Wal-Mart.

Dear Wal-Mart:

You know, you and I have never really gotten along. Your merchandise is cheaply made, you put small business out of business and you smell funny. But well, when I'm desperate, you are right next door and your catfood is relatively inexpensive. So I guess we, uh, get by.

Until now.

See, according to my newsfeed, you have decided to open your stores at 8 pm on Thanksgiving to really cash in on that good ol' Black Friday spirit.

God, you're tacky.

Your shoppers truly can't wait through post-turkey hangover to get their mitts on a television? Family-time pales in comparison to the promise of an $89 Wii? You can't give your employees the dignity of a FULL holiday to spend with their loved ones? A day uninterrupted by some screaming banshee demanding to know where the electronics department is? Not cool, Wal-Mart. Not cool.

Y'know, despite my bitching and moaning, I'm really not that old and I remember how we used to spend the day after Thanksgiving...picking at cold leftovers while sitting in the living room and just kinda, oh, talking to each other. Enjoying everyone's company because if there's one thing my childhood taught me is that shit happens and you should cherish what time together you can find.

AND IT WAS AWESOME.

Yeah, I may have been acting like a bored fifteen-year-old, but deep down? SPENDING TIME WITH YOUR LOVED ONES IS AWESOME. Even before you are old enough to drink, IT IS AWESOME. You should let your employees try it some time. It might raise their fucking morale a touch. Think of the PR: MAJOR RETAILER SHUTS THE FUCK UP FOR DAY! PARADES OF JOY AND TICKERTAPE COMMENCE!

But I guess having compassion or empathy isn't profitable.

So, Wal-Mart, our relationship must end. My catfood, quarts of oil and windshield wipers shall be purchased elsewhere. I know you won't miss my money in the slightest and my boycott of you will impact your business in no way whatsoever...but wow, does the smugness feel good.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Sincerely,
Me

I notice I write a lot of letters.

Dear We TV:

Yeah, I realize I haven't had regular access to a television since I was nineteen years old and I'm no longer all hip with television jive or whatever. I did have access to a television this weekend and due to the circumstances of I couldn't figure out how to change the channel because remote controls are a lot more complicated than they were ten years ago, I was stuck watching your

network for three hours.

Now, I'm not upset that I wasted a perfectly good Sunday evening falling asleep to "Bridezillas". Reality television is to reality like politics are to a thoughtful discussion. It's just a cheap way for your viewer to raise their self-esteem by laughing at trashy people. I get it. I'm in on the joke, okay?

Your commercials bother me.

See, you market yourself as a network for women and concerning issues women may care about. I know it's a shock, but I am a woman. It has been confirmed by like, science and stuff. I can guarantee you that I have more pressing "issues" in my life besides, "I'm fat!" and "My hair isn't glossy!"

Y'know, things like pay inequality, reproductive health issues, glass ceilings in the workforce, no non-slutty heroines, no female Doctor, unrealistic weight expectations, terrible shoes...somehow, I don't think a show about spoiled white girls on their wedding day sponsored by laxative smoothies is quite what the suffragettes had in mind.

I've got some ideas! I really do! Like, for the geek crowd, we could shoot Seven of Nine out the photon torpedo tube and reboot Voyager into something that doesn't suck. Ummmm, instead of celebrity boxing, pit our female heroines against their literary betters. Jane Eyre versus Lara Croft. Rose Sayer versus Wonder Woman. I don't know. And maybe instead of every other commercial telling me how goddamn fat I am, have a company that sells something useful sponsor your shows. Like car insurance! I use car insurance! I need car insurance! Sell me car insurance!

I realize that this is moot because in the end, as far as women's programming is concerned, we're only going to get the T&A because that's what sells. After all, we're just GIRLS and our hair isn't going to get glossy by itself, gosh nabbit.

But hey, thanks We, for reminding me that even though no television makes it somewhat tricky to watch my "Castle" episodes...the sacrifice is worth it.

Bite me, television. Bite me.

Sincerely,
She who will only watch Star Trek and Jon Pertwee episodes of Doctor Who like, ever now.

The Wrong Number

So.  Y'know.  When I had questions about products or how to fix something, I never thought of calling a department store.  Honestly, it surprises me how many phone calls I get on a daily basis for inquiries about the best Tupperware or how to patch a hole in the drywall using only dryer sheets.

Unfortunately, since I am a female and am obviously waiting for some complete stranger to waltz in and scuzz up my life, I get phone calls like this...

Customer: Hey! Could you help me out? Your automated phone system is terrible! You need to fix it! I used to push zero so I could talk to a pretty young girl and now it's all numbers!
Me: Sir, I'll get right on that the next time corporate asks me to program the phones.
Him: You're with corporate??
Me: ...no, I'm in the store. But corporate makes all our computer program-y decisions.
Him: Oh. *laughs* Well, I'm glad you'll help me. You sound like a pretty young girl. Maybe I should take you out for a nice dinner, some champagne, nice times by the fireplace... What's your name, sweetie?
Me: ...did you have a question I could help you with, sir?
Him: Oh, nevermind. I'll just record your voice! I'll find you, honey, don't worry. NOW! What's your longest decking screw?
Me: Regular decking screw? Four inches.
Him: Oh, that ain't long enough for you. I'll come in later tonight. See you soon!


I.  Am.  So.  Charmed.

Tomatoes

Dear person who stole the tomatoes off of my tomato plant:

I hope you suddenly develop an allergy to tomatoes. I hope you have to go the ER. I hope there's a long line and you're there until five am. I hope your insurance is expired. I hope you have to work at seven. I hope your boss is a jerk and fires you for your latest call-off. I hope your cat pees on your pillow while you're on the phone with your boss so you can't even go back to sleep.

And while you sit there with your hive-swollen face, stained pillow and bleak future...I hope you'll think of me who really freaking hates you right now.

Sincerely,
Me

To Wong Foo...

So according to the stats page, everyone who has stumbled across my blog lives in Russia.  Ohhhhkay.  How odd the world has become since the internet.  In the loosest sense of the term, I have an international audience but still no readers.

Anyways, today in my narrow little retail world, a transsexual came in to shop.  And y'know, she was very polite...nicely asking for product locations (using both "please" and "thank you"!), asking for product recommendations, wishing all the employees to have a great day when she left...all in all, a model customer.

And yet, the moment she was out of earshot, there were employees huddling together, whispering and giggling.   

Is it a shim?  A she-he?   

Did you see his hand when he reached out to the shelf?  His nails were PAINTED!

Gross.  Just gross.  I'm going to have nightmares.

Unnatural. How wrong can you get?

Now, way back when I was in junior high, there was a rumor flitting around the school that the gym teacher was a lesbian (we were too young to recognize a stereotype when we heard one).  More often than not, I would catch a ride home with my best friend and her mom.  When she repeated the rumor to her mother, from the woman's reaction, you'd think the gym teacher sacrificed kittens to a pagan god while smearing turkey blood all over her nude body while dancing around a maypole.  Big gasps and flailing hands and lots of sputtering about how "outrageous" and "unnatural" that was and on and on and on.

Later that night, curious to see how my own mother would react, I repeated the rumor to her.

The reaction I got was not what I expected.

My mother was outraged, yes.  But not at the possibility my gym teacher could be a homosexual.  She was more outraged that I participated in spreading a hurtful rumor.  My mother actually dragged a chair into the kitchen, made me sit on it, and then lectured me for ten minutes about what other people do with their personal lives is their own business.  If the gym teacher were gay, so what?  Did she act on it?  No.  Did she conduct herself inappropriately?  No.  Did her choice of life partner have any impact on my life and well being whatsoever?  No.  And so and and so forth.

Looking back, the whole incident seems very after-school-special to me and I'm sure my mother could've made her point a bit more tactfully than just blurting out, "don't be prejudiced".  But what's important is that she /did/ make her point.  She wanted me to learn that I should judge someone by their actual actions.  So the next day when the other girls giggled in the locker room about the gym teacher's very masculine wardrobe (polo and shorts!  A gym teacher!  Whodathunk!), I just shrugged when my turn to giggle came along.

Was my gym teacher a lesbian?  It was fifteen years ago and who cares?  She did her job and if at the end of the day she came home to the loving embrace of a female partner, what bearing did that have on my life?  She didn't corner us in the showers or try to convert us with the GAY AGENDA.  She just lived her life and I've lived mine.

And that's what's bothering me about today.  Yes, that customer was born male.  Six and a half feet tall, Adam's apple and deep voice.  But she was very polite.  She actually said, "Excuse me, Miss!"  That's very rare.  I've gotten all varieties of, "Hey, you!" or "Lady!  Lady!  Lady!" or the infamous dog whistle for my attention.  She wasn't pushy when told that the product she wanted wasn't stocked in our store.  She actually thanked me for my time and wished me and everyone else a good day.

And huddling in the aisle to whisper about her jean shorts and deep voice is how we acknowledge her respect?

I realize a lot of us are brought up to equate "different" with "bad".  I'm sure it's some left-over evolution thing that prevented our ancestors from being eaten by giant salamanders or something.  But calling someone gross and unnatural because he feels more comfortable as a she?  Slap the "disgusting" label on a pedophile, not on someone searching for the better can opener. 

Just...it shames me.

Like I did all those years ago in the locker room, when my turn came to make a jeering comment, I said nothing.  But...seven hours later, I am regretting that.  I'm not saying I should've formed a one-person Pride Parade right then and there, but would it have really killed me to at least said something along the lines of, "Knock it off?"

So...

Ma'am.  Thank you for your politeness this afternoon.  Customers like you are extremely rare.  I apologize for our subsequent behavior...both their sniggering and my silence.

Gotta start somewhere, I suppose.

Woof.

So I've been in tears for a majority of today.

See, I have a dog.  Yes, present tense.  She's still around and breathing and all that good stuff.  Yesterday, I was afraid I would no longer have a dog.  Over the weekend, she got into the trash.  This has happened many, many times before.  Because you know...she's a dog.

This time, she spent two days vomiting all over the apartment.

We took her to the vet...couldn't afford the slew of tests and treatment.  Vet unwilling to let us make payments.  Opted for treatment of her symptoms instead.  Couldn't really afford that either.  Actually, used the money set aside for a car payment.

I don't care.

She's home now, and keeping down small meals of rice and water.    She keeps sleeping, but she has food and water in her now.

I can't pay for my car.  When the insurance withdrawal hits, my bank account will be down to double-digits.  When the other bills hit, I will be overdraft.  There are no groceries in the apartment.  The gas light in my car will be on soon.

I am very frightened about the next week and a half.

But I still have my dog.

And that's okay.

The Bad Touch

Will someone please explain to me the etiquette of grabbing people?  I don't mean something like CIA-backed-forced-kidnapping-of-foreign-national type grabbing, but more along the lines of grabbing the shopgirl and dragging her to a specific aisle.  Is there a rule for that?  Anyone?

That happened to me yesterday.  Some middle-aged woman who probably bathed in garlic just yanked me away.  Just sank her grizzled talons into my elbow and dragged.

Literally.  D-R-A-G-G-E-D.

Now, if she had been sayyyyyyyy Ewan McGregor, I wouldn't mind.  I'd ziptie us together in case he had any other dragging shopgirl needs.  But no.  It was a scary woman in her forties, barking about how she needed the product "IN THE WHITE BOX!  WHERE ARE THE GODDAMN WHITE BOXES??"

I wish I could say I had a witty reply or that I peppersprayed her eyeballs, but no.  She released me upon seeing my (male) co-worker, leaving me as dust in the wind.  And no she didn't drag him along by his elbow.  He did find the product she wanted--in a RED box--butttttt she didn't believe it was the same product, so she didn't buy anything.

Though she did rip open the box once we left her and stole what was in it.