Dexter is hot, and I’m a little bit simple…

October 12, 2010 at 12:41 am (Livin' La Vida Loca) (, , , )

I’ve always hated it when people assume I’m simple. Just because I don’t act like a pseudo-intellectual snob doesn’t mean I don’t have a functioning brain…but then something happens that reminds me that I give others plenty of ammunition to assume I am a few bricks short of a full load. Like when I choose an analogy with the words “brick” and “load”, knowing the connotations both those words carry beyond their intended meaning. At least with my friends.

So I am going over to a friend’s house to watch Dexter. Who is HOT! Dexter, I mean. Even if he is a serial killer, he’s a HOT serial killer. Because looking good can get you excused from all sorts of mayhem. But that really isn’t the point of my story. Even though a whole blog post about how HOT Dexter is would probably get a lot of hits.

So, again, I am going over to a friend’s house to watch Dexter. I have with me a bottle of red wine, because everybody know you don’t drink white when you are watching TV about serial killers. I have *some* class, people. Now, I confess–I am horrible with numbers. I don’t mean with math, just with the digits themselves. I can compute the resultant force of two masses pushing against each other, but I can’t remember two numbers. And if I am lucky enough to remember them, I flip them. This made learning lots of fun, and explains why I was an English major.

So I go up to house number 34, 100% positive that this is my friends house. I ring the bell. An old woman answers the door, looking a little concerned, but that’s how old ladies always look. I think it’s a lack of fiber. I figure this is Lisa’s mother, since her parents are living with her. I ask for Lisa. She tells me, “I’m not Lisa, I’m Louise.” Um, but that’s not Lisa, now is it? I apologize, knowing I have the wrong house, obviously, and Louise starts looking at me with the same sort of pitiful look she gives slow puppies. Great. Louise is judging me. She suggests I try number 43, which I think is a fabulous idea. After all, I probably just flipped the numbers.

So I take my bottle of red, and truck across the street, and ring the bell of number 43…and ask for Lisa. Who apparently doesn’t live here either. But Maryanne is very nice, and notices the bottle of wine, and says I must be a very nice friend. I think I’d like to party with Maryann some day, because she doesn’t judge me. She thinks I’m cool, even if I am a bit simple. The amazing upshot–Maryanne knows of Lisa, and points out her house…which is number 74.

The moral of the story? There is none. I’m just a simple girl with a penchant for red wine and hot serial killers. And I am OK with that. And Dexter was HOT!!!


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How May I Not Help You?

August 9, 2010 at 10:45 pm (Funny at least to me, Livin' La Vida Loca, Somewhat Serious, Uncategorized)

Today one of my friends–we’ll call her Gloria, because that’s what Samir insisted on calling her, because apparently he couldn’t quite get the name Claire…who is actually Gloria here, but whatever. So Gloria Claire tries to contact customer service for our local cable company.

Local, as in, the customer service company is in India. Because it wouldn’t make sense to have the department charged with helping your customers located in your own country.

Now there is a semi-humorous exchange between Gloria Claire and Samir, which ends up with Samir being useless, and Gloria Claire serving as her own technician and solving her problem. Thumbs up, girlfriend.

But that’s not my real point today (yes, I actually have one).

How many of us have called customer service lately, only to reach a customer service rep who is struggling with English, and has an accent so thick you really not quite sure if they are crediting your account, or preparing to send you a contract for your soul? And how many have lamented about those damn foreigners taking away jobs from Americans due to the great outsourcing movement?

Now, I agree; outsourcing sucks. Big time. Outsourcing of jobs have cause friends to lose jobs, small towns to lose the livelihood of their citizens in one fell swoop. So I am totally anti-outsourcing.

But the problem, I contend, lies with us. Or with US.

Americans have an insatiable appetite for the cheap. We love our capitalism as long as it means we can buy jeans even cheaper…but the very same beast is responsible for your neighbors losing their jobs.

In order to produce goods cheap enough to satisfy us, companies have no choice but to move operations where they can get away with paying pennies…rather than the living wage we as Americans expect. What do we really think is going to happen? A company is going to take a hit on their profit so that they can keep jobs here and fill our need for greed? Not happening. Instead, we complain about having to deal with customer service from across the globe, when we are the ones responsible for its existence. Way to chase your tail.

So the next time you are bragging about the $10 jeans you got from Wal*Mart, be sure to go to your local unemployment agency, and thank anyone there who might have made that possible for you. Sure they lost their, jobs, but damn, you got a hot bargain. Awesome.

Photographic Evidence of Superlative Customer Service by James Cridland

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Best Dating Site Message. Ever.

August 2, 2010 at 7:17 pm (Dating is Fun, Funny at least to me, Livin' La Vida Loca, Uncategorized)

Not really sure if I was supposed to just find this funny, be impressed, or be horrified…but this was definitely one of the most entertaining messages I’ve ever gotten on a dating site:

RandomDatingDude: lol don’t you dare lose those lovely ladie lumps your very sexy the way you are

Um, yeah. Thanks…I think. Maybe not.

Also, thanks for getting “My Humps” stuck in my head for the day. Jerk.

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I Think My Dog May Go Bald

June 23, 2010 at 2:56 am (Dating is Fun, Funny at least to me, Livin' La Vida Loca, Uncategorized)

You know what does not mix? Nair and Dogs.

So here I am, rushing around earlier this evening, trying to get ready to go out. Like usual, I am running behind, because I tend to forget that time passes. And, wouldn’t you know it, I need to do pretty much the only primping ritual I take part in–the removing of the leg hair.

That’s where the Nair comes in, or goes on, I should say. Nair is nasty stuff that eats away at your skin if you don’t remove it within 5 minutes, and sometimes it actually removes the hair. At the point where I literally finish applying this hair removal miracle, my lab decides it would be a great time to bust into the bathroom…and rub against my leg.

My first reaction is to yell. Loudly. I have never seen my dog give me that look before, which makes me think people in New York city may have heard me. Now, I’m no scientist, but it’s a pretty safe assumption that if Nair can dissolve hair, it’s not going to be too gentle on a dog’s gastrointestinal tract.Which is why I yell. I’m scared I have somehow just killed my dog in an effort to conform to society’s expectations.

After I am reasonably assured that Zoe did not ingest any of the nasty stuff, I take a look at her. She has Nair smeared on her head, down her neck, and onto her back. My first thought? She’s going to look really freaky if I don’t get that crap off of her. That is not something I want to explain to the vet.

So I grab a towel and begin to wipe it off, when I realize you usually have to rinse the Nair off. But I’m running late. I don’t have time to hose her down. I run downstairs, and wet some paper towels and succeeded only in rubbing the Nair around a bit. It’s about this time that the Nair on my underarms begins eating through my flesh.

So now I am faced with a choice no one should have to make. Do I choose my dog’s hair or my own skin? I figure, she’s got a lot of hair, and I’m really getting a little tired of her shedding anyway, so I choose my skin. Sorry, Zoe. We’ll laugh about this some day, really.

Please note, no animals were harmed in the making of this blog. And my dog really isn’t going bald from the Nair experience. At least, not yet.

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