"Are you making a face at me?"
"No, I'm making a face about you!"
The other day while at work, my good friend, Courtney, decided to stop on in after her long day of selling cosmetics made from dirt (literally; it's 'mineral' make-up). To my horror, the new assistant, Dan, decided that he wanted to Bogart the convo with his know-it-all, "I'm better than everyone" speeches. Which are the same things he tells me all the time! He is constantly annoying the shit out of me and constantly not taking the "I don't want to be talking to you" hints. It doesn't matter if I ignore him or try to read my book or drop hints about how I would love to be able to read my book or even if I ask him to leave me be! If I ignore him while trying to read my book, he gets up close to my ear and starts to sing; badly. And when he is not trying to annoy me to death, he is making pervy comments and hitting on me. Little does he know, he completely repulses me. So, by the time Courtney arrives, I am already secretly plotting his death.
For the first ten minutes of his squawking, I was mildly annoyed. After twenty, I was seething with anger. I'm pretty sure I was actually shaking from pure hatred of this gangly beanpole yakking my ears off. And all through his going on and on about how he is better at everything, acting like they should throw a parade in his honor, I'm not even sure he is breathing! Because he certainly was not pausing long enough for anyone to interject their opinions let alone let his winded lungs get some much needed oxygen. And all the while he is cracking himself up! Boy oh boy does this loser think he is funny! And let me tell you...he is not. Not even slightly. At this point, I'm no longer nodding along politely just waiting for the verbal assault on my ears to end, I'm staring at the computer screen in front of me willing him with my mind to please shut up. Poor polite Courtney is trying her best not to look at me for fear of laughing in this guy's face because she knows me well enough to know that this is going no where good for Mr. Dan.
Finally out of pure frustration, I do this sort of sign-grunt thing and stomp off to the back room. But as soon as I hear the door shut I realize that I have just broken the #1 rule of dealing with creepers and douche bags: Never leave a man behind. So I return to the front to save Courtney with determination. I have had enough and this has got to end. NOW. As he begins to fill me in on all the bullshit he has spewed out in my brief absence, I glare a him. I look to Courtney and she knows what's up. She knows I'm about to put the kibosh on this situation. But the guy catches this little eye exchange between us and asks me, "Are you making a face at me?" To which I replied, "No, I'm making a face about you. Don't you have anything else to be doing?"
He says a quick goodbye to Courtney who is now trying her best not to laugh out loud and hurt the poor guy's pride any further. Once he is gone we agree to wait and make fun of him once we are out of the salon and Courtney leaves because she has somewhere to be. He had officially wasted all of our allotted time for visiting.
When I went into the back room, there was Dan. And he looked a bit down and of course I knew why so I asked him, "Are you getting butt hurt because I didn't want to talk to you earlier?" He gives me the pouty lip and just nods. Again, he is trying to be funny. And again he is failing. So i say, "Well, get over it. She was here to visit me not you and you were not taking the hints." As I am getting the last few words out, I am also shutting the door so that I will undoubtedly get the last word in. I successfully avoid him for the rest of the night but since then he has apparently gotten over it and continued to be a complete pervy moron in my presence. Yay. Lucky me.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
"How do you scream for help with your eyes?"
"So...how do you scream for help with your eyes?"
Last Wednesday night, I was the closing receptionist at my very important mall job and decided to plop myself down on a bench while I waited for my friend to get off at her equally important position. The mall was rather empty, as it should be after closing time, with only a few stragglers wandering by every few minutes mumbling about why they couldn't remember where they parked their cars. Ever the opportunist, I took out my book and cracked it open to try and squeeze in a few minutes of pleasure reading. Not even two pages later, a creeper of the creepiest sort came out of no where and asks me if I could tell him where Green St. is. He had a dirty tank top on with equally dingy jeans all topped off by the pick in his hair and the nasty bloody bandage on his right hand. I quickly informed him of my lack of Green Street knowledge to which he replied, "Ah, well. Yo gorgeous, what yo' name?"
As I watched him swagger over to take the seat next to me I thought to myself, "Oh, shit. Here we go. How the hell can I get out of this?" Caught off guard, I told him my actual name and tried to make it obvious that I was so not interested without being a complete bitch because I really didn't want the crazy next to me to shank me out in the parking lot because of his inability to handle rejection.
As he began to rant about what he thinks the difference between "makin' love" and "just smashing" is, I am actively searching for an escape route. I reach for my purse, which happens to be in between us, and he gets pissy with me asking if he makes me nervous, which then leads to another rant about how women are all alike and that they don't ever trust men and make the good guys pay for all the douche bags' mistakes. I nod along in passive compliance but am starting to feel desperate for my friend to emerge from her safe haven behind the gated entrance of her store. Then the ballsy, yet very unobservant, creeper proceeds to ask for my phone number. But ha! I am more prepared for him this time and play the "I have a boyfriend" card. But my smugness is quickly squashed by his unwillingness to accept defeat. Horrified that my trump card had failed, I mentally kick myself for not using the "I'm a lesbian" card instead. All the while I am trying to hold onto my shell of calm encasing my internal panic. He begins to move in closer and snake his bloody-bandaged hand towards my back when the heavens open up and send me a savior. Along comes and officer. Not a mall cop, but an actual officer of the law. He had a gun. But he was not looking at me and I obviously couldn't call out for him so I did the only thing I could think of: I stared him down while praying to whom ever would hear that he would feel my stare.
And it worked! He turned, and I screamed for help as loud as my eyes would allow. When he furrowed his brow and began to walk towards us all I could do was nod approval at him. As the 5'1" officer spoke to Mr. Creeperson, I learned that he had in fact already been arrested earlier that day by that same officer. Then the officer turned to me and asked if I knew the man sitting way too close to me. I quickly spit out that I did not know him and that I needed to leave immediately if not sooner and proceeded to speed walk away.
And as I am running for safety, the ballsy creeper is still trying to hit on me! I don't acknowledge his requests as I slam into the gate of the closed shop and scream-whisper, "AMANDA! AMANDA! HELP ME!!!"
As she comes to my rescue, the suave creeper is escorted out of the mall in handcuffs to who-knows-where and I don't care! Close call? Maybe. You be the judge.
Last Wednesday night, I was the closing receptionist at my very important mall job and decided to plop myself down on a bench while I waited for my friend to get off at her equally important position. The mall was rather empty, as it should be after closing time, with only a few stragglers wandering by every few minutes mumbling about why they couldn't remember where they parked their cars. Ever the opportunist, I took out my book and cracked it open to try and squeeze in a few minutes of pleasure reading. Not even two pages later, a creeper of the creepiest sort came out of no where and asks me if I could tell him where Green St. is. He had a dirty tank top on with equally dingy jeans all topped off by the pick in his hair and the nasty bloody bandage on his right hand. I quickly informed him of my lack of Green Street knowledge to which he replied, "Ah, well. Yo gorgeous, what yo' name?"
As I watched him swagger over to take the seat next to me I thought to myself, "Oh, shit. Here we go. How the hell can I get out of this?" Caught off guard, I told him my actual name and tried to make it obvious that I was so not interested without being a complete bitch because I really didn't want the crazy next to me to shank me out in the parking lot because of his inability to handle rejection.
As he began to rant about what he thinks the difference between "makin' love" and "just smashing" is, I am actively searching for an escape route. I reach for my purse, which happens to be in between us, and he gets pissy with me asking if he makes me nervous, which then leads to another rant about how women are all alike and that they don't ever trust men and make the good guys pay for all the douche bags' mistakes. I nod along in passive compliance but am starting to feel desperate for my friend to emerge from her safe haven behind the gated entrance of her store. Then the ballsy, yet very unobservant, creeper proceeds to ask for my phone number. But ha! I am more prepared for him this time and play the "I have a boyfriend" card. But my smugness is quickly squashed by his unwillingness to accept defeat. Horrified that my trump card had failed, I mentally kick myself for not using the "I'm a lesbian" card instead. All the while I am trying to hold onto my shell of calm encasing my internal panic. He begins to move in closer and snake his bloody-bandaged hand towards my back when the heavens open up and send me a savior. Along comes and officer. Not a mall cop, but an actual officer of the law. He had a gun. But he was not looking at me and I obviously couldn't call out for him so I did the only thing I could think of: I stared him down while praying to whom ever would hear that he would feel my stare.
And it worked! He turned, and I screamed for help as loud as my eyes would allow. When he furrowed his brow and began to walk towards us all I could do was nod approval at him. As the 5'1" officer spoke to Mr. Creeperson, I learned that he had in fact already been arrested earlier that day by that same officer. Then the officer turned to me and asked if I knew the man sitting way too close to me. I quickly spit out that I did not know him and that I needed to leave immediately if not sooner and proceeded to speed walk away.
And as I am running for safety, the ballsy creeper is still trying to hit on me! I don't acknowledge his requests as I slam into the gate of the closed shop and scream-whisper, "AMANDA! AMANDA! HELP ME!!!"
As she comes to my rescue, the suave creeper is escorted out of the mall in handcuffs to who-knows-where and I don't care! Close call? Maybe. You be the judge.
Monday, August 10, 2009
"So, Fancy Dancer, we meet again..."
This is really just a continuation of my earlier blog but I have to add that while at the Willowbrook Mall earlier, I saw Mr. Fancy Dancer himself! He was sitting at a table with his wife, who coincidentally matches him perfectly, in front of the Taco Bell stand. I had my back to him but I was with one of my friends and she was giving me the play by play of his actions and let me tell you, it was nothing interesting at all. But all I could see when I looked at him was a tiny little man in a khaki button down thrusting his hips to the sound of his own music. Dance on Fancy Dancer. Dance on.
"I think I'm standing on a condom..."
"I think I'm standing on a condom! Oh, nope. I'm definitely standing on a condom."
That's right. I was standing on a condom. I was getting out of the car outside Fitzgeralds and to my surprise there seemed to be a condom shaped item underneath my feet. After a very brief investigation, I was able to confirm that I was in fact standing on top of a used condom. As gross as that would seem on any other day, I had to find the silver lining in the fact that I had opted for actual shoes rather that my normal flip flops. And once I thought about it, it wasn't even the worst thing I found on that short strip of road leading to Fitz's. Two doors down I encountered two very friendly bums who had just finished ralphing up their last few drinks while proceeding to ask for spare change. I was about two inches away from runny bum-barf all over my converse.
Once inside, i quickly realized that the place was without central AC. Bummer for sure. And after climbing the stairs to the main stage, I realized that alcohol plus large crowd plus uncomfortable humidity would equal not so much fun. So I wondered my completely sober ass over to the left hand side of the stage to get a listen of the band. I have no idea who was playing but I was totally creeped out by the bass player with massive dreads. The look on his face while he was playing was so distracting I couldn't even look at anything else. Hilarious! After them was this really bad ass band with the drummer as the lead singer which totally impressed me and my friends. But nothing compared to the next band who called themselves the "71's". Their music was alright. The drummer, guitar player, and bass player were above average I suppose. But their lead singer was who everyone was looking at. The man I like to call "Fancy Dancer".
As Fancy Dancer hopped his scrawny-ass up on stage, he threw on a pair of wal-mart sunglasses that must have been specially calibrated for night vision. This just further complimented his silk scarf wrapped around his neck and the khaki button up shirt that made him look just like a Brownie Scout. But then...he started dancing. He dropped it like it was hot, he pulled some moves from the Spice Girls, and he stopped in the name of love. That man can shake his booty better that Sporty Spice herself. When he pulled out his miniature megaphone and proceeded to shout into the microphone I had to laugh out loud. The music was pretty good so I have to give them that and they do know how to put on a show. I was thoroughly entertained. But they had nothing on the next band. Glass Intrepid (or Dev Electric as they will now be known as) was fucking awesome! One of the best bands I have heard in a long time and that includes mainstream bands. They were wickedly entertaining on top of their bad ass musical capabilities. Not to mention that the lead singer and bass player are fucking gorgeous so they are not exactly hard to look at! If you take one thing away from this blog, I hope it's that you look up this band. Trust me, you won't regret it!!!
That's right. I was standing on a condom. I was getting out of the car outside Fitzgeralds and to my surprise there seemed to be a condom shaped item underneath my feet. After a very brief investigation, I was able to confirm that I was in fact standing on top of a used condom. As gross as that would seem on any other day, I had to find the silver lining in the fact that I had opted for actual shoes rather that my normal flip flops. And once I thought about it, it wasn't even the worst thing I found on that short strip of road leading to Fitz's. Two doors down I encountered two very friendly bums who had just finished ralphing up their last few drinks while proceeding to ask for spare change. I was about two inches away from runny bum-barf all over my converse.
Once inside, i quickly realized that the place was without central AC. Bummer for sure. And after climbing the stairs to the main stage, I realized that alcohol plus large crowd plus uncomfortable humidity would equal not so much fun. So I wondered my completely sober ass over to the left hand side of the stage to get a listen of the band. I have no idea who was playing but I was totally creeped out by the bass player with massive dreads. The look on his face while he was playing was so distracting I couldn't even look at anything else. Hilarious! After them was this really bad ass band with the drummer as the lead singer which totally impressed me and my friends. But nothing compared to the next band who called themselves the "71's". Their music was alright. The drummer, guitar player, and bass player were above average I suppose. But their lead singer was who everyone was looking at. The man I like to call "Fancy Dancer".
As Fancy Dancer hopped his scrawny-ass up on stage, he threw on a pair of wal-mart sunglasses that must have been specially calibrated for night vision. This just further complimented his silk scarf wrapped around his neck and the khaki button up shirt that made him look just like a Brownie Scout. But then...he started dancing. He dropped it like it was hot, he pulled some moves from the Spice Girls, and he stopped in the name of love. That man can shake his booty better that Sporty Spice herself. When he pulled out his miniature megaphone and proceeded to shout into the microphone I had to laugh out loud. The music was pretty good so I have to give them that and they do know how to put on a show. I was thoroughly entertained. But they had nothing on the next band. Glass Intrepid (or Dev Electric as they will now be known as) was fucking awesome! One of the best bands I have heard in a long time and that includes mainstream bands. They were wickedly entertaining on top of their bad ass musical capabilities. Not to mention that the lead singer and bass player are fucking gorgeous so they are not exactly hard to look at! If you take one thing away from this blog, I hope it's that you look up this band. Trust me, you won't regret it!!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)