Breakfast of Runners Up

A couple weeks ago, I went into the ’bucks. That’s nothing new, I hit up the ’bucks every morning for a Triple Grande Nonfat Vanilla Latte and a Reduced Fat Cinnamon Swirl Coffee Cake. With tax its $6.05. I know, I’ve done the math and that equals my car insurance every month. But I don’t use my car insurance. I would have to get into a car accident every day to deliver the same joy as my not-too-sweat, slightly-diety breakfast.

But they did not have my Reduced Fat Cinnamon Swirl Coffee Cake that day.
The shit hit the fan. I asked to speak to the manager. Is there some sort of suggestion box? Can I email someone from corporate? Don’t they know that Reduced Fat Cinnamon Swirl Coffee Cake is the best breakfast ever? (that’s hyperbole, Vegetarian McGriddle is better, but more for special occasions (like hangovers)).

The manager did come out (just as I would come out if some irate customer was hassling my associates over a discontinued eye shadow). He assured me that he too loved Reduced Fat Cinnamon Swirl Coffee Cake, and that it wasn’t being discontinued. And he gave me another breakfast treat for free. (Oh, he’s the sort of guy I could introduce to my parents and he’d bring Sunshine Cupcakes (a Spring-seasonal treat)).

Its time for confession.

Forgive me Father for I have sinned: I have a crush on a Barista. It’s been 10 months since I liked another Barista. We broke up four months ago.

But, every time I go to that ’bucks, I find myself talking about Reduced Fat Cinnamon Swirl Coffee Cake. “Glad you got Reduced Fat Cinnamon Swirl Coffee Cake back in.” Or, “ I see you got Reduced at Cinnamon Swirl Coffee Cake again.”

It’s a miracle I’m not a 800-pound virgin.

The Scent of the Afterlife

A woman purchased a bottle of perfume on Monday. I admired her conviction; most customers need to hear about every note before consenting to try a sample. Most customers tell me a horror story of migraines and sneezes, and therefore I should just give them a free bottle because they won’t like it anyway. But not this woman. Not this Monday. She was ready to take home some perfume: scent on smelled.

On Wednesday she called, having been to hell and back, wanting a refund. Here is her story:

“I would like to return a bottle of perfume, I was allergic to it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, we can exchange the product for something else. But we do not do refunds, it’s our store policy printed on the receipt and at the register.”

“You don’t understand. I sprayed it last night and went into anaphylactic shock and passed out. When my husband came home he found me unconscious in the bathroom and called the ambulance. They pumped my stomach, did a chest tube, and shocked me. I actually died for three minutes. My soul was above looking down at my body, and it smelled the perfume and my soul got a headache. “

“Wow, I’m so sorry to hear that. I wonder what you’re allergic to, so I can divert any other clients who may have that allergy.”

“I don’t think anyone will ever know. Allergies are so hard to figure out. They’d have to run tests.”

“I would think if you almost died, you’d want to know what your specific allergy is. And maybe get a bracelet talking about it. But, I’ll make an exception this time and refund your money.”

Honestly, I don’t believe her. And I don’t want to believe that a near death experience makes you realize how important seventy bucks is. But, she had the best story this week.

I'm not even here

I'm sorry I've been ignoring you for so long. But, I've been in my happy place for a couple weeks.

You should come to my happy place sometime, there's lots of wine and pizza. How do you get there? Repeat after me... "It's just fucking soap, it's just fucking soap, it's just fucking soap..."

It works anytime. Like when your coworkers find you at a resturant to ask a question, or when your boss finds out you lost two deposits two months ago and never told him.

Seriously, its just soap.

Is it hot in here? Or is it just earth?

You can stop worrying, Al Gore, HSN has the answer. I wil quote from the source, "If your cashmere wardrobe seems to warm because of the global warming, this Vneck acrylic sweater is the solution." The XXL fits polar bears and the deep V neck really elognates and slims.

I didn't want to go anyway...

Despite being single and miraculously baby-free, I'm at the point of my life when I have to go to friends' kid's birthday parties. Usually they are a nice excuse to wear a funny hat and get a beer-buzz while gossiping with the other non-moms about which kids are the funny-looking and soon-to-be-gay.

But my neighbor, who I'll call "G", has gone seriously overboard for his son "J"s birthday party.

As you can see from the camera angle, I'm not invited.

Christmas Wish

I wish Christmas could last forever. Not all of it: I could do without the six-day workweek, or the decorations masquerading as religion. But I do like the mall Santa. Who better than St Nicholas's local reincarnation to plead my karmic case to?

"Santa, I've been really good all week: I resisted the urge to write something really funny but a little evil in my blog, and I did a crusty-looking woman's makeup. Can I please have the mechanical bull from Brookstone to round out my robot-arc?" I've attached a photo so you don't get me a thigh-master by accident again.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gDZnvkqClmA

It would look so good next to the monkey I got last year for being nice to my boyfriend-at-the-time's mom after she started a rumor that I was pregnant.
http://www.sharperimage.com/us/en/catalog/product/sku__WW258

Oh, and it would be great if people could be nice to each other all year too.

Two women walk into a store

One woman, who I'll call Sidekick, sniffed soap.
The other, who I will call Spanky, asked if we have a bathroom.
“No,” my coworker answered, even though we have an employee restroom. We don’t like it when other people use it: we don’t poop at their workplaces.
“That’s okay I’ll just do it here.”
Time stood still while Spanky took off her jeans ignoring the customers and window looking out at the street packed with shoppers. I got an eyeful of taupe bloomers, turkey neck thighs, varicose veins and tall black socks. Sidekick was the only person not staring open-mouthed as Spanky slipped on the world’s ugliest pants. They looked like Kiki, my patchwork baby blanket, was captured and sewn into pleated pants tucked into camel toe and seven-inch cuffs.
Now Spanky turned to me and asked, “What do you think of these pants?”
I tried to clear my mind in case this woman practiced Occlumency. But I couldn’t shake image of Kiki being hunted by a delusional seamstress on the farm my parents took her to.
I answered, “They’d look better hemmed.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that. But please be honest, I may buy them off a woman on the street?”
Honestly, unless Nanette Lapore is having a garage sale, you don’t buy pants off a woman on the street.
“Well then,” I scrambled for a polite answer, “I don’t know what you’d wear them with.” A paper sack?
“Okay I’ll take them back.” Then Spanky dropped hideous trou again. This time I got the front view of years of neglect. She slipped her jeans and Birkenstocks back on and said “goodbye” to Sidekick.
Sidekick chose a couple bars of lavender soap and headed to the register. She said nothing of her friend flashing her crotch to the whole store.
When Spanky returned, Sidekick presented her with a bar of the soap as a gift.
“Keep it,” Spanky said, pushing the soap back to Sidekick. “Call me weird, but I like cheap soap.”
Yeah, that makes you weird.