Or Maybe I Told Every One of My Coworkers and We Tagged Your Account "Dumb Jerk"

I decided early on that this would not be the place I would come to complain about customers. Suffice it to say, however, I would like those-some-of-you to STOP BEING SUCH JERKS. For real, you are NOT going to get a NICER person than I waiting on you. I have infinite patience in my "professional" life- which is odd because everywhere else I have none. So, just a friendly reminder to everyone. The person on the other side of the counter, the odds are they don't own the store. The odds are they have dealt with a jerk or ten that day. The odds are they are not paid big bucks. So, while it's true that the odds are you won't ever see them again, and therefore don't have to face the consequences of your rudeness directly... consider that you may have, in your carelessness, made someone's mommy cry. And life will punish you.

I didn't even get a cupcake!

Last week was the birthday of one of my managers (I have a ton of managers). Someone, a better friend to her than I, made cupcakes for her and decorated them, one letter per cupcake. Before I left work, she offered cupcakes to my kids. I stood there, staring down at the cupcakes. I needed three that were identical. Eye-Den-Tih-Cul. Finally, I found three "A" cupcakes. Score.

I present the cupcakes after dinner.

Connor: I got an A.

Emily: I got an A.

Ethan: I got an A!

Yes! Avoiding the annoyance. Now, let me be clear, had I not been able to find matching cupcakes, I'd have told them to just deal. That or they could all lose the cupcakes. Whatever. I don't deal with that crap. But! Why have to even tell them to deal if I can avoid it? So! Thirty seconds later:

Connor: I have a V! (Listen, I'm not going to explain how this happened. You can figure this out and I will not belittle you.)

Emily AND Ethan: What??? I have an A! How did you get a V? I want a V! (What??? You want a V? What the hell for? WHY?!?!) Can I have a V instead? Why does he get a V and we both have A's?

Connor sat there and snickered. I glared at them. I told them I was not explaining it to them, either. If they couldn't figure it out, they deserved the A's.

He's Perfected That Look... Dunno Where he Got That From

Connor: Look, Mom. I made a shush kabob. (I know, shish, but he said shush.)

Emily: Shush kabob? Is it gonna make you shush?

Me: *snort* Ahem. What??? It was funny!

We are Missing a Kind One

When I was in high school, I had this friend, Katya. She was the kind of friend you knew was going to back you up in a bar fight. Okay, so maybe we didn't actually have bar fights. But I'm pretty sure she would have been there for me. At least afterward to commiserate because I don't think she could have been in a fight. She was simply a Kind person, and no one would have felt the need to go head to head with her. She was the Kind that we have an extraordinary lack of in this world- Kind with no regard to her own benefit.

Last summer, after having not really spoken to her for ten years, I passed her on the street. She was walking hand-in-hand with a mini version of her. We did not make eye contact; I knew she didn't see me. And I didn't turn back to say hello to her. I didn't ask her how she liked being a mom. I remember that she was wearing a skirt, and I had a little bit of envy because she looked so pretty and I always hate myself in skirts. I didn't say, "Hey, Katya! It's so good to see you! You're looking pretty! And how is this little one?" I let her, and the moment, pass me by. Something about not wanting to draw attention to myself, to not take up someone else's time, not even one of the Kind ones.

Last week, Katya had her second baby. She was at home, yesterday, caring for this baby, and something went wrong. I'm still not clear on what, but apparently she suddenly started having leg pain, and she went to the emergency room. And from there, they tried to transport her to a different facility. She died in transit. A twenty-nine year old woman, with a husband and two babies.

There is, as there always is, a lesson in there. There is, more specifically, a lesson in there for me- and it's not the "hold your loved ones closer" or "life is short". I'm not sure what it is, yet. I'm going to have to seek it out. I do know that this world is now short another Kind one.

Everyone makes a mark. If you are around me long enough, chances are I will say to you, "Quelle heure est-il?", or, more accurately, through my lips will pass the highly bastardized, "killer-uh-teal?". It's how I ask every time, and often. This has to do with the fact that I'm apparently allergic to watches, and my cell phone is generally wedged into the back pocket of my too-tight jeans... Fourteen years ago:

Katya: What-time-is-it-quelle-heure-est-il?
Me: Sorry?
Katya: What time is it?
Me: Yeah, got that bit. What was the next part?
Katya: Quelle heure est-il? Sorry? I thought you took french. It just means, "What time is it?".
Me, after a pause: So... "what-time-is-it-what-time-is-it"?
Katya, after a pause: Ha. Yep.

I'm Pretty Sure the Context Doesn't Matter

Me, to Sam: You're like a crazy person to me.

Sam, with a snort: Ditto.

Six Word Saturday

A la Cate.

I Highly Recommend Terry Pratchett Books.

My Poor Husband

I have a slight obsession with underwear. That is a really weird sentence to type. And, no, I don't mean in a fetishy kind of way. Get your mind out of the gutter. See, I hate clothes shopping. No really. I do! And, yes, I am female. And listen, ladies- jewelry and shoe shopping does not count as clothes shopping. Clothes shopping is where you go into a store, have to find articles that might fit you, take them into a dressing room and- get ready for it- try them on. Shoes and jewelry fit everyone, okay? It doesn't count. Sure, they might be out of your size in that particular shoe, and maybe your foot is too wide for it, or maybe you're not into toe cleavage (for real? toe cleavage? what has our society become?). But unless your mortal soul gets crushed by the experience, it's not clothes shopping.

Where was I? Right, the underwear. When I do garner the strength to torture myself- read or see The Da Vinci Code, by the way? I'm not sure what I did wrong, but shopping for clothes should count for as much penance as what that albino did to himself. Right, right, sorry, back on topic. When I am ready to torture myself, I go whole-hog. This trip to the mall will take a long time, and I will not talk to you in the process. Really, either find my size in the thing I'm looking for- no, thanks, I don't want your suggestions- or get the hell out of my way.

So! When it comes to bras and underwear (See? We found our way back.), I don't futz around with store to store blah blah blah. There's the one store that I bother with. You know the one- they apparently think they're some sort of fragrance boutique, followed up by what they assume college girls wear to bed, and then, after wading through that crap, you get to the underwear. And they have a credit card. And you don't have to carry the credit card, just for your information. All you need is your social security number and your driver's license. This is probably a bad thing. But, whatever. And the reason they have credit cards is because their products are so damn expensive.

And we've made it to my point! I spent way more than I should have- not going to say how much, but will say that I bought ten items at once- and used the credit card! Which is fine because Sam, thank god, is really good about paying them off before any interest accumulates. Except he paid it off immediately. Like, before any bill came. Which means I lost that money out of my little play-money account long before it was absolutely necessary. Total suckage.

But this is where we get to the title of this post. Sam decided that, in fairness, my expenditure should not wholly come out of my mad money because his underwear purchases never come out of his mad money. This should get him some praise. I understand that. And I know, logically, that he is being really cool about it. After all, his underwear comes five to a package for, I dunno, twelve bucks or something. Whereas mine is more a "dining out in an expensive restaurant" price. So, I get a huge chunk of money for me to go spend on complete crap that's just for me, when I thought I had already spent it? Way cool. Do I go that way? Of course I don't.

Sam: I just figured since I don't spend my play money on my underwear, it's unreasonable for you to have to spend all of yours on yours.

(Did I mention where I spent all of my money on underwear and a couple pairs of jeans that day? Because I did. Like I said, whole-hog.)

Me, after a pause: But... none of your clothes purchases come out of your account.
Sam: Sure they do.
Me: No. I buy all your clothes. You've gotten every single new item as gifts recently. So, really...
Sam: As GIFTS! For my birthday and Christmas! Are you serious? You're going to make this an issue?
Me, in my head: Shut the eff up, Sarah. Shut up. Shut up. And get that nasty look off your dumb face. Be a grown up. He's being generous and you know it.
Me, outloud, mustering all my strength: I am not going to make an issue out of this... Thank you...... but you still don't spend any of your play money on clothes.

Hey, I did my best.