Kinky Copies

A friend of mine needed some photos copied, printed or whatever. So, we took a trip to Kinky Copies and used their computers to make it happen. We are at the service counter-and it's not that busy- and Marvin-not his name-but given the neanderthal that he is, I figured we'd keep his moniker under wraps. Believe me, I do not want to be this nice. He really was a freaking idiot. But, like mother always said, "if you have nothing nice to say..." Blah. Blah. Blah.

Pushing forward… On his name tag, I notice it says he's part of management. Ok, cool, this should be easy. Nope. First of all, he can't find the several files that were emailed to him. Pop Quiz Marvin! Can you find them? You've got two minutes... Annnnd... GO. Apparently he isn't good at pop quizzes. Once he does locate them a full twenty minutes later, he proceeds to tell us that his black and white ink is out and can only do color copies. I feel like this da-duhduh is lying to...  "up" ...his sales quota or something; hope that fifteen cent commission is worth it Marvin. Irregardless, we apprehensively accept it anyway. Well, more so, because we were in a position where we had to accept this load of crap. Well, fine… Marvin. Are you going to give us the black and white printing price? No? Oh... He doesn't know how to work the override functions on the computer. I'm sorry, what? Are you kidding me? Am I being "Punked?" What kind of moron gets promoted to assistant manager and cannot do override functions? What is the title in question for if you can't operate anything with your fancy purple and white plastic key card. Marvin. Or doesn't have answers for your questions pertaining to the business of… making copies? Marvin. Control, Alt, P… seems pretty elementary. Marvin. Why do you have a title? Marvin. 

Kinky Copies charging for color copies when they're black and white printing doesn't work. Oh did I mention that these photographs printed out like they were printed with a reverse mirror. CAUTION: Objects in mirror are closer than they appear. This is ridiculous. I want to go chomp into a zebra. And, he wants to charge us full price for this fuck-up. He had the audacity to say, oh… they were sent to me like that. Um, oh sorry about that. Sometimes when I send pics over the Internet, exactly how they were taken, the person on the receiving end gets them upside down and backwards... said no one EVER. 

Did we just fall off a turnip truck? ...Yesterday? Rhetorical people. If I'm not mistaken, last time I checked I, the customer shouldn't be fined extra for your store's lack of keeping the machines working. Hey I like gum ball machines but if it keeps eating quarters without spitting out some gum balls, I don't keep letting it crunch on my shiny coins. Taking advantage of the situation much? Marvin, it's time you thwarted out to pasture. On a new adventure. Like, reading books to preschoolers. Those kids are about your speed. Or letting cows tip you over for fun while you sleep... I have a sneaking suspicion them bovine out yonder carry brighter bulbs than you.. And can probably hit the print function key. Boom. Mad cow takeover. Lights out. Marvin. 

Wireless Wonderland

I'm appreciative of EVERYTHING and EVERY PERSON that comes into my life. Good. Bad. Otherwise. The "otherwise" group has expanded to comfortably fit all you non-descript and non-useful types; but that's neither here nor there... and not for this post. A friend of mine gave me a wireless router he no longer uses. The friend is in the "good" category. The wireless router... Not so much. Which, he was unsure of the pass code, because it was custom. Ok. No problem. This malleable slug, which will never disintegrate in a garbage dump, can still be useful. I turn to the information super highway to look upon the makers of this plastic paper weight. Click. Tab. Backspace. Enter. Ah... Jackpot! Found the website. Now to locate the model number so I can solve this pickle. Get online. Get back to my day. Not there. Where's a spam advertisement offering a free trip to France when you need one? A similar model name is there; But, no serial number matches the one I am now the proud owner. The numbers, letters, oh! And the caveman hieroglyphics are all off. Bah. Figures. Hmmm. Ok. Clearly, this predates the dinosaur age. No sign of it circa 1900s. So I call the company. The guy can't locate my model number either. When was this router made? 300 B.C.? Right. I'm so annoyed. I just want to google grumpy cat vines and cyber stalk a couple ex boyfriends who didn't see my value. This blows. 

I'm on the phone for 35 minutes. The agent on the phone is confused. I'm confused. My sister is on the phone with our friend asking him questions. It's a clusterfuck and I'm getting impatient. And I'm confusing the agent even more when I ask any iota of a question directly related to the riddle I need to solve. Look tech guy, who gets distracted by a glittery DOS program, I need you to focus on my problem. I have Internet. I need my router to work with it. I come from the future with a stone from the medieval era. And I need to pass it. The company you work for has made this ancient relic. I'd be surprised if this old 2.4 Ghz bean bag would magnify a bumble bee at this point. It doesn't even want to buzz buzz and it's connected to the wall coax. And that's a direct point of contact. Is this only going to work for dial-up? Really. How old is this damn moldable receptacle? 

This specialist is telling me he can't recover the password but we can try to find it from inside the router. Whatever that means. I'm not a techie dumb-dumb but his directions are random and not making sense. Meanwhile my sister and her niece are trying other pass codes via our friend on her line. While this Internet mechanic is blathering away, I'm asking him to hold on because we are trying some other options. POW! Magic password recovered. Wireless router professional not needed. Or helpful. Thanks professional of scientific instrumentation for all your... Actually, you didn't help at all. Turns out we didn't need you. Thanks. Bye. He's still talking and I hangup. And we are now online. Finally. 

Except... This router is quite the fixer upper. This massive 2.4 Ghz flexible platter is, in all sense of the word, active... However, most of the time it just doesn't want to cooperate. It's strength is weak and I'm not placing blame anywhere; But, my money's on the assumption that this piece of junk was pulled off a cornfield tractor. You can't just add antennae to farming equipment and expect it to yield a modern existence. Or Mapquest the nearest cotton candy kiosk. My friends heart was in the right place and this scrap component is fortified with gratitude. And will make a nice addition to my provocative junk pile. Remnants be damned... Not even Fry's Super Store can save you. Or Rumpelstiltskin's magic. 

Name Game

I like to play a lot. Give me a barista and I'm going to try to throw them off in any way I can. Give me a parking meter cop on foot and its all gravy. Show me a sandwich artist in Subway and they're all mine. Basically, my parents believed that being a circus clown would be my true calling. So, in an effort to make my parents happy, I screw with others while circling the parking lot on my unicycle.

My doting parents love to mess with me so much that when I was a  little girl-of the buffoon variety, they convinced me and I, naively, believed actors wore wax lips for their make out scenes. Embarrassing. True story. My first kiss didn't happen until ninth grade because I was so terrified of getting pregnant by kissing without the protection of wax. What an evil plan, predecessors. So you can imagine, the amount of glee that rushes over me when I hear the aforementioned barista, have to call "butter-nuzzles" to deliver my coffee, sends waves of tingles down my spine. It's so silly, but I'm easily amused. For a while, I thought sheep were female goats too. And that was in college. Wait for it… I gotta hear them call it again. Ah, it's like heaven just delivered my new baby name with a cloud. Glitter Girl. Princess. Bubbles. Goober. Renaming myself every time I go into a Starbucks to order my coffee has been my own sick little game I've been playing for about a year now. I don't believe that they find the humor in it; But, I guarantee finding the stick shoved way up the ass of any said person and yanking it out quickly is my reason to live. Why are we so serious restaurant servers of our modern society? Why can't we just find the one precious nut out of the prolific bunch? Find joy. Find the happiness deep inside your lunchtime servitude. I may have enough nuts to carry on my own account… but I like to share.

Hi, what would you like to order? Um, I'd like a vanilla caramel macchiato. What's your name? My name? Oh… um, let me think. What should I pick today? She seems happy to be at her daily grind. Or not. Jingles. What? My name Jangles. That's your name? Sure. Why not? She sighs. With a splash of irritant accompanying her demeanor. All in good fun, I say. If my mom and dad could convince me that movie stars wore wax lips so they wouldn't have movie screen babies… then, today, my name is Juggles. Don't wear it out.

Elmer Fudd

Nothing would make more sense than to share with you -on Memorial Day- my day at a police station. No,  I wasn't arrested. Although, I'm not opposed to a little role play. I'm waiting for my number to be called and I hear a man's voice elevate. Since, I'm pretty nosey, I turn around to look and all I hear the guy saying is, "Ma'am… what am I supposed to do? I'm trying to register my guns…" Blah. Blah. blah.. "because of my felonies." Wait. What?! Maybe I misheard. Eavesdropping is never an accurate way to spread gossip. He's wearing an old t-shirt with the arms cut off and it reads, "Shoot Responsibly." Nope. I heard him correctly. This guy is trying to register his guns in his new city -thank you responsible gun owner- but can't… because he's also the proud owner of two felonies. I retract the adjective "responsible," from my previous statement. Yet, still think role playing would be fun. I don't believe you can legally possess firearms with felonies on your record. Looking around for any sign of this on the walls. Nope. Nothing. But I'm pretty sure… In any city -or state! for that matter- across the United States. At least, as far as I'm aware, I'm pretty close to dead on with this one. Why does this law sound so new to this guy? The officer is trying to communicate that he must surrender them.. without really telling him to surrender him. "Sir. I cannot ADVISE you on what to do. BUT, you will NEED to do what is in YOUR best interest." I don't think Elmer Fudd is putting it together. But then again, Elmer Fudd never quite figured out how that rascally wrabbit always outwitted him. Some light bulbs only operate on dim. There's no other logical explanation. No, really, none what-so-ever. 

After that cartoonish fiasco died down, I was back to boredom in the lobby when I hear, what I believe is a stripper, behind my chair, arguing with her boyfriend in that whiny Kardashian dialect; But, is rocking hot pink -and matted- hair, long socks and too many piercings to count. Oh my gosh, I can't wait to hear how this pans out. This is going to be good. Pretending to be nose-deep in my book… and, NOT, her phone conversation… I slide down into my chair in a more slouchy position. Because thats going to help me hear better. I'm sure of it. Now I have nothing against any of these aesthetic attributes separately; But, put them all together and I twinge with angst. Maybe she doesn't know how dirty she looks. I'm pretty sure I would never buy a lap dance from her. No, I'm very sure. And I don't find bruises under your layers of fishnet stockings and chucks sexy. Not even a little bit. Call me old fashioned. Life management can be arguably defined by wardrobe choices. Or lack of shower choices. Ode toilet? English translation… she smelled like ass. Or the puttering of speech over why she feels she doesn't have the time to make sure her paperwork is in order for her 'independent contractor" business. Her words not mine. Verbatim. Maybe she's a creative type. Maybe she's not good with numbers. Maybe she shouldn't be in charge of her own business if she can't add two plus two. Or twenties. Either way, today's experience makes me want to visit police stations more often. Who knew the entertainment value would be in the high nines?!

Let's keep this Memorial Day going with yet another visit to Ikea. I need shelving. Two more visits later. And a curtain rod. With a canteen of Vino. Don't judge me… it's a holiday. Listen, party animals… like tweety bird in her forties, shopping in her sparkly spaghetti strap top and jean shorts -at three in the afternoon- clueless to any kind daytime fashion faux pas. Ain't no rest for the wicked, huh Lady Luck? Here… have a sip of my grown up juice. You seem like the type to hide liquor in your baby's sippy cup. What a great day! Today's adventure wouldn't be complete without trying our luck with some mall sushi. You know, the sushi restaurants they have in the malls? I'm sure thats the freshest fish around. Drink up that sake, it may be your last. And why not be inebriated before your last meal. I gotta say, my excursion was complete when I found myself seated next to Elmer Fudd at the sushi bar. Who proceeds to tell me that he ended up just saying screw it. If the police want to arrest him they'd have to find him first. "Aint no way in hell my gon give up my rifles."

Right on man. Cheers to that! Here… let me introduce you to someone. Lady Luck just ordered us a round of sashimi. Indulge. What could go wrong?

Slip N Sleep

Ok. I know what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. But this bed tho!!! It's like Vegas seeks out to find the softest, squishiest and cloud-like mattresses and pillows on the planet! Sinking down into these sheets, nuzzling into the sexiest, bare chest... Oh wait. That was part of a dream. Dammit. Go back to sleep. Go back to sleep. Go back to sleep. Crap. How can a bed made of heaven be so comfortable that I am not even able to get past my insomniac ways and count my sheep as I doze back off to my dirty dreamland. Bah. Stupid insomnia. 

Since sleeping is never a luxury I get to endure, guess it means I need to find something else to fill my time. I hop my grumpy ass up out of heaven, make some coffee and head to the studio. Do my.. La-La-La's as I'm en route, so as not to waste time on my particulars ...and away I go. Knock out a few tracks until now the sun has woken it's sleepy eyes to the day and I head back to my hotel with a yawn in one hand and a chamomile tea in the other. As I let the the bathtub fill up with hot and bubbly relaxation, I get undressed and trip over my own feet. Face first. Lights out. I awaken to the water beneath my nose on the bathroom floor. Shit! I over-flowed the bath tub. Again! Why does THIS scenario keep repeating itself... Crap. Crap. Crap. The hotel staff is banging at the door and I yell to them that everything is fine. I fell and bumped my head. Literally. But I'm ok. Seems as though they don't care that I'm ok-and only covered by hand towel- but merely that the hotel guests in the room below me are in a shower of my overflowing bath bubbles and they don't see the calming effect of the lavender scent like I do. 

Two hours later. The buzzing around Floor 38 has hushed to a dull gossip as I finally lay my non-cleansed booty down to rest. I don't even care anymore. I'll relish in my filth at this point if it means I can finally get some zzzzz's. All my fizzy scented water lovelies went to waste on the floor below me. They still don't see the value. And all I got was an overwhelming dose of it in the air making my room smell of dusty flowers.

Good night friends. Good night scented oil that I get to choke on all night. Good night stupid sheep. Now, where's that handsome bare chest... Sigh. Zzzz. 

Flexed Booty

Athletic guys. Guys who eat well. Guys who exercise regularly. Keep their man-hairs in some kind of order Guys with buff bods are just plain sexy!

But there's a line in the sand that needs to be drawn. By me. I'll do the dirty work. Geesh. My family and I were online yesterday-incessantly-seeking out guys to just, I don't know... Take a little PEEK. Check out. Gawk. And a lot of times, laughed ...Just perusing the plethora of male menus of instagrammers and face bookers alike. Hey I'm allowed to to look; just no touchie touchie! Besides, we were bored. Finding great -sometimes not so great- looking guys that we would give back stories on. Like this guy for example...

Why are you roiding dude? It shrinks your man parts. It makes you bald and I watched a documentary once that showed a pro-body builder who had done steroids his whole life and somehow his arm got so freaking huge it literally popped -POOF!- like a balloon. And nobody likes deflated balloons. And if you look close enough it's almost as if there's an embryo growing on the inside of his arm trying to escape. I don't know about you but if anything on my body could pop like an embryo balloon I'd be a bit hesitant to use it. Oh baby, your deflated and flubby arm is so beautiful compared to the rest of your overblown muscle-head tone; said no woman EVER. I can pretty much bet all my chips on that fact. That being said, guys who juice up with steroids are yucky. It's like your telling the world how insecure you are by using your overly flexed sphincter as a billboard. Like a plate of broccoli swimming in fake cheese from a can disgusting. 

Or the weird runner guy. How thin do you think you need to be to prevent "drag?" Eat a steak for fucks sake! No chick wants a guy she can call a spinner. She wants a manly man to throw her around!!

I've dated all types. Not in a whorey type of way; But, more like a wine tasting kind of way and I tend to always fall back into the guy who's -IMO- just right. He's not so buff that he can't wipe his ass. He's not so anorexic he needs an IV tube to eat. He's in the middle. He's cuddly; but at least tries to eat right -more so because I'm a health nut and force feed the poor guy. He's thick or solid; not fat. He tries to work out -let's face it, I'm probably dragging him to the gym by his ankles. But he's the type that will love me for it anyway. And besides, he gets his revenge in our bedroom playground time. 

He can have some... Hair. Sigh. I have such a love/hate affair with this monstrosity of an issue. Listen; I'm a girl. I wax everything. I like it clean. One hairless cat, coming up! And while I don't expect guys to de-fuzz themselves like a street sign pole on a corner... Can we at least be willing to trim the shit? Please? 

After having a little fun at your guys' social media expense... I've come to the conclusion that man-selfies are still weird. Just be you. Even if your a steroid taking, hairy baboon. She will love you more for that. 

The IKEA Jungle

Are we in agreement that putting together an IKEA bed shouldn't be rocket science? I'm not a rocket scientist -which is probably the problem- and this is probing to be quite a task. All the bolts to my IKEA bed frame are missing. Now... I suspect, that this is the work of the nuts and bolts monster... He most likely ate them. He's as real as the pegacorn folks. 

Irregardless, I now have a bed that is on the floor. In pieces. Without any way to put this bad boy together. IKEA ROAD TRIP!! I'm ready to kill a few hours of my day. Why are these stores NEVER nearby? With all the hullabaloo surrounding the Swedish meatballs, one would protest that they don't open up Ikea cafés on every corner. I'd be there every day. For the coffee. And the waffles. Mmm... Waffles.

I don't know the name of my bed style. All I know is it's a queen. It's a platform bed. And it's in pieces all over my bedroom floor. Metaphor much? 

Welcome to IKEA! I know the bolts that go to my bed are here in Switzerland... somewhere. So I head up the staircase to the entrance with the crazy notion that I can hunt this puppy down. The styles of their furniture doesn't change that frequently and I only bought this bed a couple years ago. I mean, that's part of the beauty of what IKEA stands for. Simplicity... and the confidence that I can return at any time and find replacement parts. And waffles. As I'm following the arrows of time wasted, traveling through the maze of gimme gimme, I finally get to the bedroom department. I don't see my bed anywhere. You've got to be kidding me. Is IKEA friends with Siri? I know that peach of a computer is infiltrating all technology to relish in her joy of fucking with me on every level. Making sure there is no reference of what I need in the store's computer system. Whore.

Ok. Three millions arrows to follow and many departments I didn't want to look through later, I found a bed frame that was similar to mine. It's a platform bed. Dark wood. More like particle board. But it's missing my nightstands that attach to the headboard and have floating drawers. Considering everything else on the bed frame itself looks the same, I'm thinking the hardware has to be the same too. Or close to it. Zebras and leopards are the same, right? Wrong. But... They both have four legs. So, I grab the paper with the info and I'm off. The representative of the bedroom department says I need to go to customer service, she thinks. So I run to customer service to play Russian Roulette. Dammit. Customer service tells me to go to Returns. Where's the rabbit hole I need to fall in? I feel like I'm in Wonderland. Screw it. IKEA cafe break. 

Imagine, quirky, elevator music playing while you slide your tray along the cafeteria displays. Making your choices seem endless to the soundtrack of melodies reminiscent of Saturday morning cartoons. Macaroni and cheese was pretty good. Can't really screw that up I don't think. But with all the black pepper and hot sauce I dumped all over it... Who could tell? I like spicy. Anything without spice feels so boring. Kind of like me. Kidding. Well, maybe I'm not kidding... Anyway, steamed fake vegetables -gotta work on those IKEA cafe- I doused a buttload of salt/pepper on those. I'm not a fan of salt, but I still gobbled them up without complaint. For dessert, I grab some yellow custard cake thing with jam inside and -no, no...there's no jam in there at all. It's all sugar. I've never tasted anything loaded with so much sugar that it would make your soda not sweet. Wow. Someone take the sugar away from the chef. My teeth, I'm certain, dissolved out of my mouth as I ate that thing. Notice, nothing really stopped me from eating the all-fructose induced pastry...

Ah, returns section. I take a number and wait while I hear Debbie Gibson's "Shake Your Love" playing overhead. I can get into this. Shake your love, I jus can't your love. Shake your love, I just can't shake, your loove.... Number 86. Yay! That's me. Hi, I need bolts for a bed you don't have anymore. The lady looks confused. She humors me.  Cascading back and forth to the stock room five times -my fault, I had none of the parts I needed and kept asking for more- and finally we think we got it. She's not sure. I'm not sure. It's a fuckery I'm all too familiar. Knowing my luck, my bed will need one random piece they don't make anymore. I ask her how much and she says free. I said, what? Replacement parts are free. Holy cow! IKEA speaks my language! I love you IKEA. 

After a little bit of struggle, I've managed his monstrosity, although missing a few pieces -still- is finally holding my mattress up off the floor. I plop down to feel my good work in action and I fall right through the bed frame onto the floor. With my pride. FML.