out like all of someone’s earthly possessions on a front lawn: it’s almost as if they just sort of dumped everything out in the middle of the store and kind of built the aisles around where each pile ended up [the kitty litter and Pringles stand side-by-side, like some sort of sick Dr. Oz segment]. I mean, basically, our KMart is a hot mess.

[For the record, the old WalMart was the same way, only far worse. That particular piece of retail property had the feel of an unlicensed flea market. Approximately 86% of the merchandise for sale was was kept in heaping cart-loads blocking the middle of every aisle].

Anyway, for me, these KMarts and WalMarts of the world are where you visit when you’re out of lightbulbs or trashbags or any number of compound words that my spellchecker doesn’t recognize.** The untidiness, dirty floors and shitty lighting make for an overall Bad Browsing Experience. Perhaps it’s just me, but I’m just a sucker for a store with nice, clean aisles and running water in the public restroom.

So to those who are paid to conduct market research on what color floor tiles are more likely to cause a consumer to spend more money on cat toys:

You’re so fucking welcome.

 

 

*I also couldn’t give two shits about Disney World. Sorry, Walt.

**Though “spellchecker” escapes, unscathed.

 

If we’re naming things after adjectives, let’s just call it Snotty.

First, here’s a hot pic of what I’ve been sharing my bed with for the past week:

Yes, I will pay cash money to see Crank 3, thankyouverramuch.

Oh, just kiddin’ around there, guys! Ha-ha! I am such a jokester!

Seriously, though. For about a week now I’ve been curling up at night with this:

I named the box Jason. That's not weird, is it?

I have a cold, which is an abbreviated way of saying that I’ve been a great big ball of phlegm-filled bitchiness for the past 5-10 days. Truly. Something about being mildly ill brings out the Raging She Beast within me. In the past few days, I’ve been blindingly angry at:
1. My nose, for obvious reasons.
2. My throat, for the same reasons.
3. Myself, for not being able to tell if my throat was red or splotchy or whatever else WebMD told me to look for.
4. The lighting in my bathroom, for not allowing me to properly determine the color of my throat.
5. Life. Because.
6. Everyone. Also, just because.

This particular little bout with sickness epitomizes all subsequent illness and injury I’ve experienced in my lifetime. Minor afflictions – a hangnail, a stuffy nose, a zit – cause me Diva-levels of torment. I become a melodramatic mess, laying in bed whining and cussing and moaning for someone to bring me a popsicle (this is difficult when one lives alone, and so far my neighbors have failed to fulfill my requests even though I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME IF I COULD HEAR YOU PUKING YOUR GUTS OUT ON MONDAY MORNING AND IT. WAS. DISGUSTING).

The few scenarios I’ve actually required medical attention, however, were decidedly less angst-filled. Once, at a friend’s house, I beaned my noggin on a coffee table so hard that I cracked my skull. After doing so, I (groggily, I assume) stood up, announced to my friends that “I have to go home now” and made my way across the street in a concussed daze. The resulting lump on my forehead was the size of a Kennedy half dollar; today, when I scrunch up my face (as with consternation, like when I get a hangnail), you can see the resulting dent and the faint zig-zag where the fracture healed above my left eye.

I also once slammed my finger in a door so hard that I eventually lost the fingernail. “Ow, that really hurt,” I repeated over and over again until Juanita realized that I wasn’t quoting a scene in Trapped in Paradise* and was actually in pain.

But I digress. See, I was discussing this phenomenon with a friend the other day and it appears that this is relatively common. She, as well as her family members, experience it too: you’re sick enough to feel shitty, but well enough to let everyone within earshot (this means you, apartment D) know about it. But when you’re really sick, you either a) feel too lousy to bitch about it or b) are too scared – oh my God is something really wrong with me? – to say anything.

So, reader(s), is this an actual thing? Or have we just isolated a weird little cluster of oddness here?

*She really thought this. We quote this line often: in the scene, a car flips over a guardrail and lands on its roof. Nicolas Cage, Jon Lovitz and Dana Carvey crawl out and Nic Cage says, in his flattest, Nic Cage-iest voice “Ow. That hurt.” pause “Ow. That really, really hurt.” I tried to find a clip for you, but failed. Apolgies.