Newsflash

Yesterday, the entire world--at least, the center of it: my hometown--was without cellphone service from a major carrier. A goodly number of the people I work with, of all ages and levels of self-importance, were literally adrift and angry about it. (Apparently said major carrier's technical mechanic guy killed over a dozen towers in our service area.)

Several of those co workers were blathering on about how they were missing important emergency information/texts/calls. One woman was majorly pissed because her daughter MIGHT miss a day's work because she couldn't get the call to go to work. (First, they miss the point that it's a great big ol' IF they tried to call her; Second, Mama was gonna call to "take care of it" for her baby girl. In my opinion, but if she's big girl enough to be a substitute teacher, she's a big enough girl to take care of her own cellphone problems. Mama needs to get a hobby.)

Well, as the day went on, the service still wasn't fixed. The ranting cooled a bit, but I kept hearing about the "emergencies" that these people were missing. Things like a text from a friend regarding whether or not she was breaking up with her boyfriend, the call from the ol' boyfriend on whether or not he wiped his own ass, blah blah blah.

Seriously, these people don't realize what an emergency really is: Emergencies are about the loss of limbs, copious blood loss, bodily mangling, and death. NOT about whether or not we're partying tonight.

Then there were those who were "trying to run a business here." Really? Wow. Nobody in the history of America ever tried to run a business with telephone service out! Honest! Decades before cellphones and computers, landline telephone service would occasionally go out--things like lines going down, transformers being blown, etc, would cause service to go out...and get this! Business continued! And few people got pissed off enough to make idiotic statements like "They OWE me service!"

Sure, you pay for cellphone service, but accidents happen. Your not being connected to 15,000 other people will, barring some bizarre and ironic incident, NOT kill any of you. Especially not the for the 12-24 hours you are without your service. Big Shocker, that. They'll still be where they are, and you'll still be where you are. Worse case scenario, your Farmville farm will still be there, and your insecure, needy friends will manage to survive without your constant input.

Chances are pretty good that you'll all still be the self-centered, self-important people you have been all this time, too.

More Than Enough

There's more than enough weirdness floating about for a 2nd full moon.

Seriously. Full moons mean weirdness--happy weirdness, but weirdness just the same. New moons generally mean grumpy weirdness, sometimes out-and-out mean weirdness.

But, aside from that summary of a years-long study in human behavior in public places, currently, the weirdness factor around me has increased for no discernable reason. Dunno why. If you do know why, please let me know.

Case in point: yesterday, I had to type in a customer's credit card number. Part of that process, for the card holder's security, is that we are to also type in the zip code on the account, and the security code on the back of the card. Normally, this is no problem, because you ask the person for the zip code on the account, and they simply rattle off their phone number, then realize what you asked and they tell you their zip code. Yesterday's dude grunts at me, "Same as yers." I asked around: everyone else thought that was weird, too.

Today's case in point: My Sweetie's personal use cellphone rang (he doesn't take it with him while he's working) Voice says, "Hey, dooya know who tis is?"

I reply: No

Voice: You mean you don't recgehnize me?

Me: No

Voice: mumbly sorts of sounds that may be a person's name

Me: WHO?

Voice: mumbly sorts of sounds that may be a person's name

Me: I do not know you.

Voice: *laughs* sure sure. mumbly some more

Me: I do not know you.

Voice: you mean you don' rememer mumbly sounds that may be someone else's name

Me: No. I do not know them either.

Voice: you sure?

Me: I do not know you, or them.

Voice: What about Fred Shoemaker?

Me: No. I do not know him

Voice: Who is this?!

Me: NOT WHO YOU ARE CALLING.

Voice: mumble sorry mumble

*click*

The phone rings 2 minutes later, or the equivalent amount of time it takes for Mrs Mumbly Voice to tell him what an idiot he is and redial the wrong number.

In a flash of postively psychic foreknowledge, I answer: Hello?

Mrs Voice: Is this FRED SHOEMAKER?

Me: No. Not even close.

*click*

For the record, we've had this number for over a year. And a final note: Angie, I didn't know you two years ago when you started texting me, I still don't know you...and quite frankly, if you're too stupid to STOP TEXTING ME when I FINALLY break down and send you a message back that I am not who you think you are texting please check the number!!!!! (yes, readers, I spelled every blessed word out to be sure she didn't use the wrong vowels and screw up the message) don't desist for 10 months then start texting me again. I am not amused, and you're gonna cry soon if you don't take the hint.

Stop Me If You've Heard This One

So, way back in January or so, after I joined Time Suck Central, I got a friend request from a person I knew way back in college (1986 or so.) She's not someone I was close with, and in all honesty, she was a classic insecure shrew. She cost me friends, people I still miss terribly. And she made me doubt my own sanity. And no matter what I did, she managed to still be there, sucking my life dry of the things and people I enjoyed.

Don't take this the wrong way, but I didn't wish bad things to happen to her (okay, after the first two years or so of not having any contact with her in any way, I mean,) I just really really NEVER wanted to have to look at or think about her again. With her waving like a loon to get my attention, I HAD to think about her, and I got to rethink all about how much I didn't like her. All over again.

On the first request, I hit ignore without thinking about it.

On the second request, I thought about it for a while, then hit ignore.

On the third request, I also received a message from her. Ugh. I can't just hit ignore.

Crap.

Her message was written from the POV that we had simply lost touch with each other. And with the premise that she wasn't a whack job from whay back.

I wanted to just reply "who are you, and how would I know you?" But my Inner Bitch was screaming, even after 20 years, for retaliatory brutality. I didn't cave. I consulted a very wise woman who recommended not going passive-aggressive, nor aggressive-aggressive. Just be honest.

"I don't recall liking you very much when I knew you. I really don't want to be friends."

God, I LOVE that. It should be available on a t-shirt. Really.

That's what I replied. Exactly that. And, oh my! the insanity that lunged at me! I got back what was the single most beautiful attempt at subtle manipulation I've ever encountered. Lil' Miss Must Be Friends had been practicing.

A parried that attempt as well. "Thank you for your reply. It confirms that I made the right decision." hit home. Must've, because what I got in response was an out and out pouting tantrum, AND a block.

Hell, I didn't know you could set a block, even on Time Suck Central, that would remove you from even mutual friends lists. Make you totally invisible.

And oh, how I laughed then! It was the single BEST moment of being on Time Suck Central.

I did the mature thing. I posted my status as "I attract the freaks and nutbars even in the virtual world. So nice to know."

I was unblocked within two hours, so I'm guess that the Olympian contender Whack Job Gold definitely should be hers.

Warning!

For those who have been following the Saga of the Mumplized PTA, I've gotten a warning I must share:

There is an elementary teacher in CA who accidentally included 6 seconds of videotape showcasing her very personal, very adult love life in a video tape of "highlights" of the year for her students.

The warning is this: if, as a PTA, we're planning on having some video/powerpoint/slide show action at Open House, this is a VERY good time to be sure we're using brand spanking (hah!) new materials to make the visual aids.

And, in general, it's a good idea to CAREFULLY LABEL those personal adult moments and NEVER EVER re-use the tapes....burn 'em, but don't recycle 'em. In this one particular instance, I'm guessing that EVERYONE (especially the parents) will be glad that you're killing the environment, instead of killing their children's idolized image of you.

As a personal, adult side note: 6 seconds is not enough time to showcase the highlights of my current love life, not that I'm sharing My Sweetie with anybody--under any circumstances. *just sose ya knows.*

Adventures in Self-Checkout vol. 2

There are currently 4 self checkout terminals in our store. They have a lovely (that's sarcasm) computer animated video that briefly and non-verbally explains the process. That means, they feature moving pictures to demonstrate how to use one.

One of these monstrosities has a habit of not working. In the almost 3 years we've had the beast, it's been "down" and "not working right" for most of that time. If we get one full week of the thing working, we're all impressed, and whispering when near it, for fear of jinxing it. Mostly because, when jinxed, the thing drops pieces of itself off. Like the pinpad/signature screen. Yes, I mean that when it decides to show its displeasure with being in our little sink-hole of a city, it rejects its own parts.

Now, I realize that the Amish (you know, the people in the funky clothes from the Harrison Ford "classic" Witness) don't have much experience with computers, or televisions. Nothing was quite as surreal as seeing a youngish Amish couple standing at the SCO, waving merchandise in front of the video screen on the one that keeps breaking down. Now, I'm sure some of the bleeting hearts will say I'm being "rough" or "rude" about the Amish. But I'm not. You see, there were three other units with moving pictures, lights, and, dare I say it? No bags over every parts upon which a bag could be secured. These people looked at FOUR freaking TV screens, and chose the one that was DARK, COVERED OVER, and not responsive.

Let me just say it: Okay, you Amish twit, you choose to not have or use technology, so, GO WITH THAT. Just Say No and keep moving to a regular register.

Now, along with the Amish, I have to say that the English, or at least those with what sound like an English Accent, shouldn't be allowed near the self-checkouts either. I don't know, and don't care to find out, if all English people are this stupid, or if it's just the ones I meet at the SCO. I'm guessing it's more like "most" because it's rare to find "all" of anything about any one group of people.

Siderant: why don't the English understand English? The Self Checkout speaks English better than many of the customers I see in a day. Hell, the machine has better language skills than the VP of the PTA at my daughter's school. Why is that?

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Spin and Marty are asked (in a snippy English accent) "Excuse me, but what does it mean by a pinpad? There's no pin."

Ahhh. Having to smile and politely say, "Oh, that's this. (touching the pinpad lightly)" and wait for the obligatory "Wha?" just fantastically made my day. I especially enjoyed how the pissy English wench tried to tell me it was my fault she didn't know what it meant.

Just say it: Okay, English Wench, if you don't like how we do things in America, and if it's too much for us to ask that you adjust yourself to being here, JUST GO HOME. Ta ta.

Ahhh, I'm feeling better now already.

Adventures in Self-Checkout vol. 1

So, at work, while being trapped inside with all these freaking people, I spend a lot of my time at the Self Checkouts (SCO.) It's so great--I mean, added with the benefits of having to look busy, I get to watch things like this:

The Smiling Cashier on Register #8: She get dumber every time she pees. It's rough and vulgar, but I swear to God it's true. In one week (ONE WEEK, people) she managed to not know how to put a bag in the wastebasket under her register. It's a standard-issue smallish wastebasket, and the bags were right there--less than 2.5 feet from the thing. Since the closing cashier didn't put one in, she had no clue how to put one in at open, either. I had to explain it to her without rolling my eyes or using the words "fuckwit." Try that when you're not a morning person.

The next day, the Smiling Cashier on Register #8 didn't turn the light on--the light that makes the pretty #8 noticable--for upwards of 50 minutes. Now, I have an excuse as to why I don't turn on the lights: I spend 9 months of my year at either the garden register or the return desk. Neither of my usual haunts at work have pretty lights, so, of course, my brain doesn't think, "turn on the light, dummy." When told to turn on her light (not by me--it ain't my place to tell her such things) she says, and I quote, "Oh, yeah. I was wondering when someone was gonna get that turned on."

She doesn't go up the ladders for downstocking. I get that--the ladders make me feel woozy, so if I had a genuine terror of heights, there's no way I'd go up one. But she doesn't BEND either. Now, on the one hand, it means that nobody ever has to fear seeing her ass crack. But, then, too, that means that anything lower than her elbow is somebody else's problem. I asked her, on the third morning this week, to check the batteries on the endcap, and I'd get them down to get the holes filled. She wrote down 6 item numbers--all six were no lower than her bellybutton. Most of the true holes were lower. She watched me bend over and get that information myself and said, "Yeah, uh, I just did a quick visual on that." It took everything I had to say, "Yeah, uh, it's mostly VISUAL when downstocking, fuckwit." but instead, I said, "Well, I'm bending over."

I'm getting very good at not rolling my eyes and not shrieking in pain from the effort.

An Agonizing Death

My lovely printer. My absolutely wonderful printer. The fantastic thing.

Died.

I killed it.

Apparently, it's not intended to make a bajillion copies in 10 months.

Oops.

However, it IS still covered under warranty. And what a wonderful thing that is.

In a matter of days (excepting the holiday and the weekend) I should have the parts-n-pieces needed to make it fab again.

I can't wait.

And I plan on telling Kodak--after my stuff arrives, btw--how absolutely fab I think this little techno-marvel is.

(and I get Sweetie points for actually saving the receipt (which he bet was long-goooone), finding the papers needed, and getting the call done.

Yea, ME!