So, you were browsing the merch?

Everyone may not have a Whole Foods or a Wild Oats in their town, but you probably have a supermarket or food store that has lots of free samples or deli stations where it is possible get a pretty good feed just by walking around "pretending" to shop. Only, some people just aren't so good at it and come off as stalkerish.

I went to Whole Paycheck today to search out sugar-free cookies and these organic, whole wheat tortillas I'd seen a co-worker eating. I'm looking over some cheese because I love cheese and there's free cheddar samples when I see this guy "hovering" around the sample case.

Six foot, bearded, youngish, has that shaggy "I'm a hardcore vegan animal rights Earth First activist who protests about butterfly habitat look" about him. I also checked his pants and shoes, because I also thought he might be homeless. He looked normal. Sue me. It happens. I'm a judgmental bitch and I really don't need any more crazy people in my life right now.

I'm like - "Okay. Is he cruising me or the cheese?" - and how often do you really have to ask yourself that question in life?

Question answered about ten seconds later when he puts his whole hand into the sample station - conveniently ignoring the tongs and grabs a handful of cheese and goes on his merry way. By the way, EWWWWWWWWWWW. At that moment, I regretted my greed at previously sampling the delicious $6.99 a pound White Wisconsin Cheddar, because I was sure he'd been by before.

I go on my merry way - only to run into him again as I'm looking for olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette. He's at a soup kiosk - loading up a cup and *casually* walking away. IT MUST BE SAMPLE DAY AT THE WHOLE FOODS.

I see this kid about six more times as I shop - managing to spend $110 dollars and fill up only two Whole Foods bags (there's a reason they call it Whole Paycheck!). He never has a cart, he never has anything faintly resembling merchandise - but he always has something going between his hand and his mouth.

And I never think about reporting him to management. Hey. He's got a reason. He looks hungry. Maybe he lost his job. Maybe he lost his apartment. Whatever. It ain't my problem. Although I did sort of want to tell him to learn to blend in more - because he stood out like a sore thumb - and I'm sure everyone in the store knew he was "browsing the merch" as it were.

And prick em, and poke em, and bleed em, and stick em

Well, I guess it is time to announce it.

I'm a diabetic.

I found out officially late Thursday afternoon. There's background. I went to the ER in late March after I got a massive headache and sudden gushing nosebleed at 3 a.m. out of nowhere. I got a CT scan because I kept complaining of pain behind my eyes and I think I freaked the ER nurses and doctors out that I was having some sort of aneurysm.

Turns out I had a massive sinus infection that was causing something to push on the blood vessels near my eyes and nose - and that's what caused the nosebleed - which is what caused me to freak out. The hospital referred me to an Ear/Nose/Throat doctor, who prescribed a high-powered antibiotic and a steroid to try to get the raging sinus infection and the polyps in my nose under control.

The steroid caused the diabetes to manifest - and I pretty much figured this out on my own after I realized that it wasn't quite natural to spend every waking hour running back and forth to the bathroom. Next week, we'll all get the charming tale of how I really realized something was wrong on the middle of Interstate 95 about 10 miles from the closest bathroom. Uh-huh.

Anyway. Getting any kind of a visit with any sort of a doctor short of waiting in the ER for six hours in South Florida is a nightmare. Once I realized that something WAS wrong, I had to wait three weeks for an appointment, even though I insisted it was *urgent* - all that did was get them to put me on the "standby" list and they did call me when someone canceled and I got in four days early.

I went to take a blood test - the very same test where I'm convinced the hospital was trying to kill me - and they called with my results late Thursday.

Suddenly, now that my life is apparently in mortal peril, I get an appointment at 8 a.m. the next day. And another illiterate nurse from hell. DO THEY SEE ME COMING OR SOMETHING?

First, she pokes my finger with a needle that you could sew canvas with. I understand that needles are part of the everyday routine - although haven't they evolved past that now?

So first, I get the prick and poke and the blood test on the machine the doctor's office uses. Other than the needle, it isn't bad. My blood sugar is enormously high, but we all knew that. I get the standard lecture and other goodies.

Then we get the take-home kit. Something from some drug company. And she wants me to "test" it - to make sure that I know how to use it. Which I understand.

So I'm going through it. Except that apparently I'm not doing it fast enough, because she yanks the package from me and starts rifling through the instructions and doing it all for me anyway. I'm trying to READ the instructions and she grabs them too.

I hear her mumbling "I don't really understand this. This is all so new." Great. A technophobe.

I grab them back. AMAZING HOW CUSTOMER SERVICE IS SO BAD IN ALL PARTS OF THE ECONOMY. I get to the part about how you can set the lancet (needle) to prick deeply or not - a scale of one to four - depending on if you have deep veins or not - when she grabs the little device and starts clicking off numbers again. I HEAR it go to four and realize - that's probably bad news - when she grabs my finger and jams it up against the needle and WHAP.

OUCH. I have to physically bite back the words *YOU STUPID BITCH* - because that would be counter-productive - all the while she's mumbling about - "oh, that's how that works, look, there's a depth setting for you to see about the needle - and here how the needle goes in and out so you don't accidentally stick yourself."

I thanked her. Gathered up the stuff, confirmed my next appointment and scrammed before she got it in her head to start poking me again. What the hell woman? Do you read anything before you just start shoving needles in people?

As of today, I'm in sort of a fatalistic mode. I can deal with this. But I'm still going to eat a cookie when I want a cookie dammit!

Rear-ended

The past few weeks just have not been good to me. This was a few weeks ago - but was pretty much just part of the downward spiral of things that made me want to throw all my stuff in the dumpster and go live behind a palm tree or something.

I have a nice dinner at this Asian seafood place (totally undiscovered) with a friend of mine. The appetizers are a ripoff, but the entrees are ginormous and totally worth it. But that's not the story. The bathrooms - I have a fascination with bathrooms for some reason - might be. They're royal blue with hammered tin in all the corners and along the baseboards and done in like luxury nautical - if such a thing exists. But the bathrooms still aren't the story.

We eat and pay and get into the car. It is like 8:30 p.m. and nearly dark. I'm driving and I pull out of the parking lot and change lanes because we're planning to go to the movies. All of a sudden, and I do mean ALL OF A SUDDEN, I see this *SHAPE* looming up out of the blackness behind me.

I sort of choke out "ohmygodthatacarbacktheretheyredrivingfast."

The car - really a truck - accelerates - even though we're coming up to a stop light. Not thinking, I SLOW DOWN, because THERE IS TRAFFIC RUNNING THROUGH THE INTERSECTION.

The truck behind me start flashing its lights. It is not an ambulance, no emergency lights - and I know damn well I didn't pull in front of it. I think "ohmygodimgonnagetsmashed" and I brace myself.

I hear the squeal of brakes for what sounds like forever and then the *crunch* as the truck hits my car, although it doesn't seem as loud as it should. Some old guy pulls up next to us, rolls the window down, asks if we're OK and says "We saw him gunning down the road."

We get out, and this dude jumps out of the truck and starts yelling at me about "pulling out in front of him."

Uh. No. You hit me. That's how it works.

By the unholiest of holiest, his gigantic grill slammed into the rear-mounted spare tire on the back of my SUV and absorbed nearly all the damage - and he must have been braking for all he was worth. So there's very little damage.

We're sitting on one of the busiest roads in town on a Sunday night in the middle of an intersection with people whizzing by. I offer to pull off and exchange info. The second I get out of the way, he's off and gone. Flying. Uninsured illegal immigrant with no drivers license and no insurance. *I must attract bad luck*

I call the cops. They look for him. They're disinterested in filling out a report. One of the cops is actually CHEWING SKOAL! Yes. He even puts a big chaw in his mouth as he gets out of his cop car. And he seems disinclined to believe that I was in a hit-and-run.

The other cop is more reasonable. He's like "I can fill out a report. It won't take me but 15 minutes. But look. There's no real damage to your car. I can't see it. You can't see it. The insurance company adjuster won't be able to see it. If you go to a body shop, they'll "fix" something and charge you money that won't meet your deductible and your insurance is going to go up anyway." He actually made sense.

So I told them not ot fill out a report. What was the point? I was sick of looking at the redneck cop with his huge wad of Skoal in his lip.

They got in their squad cars. We got back in my car, drove to a bar and I had three shots in five minutes and four martinis to calm my nerves. I can't deal with shit like this on a daily basis.

More Wednesday drama

I did not even finish the Wednesday night drama.

I get home around 9:30 p.m. I had a nice dinner with a friend (just a friend) at an authentic French place; we were the only two people there, other than the owner and some French friend of his. They jabbered away in French perched on stools in the back the entire two hours we were there. It felt so authentic.

I had some sort of chicken with mustard sauce. The description had "moulet" or something at the end of it. Whatever. It was crispy and moist and delicious. And chocolate creme brulee. CHOCOLATE CREME BRULEE! Whoever heard of such a thing. I'd go back just for the dessert. Anywho.

I get home around 9:30 p.m. (that sentence seems familiar). I'm propped on the couch reading on the computer and stalking people on Twitter. It is what I do. I hear a slamming, banging knocking on the door. "JUST A MINUTE," I scream, because, you know, it is nearly 11 p.m. and I'm more or less ready for bed, which, for me, means not wearing very much.

I get dressed and open the door. *SO HELP ME SHIVA*

It is the crazy woman that lives downstairs in the apartment directly under me.

She's already gotten on my bad side last month after she went around to all the units in the building knocking on doors one Saturday asking residents for money "to go to the drugstore for her pills." She really is crazy - her mother pays the rent and bills. But honestly - this particular sandwich is NOT ready to be let out of the hamper and be mainstreamed yet. She just doesn't have the skills.

It is 11 p.m. - and I open the door and she immediately starts screaming at me "WHAT THE HELL IS ALL THIS NOISE UP HERE? WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE TO MAKE THIS NOISE? IT SOUNDS LIKE THE ROOF IS GOING TO FALL IN! IT SOUNDS LIKE THERE IS BOMBS FALLING IN MY CEILING!"

OK. Now, I've been *SEATED* on the couch for the past hour or so. The television is off. I wasn't playing my iTunes. The loudest thing in the apartment was my janky ceiling fan or possibly the toilet flushing. It sure as hell wasn't bombs.

It might have been the *sproing* of screws popping loose inside her head.

I'm taken aback, and when she starts to take a step inside, I get militant, probably not helping the situation. "No. I've been reading. There's no noise," probably a bit too loudly.

She screams again. "IT IS SO LOUD I THINK THE ROOF IS GOING TO FALL IN. I'M CALLING MARSHA RIGHT NOW. THIS IS CRAZY."

I know Marsha (the landlord). I've pet-sat Marsha's dog. Crazy woman doesn't know this. I decide that I can out-crazy-crazy and just go past crazy to ballistic myself. "FINE. YOU DO THAT. YOU CALL MARSHA." And I slam the door. And lock it. She's just insane.

And I hear what sounds like a walrus in heat doing a tango with an old VW Beetle outside the door. She's yelling. She's pounding and stamping her feet and just generally acting like a child who's had a toy taken away. And I hear her stomp off.

I run for my phone and dial Marsha. She will love this one - especially after four tenants called her after the "give me money to go the drugstore" episode.

She's still up - predictably watching "Law & Order" (ex-New Yorker) - she's an Angie Harmon fan for some reason and loves the early season ones. I tell her what happened and she is beside herself. She calls the woman (I don't know her name, only that she screams) on the phone and catches her in a screaming fit about "bombs going off" and "ceiling falling in" and other craziness; it was a three-way call so I listened in. Marsha was yelling at HER about how I've "lived there for five years and never bothered anyone and don't you ever go up there and bang on that door again."

I finallly just locked the front door, locked the bedroom door and went to bed. And I checked the windows before I left this morning in case the crazy was out to ambush me!

Welcome back

I'm going to write again. I've made the decision.

Hello. And welcome back. I know that it has been months since I've written. There has been a reason - not a good one - only that I haven't been inspired. I thought I needed a reason. I realized that I don't - and that you don't think I need one either.

I thought about what I wrote about. I wrote about horrible customers and awful situations and insane managers and everything in between. But I always made it funny. The common thread that ran through it all was that it happened at Wal-Mart - but it was also that it happened to me. I made it funny. I internalized it, I humorized it and I dealt with it that way. I realized after I quit writing that I needed that outlet to deal with my demons.

So here goes.

Wednesday was just awful. Not in that car crash way, but in that "splash water all over your new shoes way."

I had to get up extra-early to be at the local hospital for tests. Yes. Apparently years of stress, eating fast food and a declared and desperate love for chocolate have caused me to be at risk for diabetes.

I arrive at 8 a.m. and am greeted by a room chock full of old people with two feet and most of both arms in the grave as well as three pregnant mothers with two screaming children each. It is a screaming bedlam that would reduce vow-of-silence monks to gibberish and squawking. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine a nice, soft bed with clean, white sheets and a dark, dark room and icy-cold air conditioning. It didn't work. I wait for FORTY-FIVE MINUTES even though it is 8 A.M. IN THE MORNING.

For all this, I pay almost $200 a month for health care, plus co-pays and deductibles and next year face the wonderful prospect of getting dropped from what we around the office have come to call the "good insurance," the by-comparison-wonderful Aetna PPO in favor of one of the "managed care" plans that people despise. Anywho.

Some lab tech who totally cannot speak English - as a first, second or even THIRD language babbles something that sounds like it MIGHT be my last name. I stand up and ask the tech. She nods.

I ask her my FULL NAME. She nods again. I walk back and for some reason, I'm paranoid. I demand to see the work order sheet or whatever. I look at it and it isn't me. She's been about to jab me with several needles and didn't even bother to confirm that IT WAS ME SHE WAS ABOUT TO STAB!

TWENTY MINUTES LATER ... the woman behind the check-in counter, whose customer service skills consist of screaming "BE WITH YOU IN A MINUTE" at everyone who walks in the door, points at me and yells "COME HERE."

"IS THIS YOUR INSURANCE" - Because, on her planet, chewing gum and slurping coffee and screaming at people and being unable to actually process paperwork seem to go together. She's managed to photocopy some UNRELATED human being's insurance card onto the paperwork with the work order for my blood tests.

So, the entire 45 minute wait was related to some unknown insurance company refusing to sign off on the tests. I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS! Who is this person and why did you attach their insurance to my paperwork when I handed you my paperwork and insurance card at the same time? Are you incompetent as well as loud?

After all that, I hand over my insurance card for the SECOND time, they type the CORRECT information into the computer, and I'm in and out in five minutes. Amazing. My shattered nerves will never be the same.

Today's missed connection

I can never tell you how I feel. Your girlfriend just wouldn't understand. Actually, you probably wouldn't either. That, and the fact that you vote Republican. I just don't understand. Please Kali, help me, I JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND................ But today, you had a new haircut, and the pants were freshly pressed (does she do that for you, because I wouldn't, although I might hire a maid) and you had one extra button on your shirt undone so I could see a peek of chest. I just couldn't take it. I didn't want to stare. I promise. It's not that you're an Abercrombie model, cause really, you're not. You're more of a Monet - pretty from far away, but a big mess close-up - but sometimes a girl has NEEDS. And you're just a few feet away. Eight feet and a million miles. So we make small talk and I nod while you yammer on and watch the space under your chin for a flash of tan flesh. It makes the day go by. And I die a little inside each time.

Missed Connection: The Sports Grill

You watched me eat lunch. You rolled silverware slowly and stared while I tried to scream silently in my head that "HE'S JUST MY FRIEND." I knew you wanted me. I wanted to make you understand that you too. I could feel it.

I wanted to touch you. Your long fingers seemed to have such grace and you seemed lonely and bored. I know what it is to work at a job you suffer at. I stared. You stared. Everything went quiet. Cliche, but so true. There was a bubble of time and it seemed like we were the only two people in it. And it was gone. My friend spoke. You moved. The magic was gone. I looked back and saw the back of your head and a dishpan going around the corner.

Drop a line. Please. I was wearing and orange and white tee with green cargo pants. You were in a blue shirt with a beard and a gold name badge on the left pocket in The Sports Grill around 1 p.m. Tuesday.

Missed Connection: Quizno's

Hey. Email me. I was wearing khakis and a blue striped polo and ordered a chicken sub. You looked trim and cute even in the ugly Quizno's uniform. I loved your goatee. Our eyes locked and we made a connection - or at least I thought so. I tipped you five dollars and you didn't say anything.

I walked out the door and into the night with my sandwich, a soda and a handful of broken dreams.

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PostingID: 830384679

Rain. Rain. Go away. Feeling blue.

--
Sent from my T-Mobile Sidekick®

My toilet. It has runneth over

The sound of a fountain is the absolute last thing you want to hear at 7 a.m. when you've never engaged the skills of Charlie Dimmock to build water features in your home.

Ya'll know that I live in a old building (witness the battle with Comcast, now at a detente wherein I curse my router more than them) and the suspicious "noises in the attic" type things.

Well, Thursday, the water pressure on the sink suddenly went from river to brook. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but obviously, changes were afoot in the plumbing.

Friday morning and I'm fighting yet another headache and I go do my business. The bathroom mats seem a little wet, but I figure it is just my shower from late last night. In the history of wrong, that was one of the bad calls.

I flush and walk out of the bathroom. Two steps and it's like the Trevi with the gentle sound of water hitting the tiles. Soggy bath mats equals the LAST time I flushed, apparently. While the previous lava flow seemed to be content to stay in the bathroom, this one was headed for the village.

I grabbed towels and tried to create a firewall in the doorway, but it blasted past that with a flanking maneuver that displays how incredibly uneven the tiles in my apartment are. Seriously. It was like watching water on a sand-table as it pooled and spread.

I dug through the closet and found more towels and sent in the reinforcements. We fought a holding action and confined the worst of the damage to the bathroom, which finally stopped erupting.

I had no spirit for this shit - literally or figuratively. I turned the vent on, sprayed some Lysol and left.

I get home and open the door and pay for my sins. Many times over. Screw you inadequate 1960s plumbing where four pieces of toilet paper creates a jam in the pipes. Probably a dead woodchuck or something down there.

I'm sleepy. But I'm not tired.

My sleep schedule has been off these past few weeks. I don't really know why, other than the fact that I've got the willpower of gnat and no real set work schedule anymore.

Now, it's 4 a.m. and I'm trapped in the land of "sort of tired but not really sleepy" and the rest of the world starts going to work in three hours. I knew I should have gotten my ass out of bed and gone to a midnight showing of "Hellboy II" instead of surfing the Net for news on Nicole Kidman's baby.

Speaking of Nicole. Honey. Sweetie. Darling. Of all the six-letter combinations in the world, you picked "Sunday" - which is fine I guess, except that, like, the baby wasn't BORN on a Sunday. Was it? Help me out. I'm confused. What have you been smoking and can I get some? Unless it involves any part of Keith Urban's anatomy. Just. No.

I think the other six days of the week want their dignity back. Nobody actually NAMES THEIR BABY after a day of the week. Fruit, maybe, possibly. Mythical people (Kal-El, thank you Nick Cage). Musical instruments (Banjo, thank you Rachel Griffiths, proving once and for all that Brenda's nutty ass on "Six Feet Under" was totally a real-life portrayal.) Loony-bin word combos (Pilot Inspektor anyone). Rob Morrow, who I adored in "Northern Exposure," couldn't resist the urge to get cute and named his daughter Tu, as in "Tu Morrow." You just know she's gonna laugh her ass off once she's enough to put him and his wife in a shitty nursing home and tell the staff "let the ants eat the bastard. Oh. And play that "Annie" soundtrack every day when you tell him I'll be there "tomorrow." More craziness at this infoplease site. (warning, annoying advertising)

Even Tuesday Weld was a stage name. And she held up her end of the bargain with the Clan of Days by being nominated for an Oscar.

Nicole. Will your baby be nominated for an Oscar? Or will she wind up in a catfight with Suri Holmes Cruise and Apple Paltrow Martin over the McConaughey spawn?

Lord Have Mercy. Feel like crap.

Damn. Haterade in the Sonic drinks

I should call it "six words to piss people off."

Anyway. All ya'll who think my onion issues are not a matter of life and death will be happy to know that I have been justly punished for my rant in the form of a skull-cracker migraine lasting most of yesterday and into the evening of today. Happy now? Probably not.

I don't have anything else right now.

Sonic goes right back into FAIL

OK. I just don't understand this. I work in the service industry. I deal with pissed off people every day of my life. EVERY SINGLE DAY. Like it or not, the phrase "customer service" has become a specialty of mine.

So, I UNDERSTAND the need to speak clearly at the drive-through or at the order counter, to give concise and accurate orders, to have a familiarity with the place you are ordering at and to convey EXACTLY what you want to the people who are trying to help you. Don't get upset, don't be rude, just repeat it in a polite tone of voice and ask to have the order read back to you. And check your damn bags before you leave.

Yes, I eat a lot of take-out. I've nearly given up on cooking - it is difficult as a single person. I buy salad and it rots because I don't want salad four times in a row. I cook chili and can't eat it six times in a row and hate the way it tastes frozen. I know. Cry me a river. I keep odd hours and don't really have a regular schedule.

Anyway. Back to me.

Please. Tell me. OH GOD OF THE DEEP FRYER AND THE SESAME SEED BUN. Please, for the love of the kiddie meal toy TELL ME.

How does "NO ONIONS" translate to "put an onion ring on there" at the Sonic. You even read it back to me. There is no onion ring on the sandwich. There's no "add an onion ring" option. What. Tha. Hell. Did. You. Do?

Audible Comprehension = FAIL.

So when I discovered the pickles, CHOPPED ONIONS and ketchup UNDER the patty, I got real pissed off. Because you obviously just grabbed somebody else's order off the counter and slung it in a sack and threw it out the window to get the drive-thru line down. Customer Service FAIL. I hate you, and I'm sorry that I tipped you a dollar. I hope you burn. No love. - bbcamerican

Pizza: Never quite as good tomorrow

Pizza Hut: Ultimate Web site FAIL!

Wendy's baked potato for the win!

I love my bed and pillows.

My head. It hurts. A lot.

Sonic didn't screw up my order!