That's My Bix!

I talked to Esteban today, using VoIP technology, which was cool because about six months ago, I learned all about VoIP on one of my freelance projects and there we were, his voice going into the computer, through the internet and into my ear. Which is just amazing when you think about it, but then again, not really, since when I reread that last sentence, that’s more or less what I’m doing right now with you. Hi you.

Esteban is in a European funk (and also refuses to smuggle any illicit substances into the country because obviously HE DOES NOT LOVE ME AT ALL) mostly because he hates to travel but also because every time he goes to Europe, it’s in dank and dreary March and he is certain that the entire continent should have been washed away by now. Or maybe it’s because he went out drinking in Germany last night in an English pub (huh?) and embraced the joy that is 50 proof beer. Personally, I don’t like to have to chew beer, but that’s just me. He called exactly 24 hours before he is to land in GB, so I reminded him to cheer up and it was only a little while longer, and he managed a joke ‘No, 30 something hours, because Amsterdam is ahead of you’ Uh’ no. But I must confess that I actually had to think for a minute, wondering where the International Date Line came into play.

In my week of post-Con Estebanless solitude, I have discovered that I make the most boring single person on the planet. I have done the motherlode of (fucking) laundry and it is all folded and neatly put away. I finally hung the kitchen pictures which were waiting for the base moldings to be finished (and which should have been done last month) and also picked out the new floors for my unfinished office, the dining room, and the bathroom. I joined the strange group of people who go grocery shopping at 8 am on a Sunday morning, because it seems silly to wake up that early and then lounge in an empty bed by myself. I’m sort of amazed by how much time you spend on being in a relationship. There’s so much dilly dallying, waiting for the other person to wake up, to discuss which bagel shop to go to, wait for them to take a shower, etc. No wonder Martha Stewart can get so much done in a day. All that time normally spent giving blowjobs is spent instead organizing her ribbon boxes.

(No, I have no idea where that came from and yes, mental picture, hullo!)

Tilly now feels as though I should cater to her every whim and has taken to walking out of the room and then meowing mournfully, wondering why I haven’t followed her into the kitchen. Fucking cat. Even she realizes that I’m well on my way to becoming one of those crazy old cat spinsters. She’ll not think it’s so funny when I crochet her a poodle skirt.

I talked myself out of driving down to Chicago to shop and check out the Nordstrom makeup event, mostly because I didn’t want to drive all that way by myself. It would feel empty and I would get depressed. Normally after a Chicago shopping excursion, I spend the drive back in a weird Pink Floyd trance or in a coma, crashed out with the seatback down and the warmer turned way up. ‘No, really, Mr. State Patrol Officer, I was just resting my eyes.’

My fruit/water thing has been going swimmingly, by the way, thanks for asking. However, I am starting to regain my meat squick, which is a vaguely disturbing turn of events. I had planned to get some hot baked ham at the grocery store but when I saw the slicer, with its strange pink ham effluvia, and the scent of death wafted up from the deli counter, I knew that my interests would be best served investigating some Quorn and maybe a nice cheese pizza. It’s interesting how the meat squick rears its ugly head, as the order of squickiness is predictable as the tide. First ground meat becomes verboten, then pork, then beef, then poultry and finally fish. And I can return to them in exactly the same order, with a few exceptions. But right now, I’m sort of concentrating on fruits and water and also an occasional turkey and Monterey jack sandwich on 12 grain bread. And yet, the size of my ass remains a constant. What must I do? What? Like, exercise or something? Man.

In other news, I must have signed up for something on the internet and given the first name ‘Smecky’ a long time ago and that list must have just been sold to spammers, because all of the sudden, a high percentage of my spam is addressed to Smecky or pleads with Smecky to give a damn about giving women extreme pleasure. Ok, I’m probably the only one who finds that funny even a little bit. It’s a good thing that Esteban refuses to bring back any interesting souvenirs from Amsterdam. It is probably best for the world that Smecky remains clean and sober. But he’s coming back tomorrow and I won’t have to find out just how long it will take before I start buying Diamonique, just so that I can talk to the hostess on QVC. Because fake diamonds make Baby Donatella cry.

Ok, I only got about a minute of raw film on Saturday night when my battery gave out, but with some tweaking and a little “stock” footage (from our last trip out), I was able to cobble together this. Enjoy.

Note: you’ll want to download this rather than play it from the source.

PS. Thank Jane at Sony Pictures for this, as I never would have been able to do it with my old Windows software, and certainly not in one evening.

How can you encapsulate a weekend of perfect tiny moments in a handful of words? Or a thousand? Or a million? I doubt I’ll be able to do it justice. Actually, I know that I won’t.

So, the big Bad Bar Con weekend.

I’d been kind of weirded out by the concept of all of my ‘internet friends’ (as though they all consist of weather pixies, gigapets and emoticons) meeting my local friends and family. Because it was all so new to me, it didn’t really become real until I was on my way to the airport to pick up Mare and Susan when I got a call from Kari and Trance and Kelly, telling me that they had arrived. When I heard Trance’s unmistakable voice saying ‘Weet, you are just so fucking professional!’ it was real and happening and I almost burst into happy girly tears. In this artificial world of the internet, there are real friendships, joy and hilarity that must exist in a vacuum of sorts in a pretend world of bytes and bandwidth. And you can’t hug a webpage, you can’t share a wink over coffee, and you can’t barrel down the security gate and come crashing together like a Bugs Bunny cartoon (reference: Jess’ arrival. During the rest of your life you try not to think about how much you miss people and then you see them and strap yourself into the rollercoaster of binging on precious face time with them and also meeting new faces and learning new names, and it’s very a overwhelming thing. Especially when you really really hope that it’s going to go well and that you haven’t forgotten something.

The weird thing about this weekend is that I had no idea that it was going to be so big, that so many people were interested in taking planes, trains and automobiles from eleven states and also Canada, just to spend the weekend in a cute little Irish inn on the Fox River and get schnockered at a wickedly wonderful bar. I would have been deliriously happy if, say, six people showed up, and instead, there were 26 in our core group, with my friends spotting for local flare. That’s just’ wow. I mean, we started using the word ‘con’ in sort of a joking manner in the beginning and then it actually became one. That’s just, I don’t know, mind blowing. Or something.

On Friday, I made five trips to the airport and back downtown. It’s a good thing that security at our airport is so lax, as it would have seemed very suspicious, this Chrysler disappearing and reappearing at fairly regular intervals. Jason volunteered to help people get situated and my cell was ringing off the hook all day. By the time I grabbed the last crew from the airport (the intrepid Chauffi and Lisa-Marie whose original flight had been canceled, so both had experienced a sort of Delta travel hell in their efforts to get to GB), I did a mad dash back to my house and change into sleigh ride clothes. I had reserved a suite at the delightful St. Brendan’s, but then on Thursday, in the midst of my panicking, I decided that something had to go on my To Do list and the easiest thing to wipe was the need to pack a weekend bag and the accompanying worry that I have forgotten something and then the strangeness of sleeping in a different bed. Since I only live about ten minutes from downtown, this wasn’t too big of a deal.

However, at that moment, it would have been nice if I could have just parked the car and sashayed up to my room to pull on several layers of cotton and cashmere. We had several inches of white stuff throughout the day and it was as if we were in a snow globe that had recently been shaken, pretty white poofs floating down to the delight of the people from California, and the thermometer hovering at a very tolerable 30 degrees with no wind. Perfect canvas for a sleigh ride.

 

We hooked up my iPod to the sound system in the bus and listened to techno on the slow drive out to the sleigh ride place, as Paul our convivial driver, happily drove us past the ‘Nude Butt Nice’ sign, except that it’s lost a ‘T’ so now it’s just ‘Nude Bu t Nice’. I swear I didn’t steal a letter off the sign.

 

 

 

There, the sleigh ride folks asked us to wait on dinner and go on the sleigh first, so we did, allowing us to get very silly very quickly. The grog was considered the piece de resistance until it started to melt the green paint off the shot glass nametags (hi, if anyone starts feeling sick, please call your local poison control center, thanks!) and until I brought out the peppermint schnaaps. Apparently the rest of the world has never heard of Doctor McGuillicuddy’s, which seems like a sin. Jake declared that it tasted like liquefied candy canes. Then we were off to the woods which were highlighted in white relief. Jammed in on two planks of wood, passing community bottles with glow sticks in them, completely unconcerned with diarist cooties, sharing jackets and mittens and whatnot’ a very good beginning.

 

 

We were back in the cabin, eating booyah and bratwurst and bowing to my mother-in-rock, the High Priestess of Pineapple Fluff and trying to avoid getting our asses frozen to the outdoor toilets. Everyone was pretty integrated by the end of dinner and laughing together as though we’d all known each other for eons. And the best part was that it wasn’t just one big group of the same people who always do this stuff. There were people without diaries and people with diaries and people who didn’t know a single person, and people who knew several folks, and people who now will start reading diaries that they never used to read and at least one non-diarist who is now a diarist. And also, two people who weren’t engaged are now engaged. So there you go. But that’s their story to tell, not mine.

 

Then we were back into the bus, watching for a plastic cow with bulging udder veins, and on our way to karaoke. Where they told us that they weren’t having karaoke that night and we were out of luck.

Except that I’m lying! It rocked! We cleaned up the place. They had never seen anything like us! Then, because we were so good, it became a sort of sing off, with the locals sending out their best and brightest talents to show up our amazing karaoke prowess with the likes of Eminem and Evanescence (karaoke brought to you by the letter E). For the record, Trance does Jack White better than Jack White. Speaking of Jack, Luvabeans is a fucking rock star and does indeed know Jack. And in a preliminary warm up for the Bad Bar, Jess commanded that we Busted a Move and we dutifully obeyed. Also, I wrote some checks that my sister’s mouth couldn’t cash. Or something. Afterward, I shuttled folks back to the hotel and I gave Chauffi a 2 am drive-by tour of some of the houses I had lived in as a child. It was such a delightful evening that I actually worried that we had peaked on the first night and the following night could not possibly be as good as that.

I was totally wrong, by the way.

Saturday morning arrived very quickly and I chugged a bunch of caffeine, slathered on some moisturizer and went off to meet the kids for Day 2. After a delightful breakfast and some really tasty sausages, Betty Big Head, Chauffi and I went to Fleet Farm, which is called The Man’s Mall for some cheapass clothing and cow inoculants. Chauffi found an incredibly cool leather jacket and Betty scored a manly t-shirt souvenir. Then I washed my car, as the snow and road slush and all the airport trips had turned it into a big grey saltlick. Then back to the hotels, where we rounded up the campers and convoyed out to High Maintenance Hamburgers where we all overdosed on cholesterol in various forms. But oh so good.

 

 

 

 

 

We split up and went in various directs, with Chauffi, Science Girl, her husband and I going on a quest for football souvenirs, Febreeze, and also postcards, all of which were procured through some trial and error. Then I ran home (again) to change for dinner and the Bar. I wasn’t sure what I was going to wear, and had even ordered a black wrap dress from the designer of the Pucci-inspired shirt that was such a hit at JCon DC, but Esteban took one look at it, declared it way too low cut and also that it was ‘unfortunate’ around my uncomfortable parts. Way to play to my insecurities, babe. Therefore, I had a vague plan in mind, involving a striped shirt, camisole and jeans, but then decided against the striped shirt in question. I finally ended up with a red button down and a black camisole, jeans, and pointy pumps, but then wanted to bang my head on my closet door like Don Music because I had worn red the previous night and hated to be a one-trick pony. I’m a three-trick pony, at very least.

 

We caravanned out to the supperclub for an unimpressive meal that was definitely enhanced by the fun company. We had a rousing game of Marry, Fuck or Kill, watched the sun turn everything pink, and made the other diner’s uncomfortable. Of course, the other diners only had minutes and perhaps only seconds left to live, so it wasn’t so bad. Tripod sends his best from beyond the grave.

I had mentioned the wrap dress to Mare earlier in the week, so she was very confused at my ensemble (or rather, the fashion equivalent of bunting). I explained the predicament and the unfortunate thing and the question about Esteban’s motives’ altruistic concern or worrying about my bosoms falling out (a reasonable fear, so I would later learn). We ended up switching some rides around and I went back home with Chauffi and Mare in tow to put on the dress and leave Mare to make the executive decision. And Mare took one look and said ‘You are wearing that dress.’ And so it was. So goes my nation.

Not to mention, my breasts.

 

The dress was a very big hit. Even when I walked in, Hot Nancy took one look and said ‘Damn, Weet, you are looking hot tonight!’ High praise coming from Hot Nancy, who leaves little smoking footprints wherever she walks. I was very pleased to see our three favorite bartenders, the bald bartender Dave, Hot Nancy and her man Hot Jason, all waiting for our beck and call. And call we did. Immediately, they busted out six comp bottles of Boone’s Farm and just as quickly, we were chugging them like the well-bred debutantes we play on the internet. I think I even deep-throated mine. Classy. I ended up with strawberry fake wine in my sinuses. My grandmother would be very proud.

 

Our Bad Bar novices were partying like old timers in short order. But really, that’s just a testament to that bar. It makes you its slave. You can’t help but shake your ass and take pictures of your bare boobies, or lick the window and simulate oral sex on your dance partner. You can’t help yourself. It’s a bad bar. I’m not making that up. It’s a very bad bar. And so sinfully fun. And apparently, when I am drunk, I feel that a very sexy pose is to make a kissy face while closing one eye, like some kind of amorous tipsy pirate. Aye, matey. (Insert ‘treasure chest’ joke here.) Watch out Gwen Stefani!

I had ordered a ton of glow in the dark bracelets and when the other patrons saw us wearing them, they asked Hot Nancy for bracelets too. She asked me what she should do and in a rare fit of base capitalism, I told her that we’d sell them for a dollar a piece. A bargain, to be sure, but highway robbery considering that I think I paid about ten cents each. We put the money earned in a kitty to buy more Boone’s Farm, which, come to think of it, was probably not a good idea because it is very evil stuff, that Boone’s Farm. Worse than the Doctor. I think it’s just toxic waste mixed with Kool-Aid, quite honestly.

 

My bosoms were soon decorated with picture stickers of the bared breasts of the conventioneers. Speaking of that, there were also unexpected drive by boob flashings. I’m not one to name names, though, except to say Betty Big Head, how YOU doin’? I didn’t need to flash the sticker photo booth my national endowments for the arts, because my wrap dress was doing it for me. I think Minarae got a picture of our collective accoutrements, and I do have to say that they are rather impressive, even though I look ready to kick someone’s ass in the picture, like an anime action figure, only chunky and with a double chin. At least it wasn’t the kissy pirate girl face.

 

Penny, Carissa and I did our traditional Dancing Queen choreography and soon the badness was in full swing. Hot Nancy has made at least six girls question just how firmly they are planted in heterosexuality, and they weren’t the only ones experimenting, if that reenactment of the kama sutra in the window by two studs was any indicator. At one point, my ass was hanging out on Broadway but it was wearing Spanx, so I’m trying not to be too upset about it.

But yes, it’s a very bad bar. Now it can be shared with the world. Bad Bar!

Best thing overheard: surrounded by twenty plus online diarists, all screaming and laughing, Dave walks up to Hot Jason and say ‘Hey, did you know that Wendy has an online diary? And she writes about coming here?’ and Jason was like ‘Um, yeah.’ And then Dave yelling at me that I should have told him and they could have decorated or something. Ah Dave. I know that you love me anyway. Decorate with free booze, my good man, and all will be well. We finished out the evening with many many tipsy people and then a handful of us, including the illustrious Scotty Boom Boom and Eric, singing “Come Sail Away” and also Air Supply’s “All Out Of Love” to each other in a big pulsating group hug. Which is pretty much a metaphor for the Bad Bar Experience anyway, so it was a good cap for the evening.

 

 

 

I went home, got another four hours of sleep and forced myself to get up and be chipper and bright in the morning. It was a bit tougher the second day. A few of us met for breakfast in the pub and then did some quick errands and packing before meeting for a group lunch at yet another greasy burger joint. I guess I wanted to give our visitors something to take home with them. In their colons, apparently. Good luck with that! After lunch, Esteban and Scotty Boom Boom shuttled people back to the hotels and the airport, then the Bad Bar Con was officially over! Waaaa! So much sadness, but beautiful memories of fried cheese, delightful friends, ass shaking, boobies, and all the love. Not necessarily in that order. And here’s where the schmaltzy part goes, the part where I write something wistful about friendship or reiterate the moment when Minarae almost made me cry at dinner when she said “You took a website and turned it into a community” but I’m not going to do it, as apparently I schmaltz up the place with too much abandon. However, I can tell you this: some of my favorite people in the entire world visited me this weekend and for one moment, Green Bay was the center of the universe.

You guys are coming back next weekend, right?

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For the full list of links to the entries of the rest of the group, because I know that I’m missing stuff, go to the bottom of this page.

Everyone seems to be looking for my subtext recently. I don’t know what that’s about. I’m usually What You See Is What You Get girl, so it’s a weird turn of events. I am not that deep, people. Candy? Is that candy? Can I have some of your candy?

So yeah, I was chatting with a friend, a very cute but very married friend, and mentioned that I had had a dream about him in which he was rehearsing for a movie in which he would be portraying John C. Reilly. He felt this was appropriate, as he does indeed sort of look like John C. Reilly, perhaps in dim light and also a light fog. We talked about the musical Chicago and then I said that whenever I see a movie with John C. Reilly in it, I get a little crush on him, which is absolutely true. And then my cute but married friend said to my cute but married self ‘So, by following the logic, does that mean you have a little crush on me too?’ And things like this happen because this whole game-playing thing is very befuddling, and I sort of accidentally find myself in these situations and stumble around like a bull in a china cup. I responded that he was so awesome that I’m sure everyone has a crush on him, which was just, you know, lame, but better than what I almost said, which was that my crush on John C. Reilly is ephemeral and lasts pretty much until the movie is over and he is out of sight, out of mind.

And also, I think I’ve mentioned this in the past, but sometimes, I sleeptalk. This is not the same as talking in one’s sleep, because I appear to be awake, except that I’m not, and am usually very confused or confusing. Once I wanted a pillow, but kept calling it ‘the butter’. Because it was soft and lovely, so I guess that makes sense. Last night, Esteban came in and I was apparently very confused about what he was doing there. I don’t remember what I said but I do remember Esteban getting irritated with my babbling and finally said ‘Weetabix, it’s Sunday night’ which apparently resolved my concern on the matter of his appearance in our bedroom. I think that I either thought that he was still at his parents’ watching the dogs, as he did two weeks ago, or that he had already left for Europe, which is happening next week. Regardless, it was just more of the same in the verbal salad that is my own personal nocturnal emission.

This morning, I was drying my hair while he was in the shower and suddenly remembered a glimpse of the conversation the night before. I’m never really sure if I was dreaming or not, so I asked him about it. He chuffed ‘Yeah, you were blathering to me about something.’ Apparently, it made so little sense that he didn’t even bother to remember it. I laughed and said, ‘I don’t know what I was saying. I was just really confused why you were here. I apparently thought you weren’t supposed to be here.’ To which he replied, ‘Aha, Ms. Freud, did you now?’ Because he likes to think that he’s so clever. Except that this cigar is just a cigar, Herr Doktor. Or, maybe a pillow of butter.

So the Weetacon is coming up and my head has been awash with craziness. I think my pre-trip anxiety is just pre-event anxiety, as I am not actually going anywhere this time and yet, full on freaking out. On Sunday morning on our way out for pancakes, Esteban asked what I was thinking about and I spouted about three things that I needed to remember (need stickers to finish name tags, must send in bus contract and payment, and have to remember to bring ice to the sleigh ride for drinks). He reminded me that everything will turn out fine and that I worry too much about details, ok? Ok? I responded, ‘I’ll try not to. I think I forgot to rinse the toothpaste out of my mouth, though.’

Esteban started chuckling and then pulled into a gas station, where he hopped out of the car and got me a Dasani, so that I could get the Crest Minty Fresh out of my mouth. This is a sign. When I stroke out over swag bags, y’all can look back to this and nod your heads knowingly. A sign. Right there.

Never in my adult life have I left toothpaste foam in my mouth for what was apparently ten minutes and not realized it. Normally, I’m so eager to rinse and spit that if I wait too long, I’ll gag. What kind of space-time continuum was my brain in to forget to rinse. Pants? Was I wearing pants? Or had it just slipped my mind.

I had also forgotten to brush my hair. Have the aneurysm specialist on speed dial.

I’m trying to relax today. I’ve decided that there will be some things that will be forgotten, because I’ve got a freelance project that is through no fault of my own, inexorably late, and also my story is due tomorrow and also Abby’s dance recital is Wednesday, which leaves only Thursday for mass paranoia and pandemonium and almost no time for my forty-five minute episode of cold sweating and hyperventilating. And I haven’t the foggiest idea what I’m wearing this weekend, and what is more, whether I’m going to have the wherewithal to coax Esteban to trim his ZZTop starter kit beard before the weekend. Magic 8 Ball says ‘Ask Again Later.’

But that which does not kill us, makes us stronger. And to prove Nietzsche right, there was a very formidable black spider on my kitchen ceiling last night and what did I do? Call my husband, who was across town? Ignore it and hope that it would die from the social insult? Burn the house down? No. I did not. I calmly grabbed the very last single sheet of paper towel on the roll (and not the standard thirty sheets that I would normally grab for such a task) and reached up and squashed it. At which point, it disappeared, either into the wad of paper towel or perhaps into the recyclables or maybe into my hair. And instead of doing a dance to the choreography of ‘Psychosis #12’ and uttering the phrase ‘Unnnnggggh! Uuuuull!’ at frantic pitch, I calmly wadded up the ball of toweling, potentially crushing the phantom spider inside it, then pushed the wad deep into the garbage. Look at me, all adult! Ok, then I went into the bathroom, stripped, and took a shower in which I shampooed my hair three times, but still, very impressive, non? I should also mention that I went to Target this weekend and spent less than $20. Behold and be amazed.

Speaking of hair, I had an appointment with my stylist on Friday. I needed a touch up and wanted to stay more or less with the color I received from another stylist while my stylist was on maternity leave. My directions were as follows ‘All over chestnut, with highlights and lowlights up one shade and down one shade. No blonde. Save the blonde for summer.’ Then mentioned that I was going for subtle highlights, sort of like J.Lo. And her ass, too, but that’s a whole other subject.

My hair is now the color of espresso and also blonde. Subtle, non? I showed my sister, who also goes to the same stylist and she laughed and laughed, because the blonde is definitely blonde and it seems really random. And then she explained that she’s nervous about her appointment because she colored her own hair, and knows that our stylist is going to be mad. And there we were, two wholly competent women who were getting worked up about what our stylist was thinking about us. Are we not paying for this? And tipping generously? Gah.

So I don’t know what I’m going to do about my hair. I guess I’ll just live with it. No one has really commented on it, which I suspect means that it looks like crap. Or that there’s a spider up there, making shushing motions with its little legs.

Hostess: There’s a wait of at least an hour without a reservation.
Weetabix: Are there any reservations that maybe canceled or haven’t shown up?
Other Waitress: My table by the window is about to leave. They can have that one.
Hostess: Ok, it will be about ten minutes. Have a drink in the lounge. We’ll come and get you.
Translation: In an hour. Have twenty drinks in the lounge.

Weetabix: Fat men loooove hats.
Translation: Man, I am sooooo drunk right now.

Esteban: Wha-wha?
Translation: This hat-wearing fat man will never have sex with you again.

Weetabix: I wonder who this is? It sounds like Mojo Nixon. Bartender, who is this?
Bartender: Uh’ lessee’. Mojo Nixon?
Weetabix: Hoooooooooooo doggie!
Translation: Even drunk, I am obviously brilliant.

Weetabix: Man, these pretzels are so good! I’m sooo hungry!
Esteban: Don’t fill up with pretzels. They will come and get us soon and you’ll spoil your dinner.
Weetabix: No I won’t. I’m totally famished.
Translation: I’m totally going to spoil my dinner.

Girl (wearing jeans under a flowered prairie skirt topped with a sweater that has a ruffle of camisole sticking out the bottom) Gee, I must really look cute.
Translation: Wow, I can’t decide what to wear, so I think I’ll just wear EVERYTHING.

Waitress (As she spills a bowl of rice on Esteban’s chair while we’re at the grill two feet away) Hmmmph.
Translation: Shit, I’m totally going to have to go back to the truck stop if I screw up one more time. I’ll just brush the rice onto the floor and chair.

Waitress: Sorry I haven’t gotten to spend much time with you tonight. I just have a lot of other tables.
Translation: Who are more important than you.

Weetabix: No, we’re fine. Really.
Esteban: Yeah, don’t worry about us.
Translation: Because you’re only getting ten percent anyway from spilling rice all over our table and chairs and also for not wearing a bra when you’re obviously in your forties and breastfed twelve kids. No nipples in my Mongolian in the future, please.

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That’s me. I downgrade tips for fashion faux pas. But it works the other way too. If you give me lousy service but have really cute shoes, you’re still getting a decent tip. Or rather, with bad service, I’m just looking for another reason to justify it.

Speaking of which, my cell phone problems continue. After I had to go back to the store four times before they’d replace my new phone that dropped calls. Four times. The first time, after waiting 20 minutes to talk to someone, I was told that they couldn’t help me because I didn’t have my box. Fine. Totally understandable. I went home and got the box. Then I was told that they couldn’t help me because I didn’t have a receipt. Despite the fact that I had purchased the phone four days before. I asked if the associate, let’s call her Liz, (mostly because that’s her name and she’s a snot so I don’t care if Liz who works at Cingular in the Bay Park Square Mall in Green Bay finds out that someone thinks she’s an ineffective ass) could possibly look it up, since we had an account and our purchase should be on the account, right and it had only been four days, right? Liz? Work with me here? She had sighed and then asked if I could come back because she had to help other customers and she didn’t have time to go digging through receipts looking for mine. Fine. Whatever. When I returned, she told me that she couldn’t help me because I didn’t have a receipt. And when I started objecting, suddenly someone else in the store magically found my receipt and gave me another phone. Which only holds a charge for a day, instead of the touted four billion hours of supposed battery life. Great. And then someone stole my wallet, which had the receipt in it. Wonderful. Then some kind person brought my wallet back and the receipt was still in there, so yay for that. So Esteban took it back for me because I couldn’t handle dealing with them again, and he was given a new battery for the phone. It didn’t help. We bought a new charger. It still didn’t help. Granted, I wasn’t quite Johnny on the Spot because I didn’t want to go down there and do it, and with Esteban watching his parents’ dogs, I hadn’t seen him enough to give him the phone and box and receipt. I gathered everything up on Sunday and we met at the phone store.

My least-favorite employee was there again, Liz. This is the same Liz that was explaining to a foreigner in loud obnoxious manner that she couldn’t help her and she really wasn’t concerned that she couldn’t get her business calls and would have to wait a week for a new phone because it wasn’t her problem. I let Esteban do the talking because he’s friendly and I tend to get really sarcastic when I’m irritated (which I’m certain that you couldn’t have guessed). But we had the receipt, we had the box, we had the phone, we didn’t anticipate any problems.

But then Liz told us that she couldn’t help us because 30 days had passed since the initial purchase. We explained that we knew that and had been back to the store five times since the initial purchase. She kept looking at the receipt, stating that it was 10 days too late. But we’d only had the phone for 27 days. But the first phone was purchased on the 13th of January, so we’re too late. I asked if I had exchanged a broken phone and gotten another broken phone on Day 30, does that mean that I was stuck with a broken phone? She reiterated that Cingular had a 30 day return policy to prevent people from returning their phone every 30 days to get the ‘latest greatest models’. I ignored the argument that I would take an older model that, if working as expected, would be pretty great in and of itself, and just explained to her that we couldn’t even bring it in for a refund because the wallet was stolen with the receipt and then we just got it back last week. Liz just looked at me blankly and I swear blinked just like I’ve seen lizards do on the National Geographic channel. Liz wasn’t interested in our sob story. Liz was designed without an emotion chip. Liz then told us that she didn’t have the authority to accept this phone which would be like taking $250 out of her manager’s pocket. We did not point out that he had taken $250 out of our pocket and replaced it with a shitty phone. Instead, Esteban requested that if she needed a manager’s approval, could she call the manager? She replied ‘He’s not around. Come back on Wednesday.’ Because she could sense that with her higher evolved brain processes. As we would try to reason with her and further explain that we were not trying to get a free Razor phone, we were not trying to even get a refund, we just wanted a phone that does what it’s supposed to, Liz. Come on, Liz. Help us. Smile. Tilt your head and show sympathy. We’re not bad people, Liz. We’re not trying to screw Cingular. Tell us that you’re sorry that you’ve given us two different crappy phones and made us come down in two different snow storms and four other non-storm but equally annoying visits. Liz. We beg of you. Just stop repeating that we need to come in when your manager will be here on Wednesday in that snipey harsh way that seems as though you feel this is our fault. Liz. Liz. Please. Liz.

But no. No. This was not to be. You are ten days too late (although the math of that is very strange. Is it not Feb 20? And we got the replacement phone on January 20th? But I suppose it makes it more dramatic if it’s been 40 days, like an entire Biblical flood could have come and whacked my phone since I got it). No soup for you. Liz would to repeat that we need to come back on Wednesday. Liz would like to cut Esteban’s sentence off again to say that it doesn’t matter as we are past the 30 days. Liz does not have authority. Well, Liz does have authority, but she’s not going to use it. Liz has other customers and is finished with us. Liz is not interested. Liz is just protecting her manager’s $250 which we are obviously trying to con out of her just to get the latest greatest non working piece of crap.

Apparently, during this, Esteban was getting very irritated. Then it turned into a scene out of Cops. Or maybe, Mall Cops. Esteban said loudly ‘Well, screw you too!’ and then advised another customer to not buy anything from them and then Liz looked at me with her dead eyes and said that I had to leave now (and I suppose, take my inappropriate husband with me) and Esteban said that was no problem because he’s never coming back and then we stomped out of there, talking loudly about how much Cingular sucked, and I announced that she was the same chick that had been so rude the last time too.

As we were stomping past Old Navy, feeling very white trash, I suggested that perhaps he shouldn’t have said ‘screw you’ as it devalued everything we had said before that. He asked what they were going to do about it, because it’s not like they were going to fix my phone or anything. But really, I just felt that it was unseemly. We are definitely not shouters of ‘Fuck You’ and even its vanilla ‘Screw You’ is beyond our normal oeuvre. But now I feel like he should have been wearing a stained undershirt spitting tobacco juice into a mayonnaise jar and I should have been standing there in sweatpants and dirty fake Keds, wondering when my kid was going to get out of prison. It is official. I have now been asked to leave the premises. Of a Cingular store.

So yeah, still have the shrinking violet phone and am feeling vaguely victimized by Cingular. I’m going to drive to another store, but I have this weird feeling that every Cingular store is staffed by Liz. Like Liz comes with the franchise or something. I understand the phenomenon of going postal. Because I keep running over in my head what I could have said to have made Liz stop interrupting or see reason. I keep wondering what I could have done differently to make it work better, to keep Esteban from being driven by frustration to unleash his S-bomb. And I keep coming up with nothing. We tried everything. Nothing worked. And the worst part is that I doubt Liz is running this through her mind tonight. I’m sure she is telling her friends (pretend, I’m certain) about the assholes who came into ‘her’ store and how she made us leave. Perhaps she invents a scuffle.

Which, actually, I kind of wish there had been a scuffle, just because that would have been surreal. And made for a much better story. A crazy cell phone rumble. Anytime minute this, bitch!