They say you can never go Home...

Soldiers of Sparta were allowed to return home after lost battles, only if carried dead upon their shields. I'm convinced this is a more practical and time-saving way to go about it.

Thursday, October 28, 2004

Three Depresso Items and A Moment Of Zen

1) Next(h)ell: I am a Power User. Or rather, that is what the tatooed and disaffected youths at my local Nextel store would like me to believe. I am now Power Using the hell out of my fourth phone. It's been four months since I first purchased Phone Number One and embarked upon this Very Special Relationship; one, I'll wager, resembles the kind of relationship Lizzy Borden had with her parents. I average one phone per month. I'm like, the J-Lo of Cell Phone Ownership, people. Although, two of the three deaths have been caused partially by me. Phone Number One, I threw in a fit of rage, having just lost my umpteenth important call in spitting distance of a cell tower. The second was purely accidental: I was demonstrating how my new phone didn't ring unless I banged it a few times against a table. My party trick failed that one time, and my colour LED screen dramatically exsanguinated itself on the table. I plead involuntary phoneslaughter. But whatever; none of that really depresses me. But, Power User? I beg your pardon...

2) Decaf Mocha Depresso, please: Saturday night, and it's my turn to order at Starbucks, and before I could spit out the first phoneme of my order, the woman behind the counter, having eyed me as I made my deliberate approach to the register, cuts me off; looks at me with increasingly concerned-looking crinkles around her soft brown eyes: "Oh, honey, it's OKAY. You can RELAX here. Don't worry about a THING." Severely confused, and not a little bit pissed, I begin to form a response. But no! Doe Eyed Cashier gently places a finger against her ample lips and shushes me gently and yet, excessively long. Like, "shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh",
as if I were a crying, constipated baby. I stop trying to talk, absolutely fascinated. She continues, "Baby, I understand exactly. I'm obsessive-compulsive too. You don't have to explain. Mary understands e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g."

Mary, apparently, did not however understand how badly I needed a Cafe Americano at that very moment. And since when does knowing EXACTLY what you want when you're up at bat at the 'Bucks, constitute Mental Disorder? I mean, should I have instead stared vacantly at the "menu" and after several infuriating "um's", ordered an impossibly customised drink? Get off the Klonipin, Mary! Live Life the way it was meant to be lived--one coffee shy of Total Public Meltdown!

3) My Job Title: I just checked the side of this blog, and it reminds me that I'm supposed to be pretending to dabble in Sales and Marketing. Which is odd, because with all the Drama I've had to be dealing with, my Job Title should probably read Child Psychologist. Which is odd, you know, because I just checked my paystub, and I am NOT pulling in Psychologist-style bucks. Which means, I am seriously infantalizing my dealers. Or they are playing me Beyond Belief. I'm going to start bringing wet wipes with me when I visit them, and the first thing I will ask them, as I proffer the diaper-pink box leaking Baby Powder Smell, is "Wipe now, or later?"

*Sigh* But there has been one silver-lined cloud in the drama storm of my day, and I think today, it's this picture. How cute does little Yasser look in his little onesie?