Thankful this story is not about me

A friend of mine is in the middle of training for his job. It's one of those training dealies where they make you go to a particular branch of the business - always in some godforsaken place where you would never actually go if you weren't being paid to do so - and they put you in a hotel - the only one for miles in said godforsaken place - until you truly learn what it is that you are supposed to be doing for them. Because they have cut you off from everything that could possibly be important to you - your real home, your family, friends and civilization - learning the job only takes about 6 or 7 weeks. So it's a good deal for them.

For my friend, it's slightly less of a good deal. Sure, he's getting some serious training to make him good at his job, and I'm sure his Hampton Inn Junior Executive Suite is very nice, only...he has to share it. He's a 29 year0old man, training for a management-level job, and he has a roommate. In a single.

Fortunately, my friend is a pretty happy dude, so this situation didn't really bother him much, until the day he was chatting with said roommate and his new boss, and they started discussing hobbies. The boss says,"You know, I like reading." Oh, that's nice. What do you like to read, mr. boss man? "You know, just stuff about serial killers."

[ROOMMATE]: "Wow - ME TOO!"

BOSS: "Oh yeah? Remember that time that John Wayne Gacy did such-and-such?"

ROOMMATE: "Classic."

...

And thus is my friend Chris doomed to sleeping with one eye open for the rest of his training period.

Rooming with someone is a lot like dating - if you are a normal human being, you know to hide certain things from the other person until they become more comfortable around you. Your complete knowledge of famed and lesser-known serial killers throughout history is one of those things.

Now, in the interest of Christopher's personal safety we are on a mission to find him something equally as creepy. The hope is that he can drive away the Dahmer-phile before something truly horrific happens.

So far, we've suggested that he start rabidly tearing through the Twilight series - not so much for the horror factor but because I would never trust a 29-year-old gentleman who reads softcore porn that magically hones in on some secret pleasure center in the tiny brains of adolescent girls.

Our other idea was to set him up with an "Adventures of Teletubbies" or some other 12-pager that only the very young or very simple would enjoy. We figure if just sits in a darkened corner, reading it over and over , and occasionally giggling to himself, "Not again, Tinky-winky!" he'll either scare the creepy roommate into submission or earn himself a lifelong weird-o friend.

NYT can't stop, won't stop

A NYT story about the death of Domino magazine describes its readers thus:

"crafty, handy young women — like Carrie Bradshaw but cooler, with fewer shoes, better values and a mortgage"

So, you mean...not at all like Carrie Bradshaw. You confuse me, NYT. The only similarity I can spot is...

WAIT

OMG, of course! They are all womennnnnn! How could I not have seen -- Carrie Bradshaw has ladybits, and so do these people! They're like peas in a pod! They're exactly the same!

And BONUS FOR YOU, you clever Times scribes, your random mention of a canceled TV show has made me want to read your newspaper more closely -- because I am a girlyperson too! Perhaps I will even forward this article to my "girlfriends," so that we can all teeheehee and nod our heads over the trueness and realness of it all while brushing each other's hair and tiling our bathrooms. Yayyyyyyyy!
.......................................................................................

Why do you DO this, NYT? Have I not chastised you enough? Can you please stop grasping at the thinnest of cultural straws in your attempts to be "with it?" Seriously. Reading the words "Carrie Bradshaw" made me want to pull out my own eyeballs 3 years ago, when they were vaguely culturally relevant. Stick to the facts -- you're almost good at that.

This is how I treat my friends...

Jolly just got a real freelancing writer job offer. That's really great. Here is how I congratulated him (via gchat because i'm an incredible friend.):

me: jolly, 1) that's awesome, congrats!
2) would you call someone who had gotten their foot sliced off "depedicated?"
i can't think of anyone else to ask that wouldn't get freaked out

John: haha
um . . . i don't know if that's a real word, but that sounds like what it would be

me: awesome
that's a load off my mind

Lucky for me, nothing disturbs Jolly anymore, so instead of trying to talk more about his awesome new job, he sends me this:

depeditate

/dee-ped'*-tayt/ [by (faulty) analogy with "decapitate"]
Humorously, to cut off the feet of.  When one is using some
computer-aided typesetting tools, careless placement of text
blocks within a page or above a rule can result in chopped-off
letter descenders.  Such letters are said to have been
depeditated.

(I was so close to being a word genius! Blast!)

me: humorously, eh?

John: haha

i think it's more of a media term

me: like, omg, that girl was just depeditated...ha

John: but it does mean to have the feet cut off

by a roller coaster!

John: HI-LARIOUS!

me: i'm going to coney island tonight

Thus did I, your trusty blog heroine, deftly turn the conversation away from my friend's great achievements (Bo-ring!) and towards an in-depth discussion of a Christopher Pike book that showed young and impressionable thelaurenbell all the horrible ways I could die at Coney Island.

That's what friends are for.

*(per Jolly's lightning-fast comment): I also made him read a lengthy description of a funhouse statue that is both projectile vomiting and suffering from explosive diarrhea. Really the only proper mental image to have when considering a job offer.

Look! I'm linking!

My friends over at Box Box Stick (annnnnnnnd...I just got what that means when you have two girls and one guy as your cast. Neat.), just put up their first podcast. It's basically just them talking about their days, their lives, their favorite drinks, etc., but they happen to be naturally delightful and funny people (as all my friends are. except that one -- you guys know who I'm talking about...). Moral of the story: you should check them out.

Anyways, Becca was talking about this lady who came in to return something at the baby boutique where she works. The problem with this interaction was that the return item was over a year old. The company whose name was on the onesie or the goofy hat -- or whatever it was that had come from the baby store in some forgotten and long-past era -- didn't even exist anymore. But the woman was quite insistent that it was within her rights to return it, and even got a little bit rude. All in all, it turned out to be a pretty horrible experience for poor Becca, and I felt bad for her, really, but at the same time...I kind of love that random return woman.

Really, who has the cajones to do something like that?

"Yes, I realize it was handsewn by palace maidens in the dark ages, and yes, I do realize that no self-respecting baby would wear this particular style of goofy hat in this day and age, but, you see, I simply don't want it anymore." Her kid had probably worn it and outgrown it ("Oh, the tooth-marks? And the fraying? I take no responsibility for the fact that your store sells raggedy things."). I just have to admire her a little bit.

I rarely return things, even when they are brand new. In fact, the entire shopping experience is something of a challenge for me because, rather than going into a store with the goal of purchasing something, I go in with only the overwhelming desire to make the salespeople like me.

It's probably disgusting to watch me in a store; I creep noiselessly from rack to rack, trying not to disturb the salespeople. They ask if I need help, and I say, "Oh! No need, I can get it!" as I try unsuccessfully to find things in my size or pull a box off the top shelf. I kowtow, I grimace, I scrape.

The dressing room is even worse, particularly in small stores, where you have to leave the safe confines of your personal cube and walk into the store to see a mirror. They always have an opinion (usually something along the lines of, "You should totally buy that!"), and it always kills me to disagree. "Yeah! I mean, the whole 'doesn't actually button right over my boobs' thing is totally in, right?!" or "Oh, definitely, I mean, I've been looking for a dress with strategically placed crotchal pockets [true story]!"

And then there are the returns. When asked why I am returning their perfectly fine product, I can never just say, "Buyer's remorse." or "Well, I didn't want it and was bullied into it by a salesperson." I always need a story. A favorite of mine is that I bought it for my sister (conceivably a twin, since the shirt or skirt being returned is obviously in my size), who decided she didn't like it. I like this one because it moves the blame onto someone else, and I can sit and commiserate with the checkout girl about what a fool the sister is to not want such a great item.

I don't know why I do this. Someday soon, I'm going to have to accept that it's the salespeople's job to accept returns. Or I'll just have to get over my aversion to the crotch-pocket dress that is currently taking up space in my closet.