I almost just killed everyone in Wild Oats.

I hate Wild Oats.

I know - "hate" is an incredibly emotional word. I shouldn't just throw around because it carries a lot of weight and power. I usually try to limit my use of "hate" for those things that really deserve it: white jeans, bad blond highlights, peep-toe shoes in Winter (HAVE YOU PEOPLE NO SHAME???).

But just now, at Wild Oats, I felt hate in a big way. Here's why:

It's lunchtime in Salt Lake City, and I have 2 options for organic-ish cuisine. The Oasis - a delightful restaurant - takes too long, so Wild Oats it is. As I steer into the too-small parking lot of the too-expensive food conglomerate, I am forced to slam on my brakes because the guy in front of me stops short. Aha! He's noticed a woman walking to her car parked in a nearby spot, and because he can't be bothered to walk more than 15 feet from parking space to food merchant, he causes a traffic back-up that reaches into the main road.

I park in my usual spot, waaaaaaay over there. I like parking far away because it reminds me to be grateful for my healthy body and my ability to walk long(ish) distances. Plus, it allows me to judge the seemingly able-bodied lazy people who take up all the front-and-center spots, forcing old people to walk farther than is probably advisable.

Once inside the store, after I recover from walking into a wall of patchouli, I head to the deli counter. No browsing today - I'm busy at work, so it's in and out. I patiently* wait my turn , and once the mouthbreather behind the counter understands that the woman in front of me wants her sandwich "TO GO" but "WITH NO MAYO," he turns to me.

"Hi, I'd like a small container of the Sonoma Chicken Salad."

"Hey, didn't I meet you at the Depot?" Mouthbreather is staring, all slackjawed and blank-eyed, at my face. He is temporarily taken back to some night at the Depot (local music venue) when he met someone who in some way maybe resembled me, probably because she also happened to be female and alive.

"No, you didn't. Just a small container of Sonoma Chicken Salad, please."

"Cuz you totally look like this chick I met there. Maaary? Jenniferrrr? Saaaarah?"

Remember all that patience I was displaying? Well, neither do I, but if I HAD BEEN being patient, rest assured, I wasn't now. "I'm sorry, but I really need to get back to work. I'm quite sure that I've never met you - I mean, you're like 12 and I'm 30 - so could I please just have a small container of Sonoma Chicken Salad? There are lots of people in line."

There are. And they are evenly split between laughing at me and glaring at me. I hate them all.

"Yeah, dude, no worries. What do you want again?"

Jesus Christ. "No worries" (which is a close second to "it's all good" on my list of things-people-say-that-makes-me-want-to-punch-them) is bad enough, but to then forget what I'd asked him for no less than three times, less than 5 seconds ago, well...this is why it sometime sucks to not just eat ramen noodles everyday.

After a few more moments of similar polite and jovial banter, I head toward the cash register, Sonoma Chicken Salad in hand. I'm so desperate to get out of the store I don't even pause to consider buying a chocolate covered graham cracker or an Uncle Eddie's cookie for dessert.

After waiting in line behind a man who had taken the time to select and bag numerous items from the bulk food aisle, but not to write down or remember their codes, I watch the cashier attempt to bag those many little parcels of seeds and nuts and grains and twigs. When, on his 4th go, he successfully lands each bag into the shopper's grocery tote, I almost applaud his fine display of both agility and efficiency. Then it dawns on me that this is no ordinary cashier. This is a man who has very recently smoked such copious amounts of weed that he can neither open his eyes nor stop laughing.

For the love of god. I don't care if you smoke pot. I don't care if you bake it into brownies or take massive and frequent hits out of a 5 foot bong. Whatever works for you. Be my guest.

But really, being this stoned at work? Is this what we're doing now?

This guy is completely obliterated. He can't type on the cash register - which is "so hilarious, dude"- and he can barely scan the container. When he finally looks up at me, presumably to tell me the price, he pauses, looks momentarily befuddled, then bemused. Instead of asking for $4 or 5 dollars or however much the chicken salad cost (what, is it made of gold?), he cocks his dreadlocks to one side and asks, "Didn't I meet you at the Depot?"


*By "patiently," I mean that I tap my boots and check my email and sigh and cross and uncross my arms. I would make a big show of checking my watch, too, but I left it in Lizzie's car so I can't.

And Speaking of Saint....

This is unacceptable.


Saint does not appear pleased with having his name shaved into his side. I am stating this publicly now, today, at 9:11 Mountain Time on January the eighth in the year two thousand and eight: BRAD, DO NOT SHAVE ARNIE'S NAME INTO HIS SIDE.

You've threatened to shave a lightning bolt into his side ("Because he's so fast!"), a number into his fur ("Like kids in Mormon families!"), to paint him pink ("He likes pink!") and, most recently, to dye him the two-toned speckles of a Heeler ("Because he's an honorary Heeler now!").


The owner did this because she was sick of answering people when they asked, "What's your dog's name?"

Oh my god, it's one syllable - it's "Saint." It isn't "Mister Knickerbocker." It isn't "Sir Adolfus GoldenDog." It's not even "Denali." (Don't even get me started on THAT choice....)

One syllable. You can do it, say it with me now: SAINT. Now get that dog a cover of some sort before he gets sunburned.

But the cooking was hard.

Well, not the cooking, exactly. It was more the preparation that bothered me. The touching of the bird. The raw body all slappy and cold. YUCK. Seriously, I almost started crying when I pulled the neck out of the body cavity. Jesus, we're a bunch of damn animals, eating this bird. They're not cute, exactly, but does that mean we should mock their deaths by shoving their "parts" inside their bodies, just so we can eat more of them? Good lord.

I know. I'm being a little dramatic. (Just a little? Hell, this is a good day.)

I felt terrible. I didn't like it at all. I don't even like tofu, and I was wishing for a tofurkey. Or a pizza.

It smells good now (I know, I'm a hypocrite. No surprise.), but I think this will be the last time I make bird.

So mad it hurts.

Having worked at companies with no more than ten employees for most of my adult life, I walked into my current job completely unprepared for the clash of personalities, communication styles, attitudes and posturing. I was dealt a stomach-punch this morning, in the form of an annoying client’s continued unhappiness with my work. On the phone, discussing a recent draft, the client told me that I “don’t possess the brain capacity” to understand his product, and therefore couldn’t be “expected to write well.”

Right, ok, well, how about FUCK YOU? How about I show you my resume? My CV? How about I scratch your car with my PHI BETA KAPPA KEY you self-important piece of trash?

I would beat that man over the head with one of my MANY PUBLISHED WORKS if he happened to be cowering in front of me right now.

But the thing is, it doesn’t matter. He wins. He can say whatever the hell he wants, because he’s the client, and he’s RIGHT.

And as hard as it is, I have to sit here and take it. I have to accept the fact that whatever the reason – my inability to understand the concept or his just being a jackass – I’ve failed. I can’t do the work correctly.

And it sucks and I want to quit and run from here to Park City along the ridges I can see out my office window. I want to walk away right now and, I don’t know, wait tables for the winter so I can ski everyday.

These are the times when, hands shaking and eyes welling up, I regret having left the outdoor industry. It’s far from perfect and some of the people are hard to work with, but at least there I understand the products well enough to write about them; at least there I’m well regarded, respected. Not called “mentally obtuse.”

A New Low

Last night, after an atrocious Scrabble performance by myself, Brad and I were channel-surfing before bed. Flipping through all our new tv stations, we came upon this show.
Wow.

Really?

Brad, though, didn't share my dismay, and was entranced by the antics of the sort of fit-looking participants as they hung from a rope, ran across a bridge and jumped approximately 4 feet in the air.

"I'd CRUSH this thing!"

And actually? I'm sure he would.

Devil Come Down to Utah...

...looking for a soul to steal. And he found mine.

After years of watching tv only when in hotel rooms, at my parents’ house and on JetBlue flights, we got cable.

This is going to be a definite test of my self-control, because with the likes of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert at my disposal, I stand to lose all motivation to do anything but laugh and laugh and laugh. And laugh.

Not having tv for so long, I’ve definitely turned into one of those, “oh no, I didn’t see that show; you see, I don’t watch tv (AND AM THEREFORE BETTER THAN YOU)” people. Arguably, that could be worse than being a total tv-a-holic, like my former colleague who spoke of nothing but the lives of fictional television characters. I always felt a bit superior to that guy, as if by reading the latest Sophie Kinsella novel in lieu of watching a sit-com, I was somehow smarter than he? I mean, while the Shop-a-holic books make me slightly uncomfortable due to my own former spending habits, I can’t say that they’re actually deep or require critical thinking, so who was I to cast judgment?

And now I dwell among the likes of said former colleague. A tv-owner. A cable-haver.

Still, I think it’s a good idea for me to get news from places other than NPR, the New Yorker and the New York Times. I mean, as BALANCED and NON-BIASED as those sources are, I would probably benefit from hearing the other side of the story occasionally....

No to Dog-Fighting.

I want everyone to know that while I find this picture hilarious (I found it on the internet. Props to the photographer for capturing the true spirit of the Malicious and Very Viscious Golden Retriever. Also, see? I’m not claiming it as my own, so please don’t sue me), I DO NOT THINK DOGFIGHTING IS ACCEPTABLE IN ANY WAY.

So, Michael Vick? Go to hell you evil, twisted son of a bitch. I can’t open a newspaper these days without your heinous, cold-hearted scowl, and it’s beginning to annoy me.

And to the poor doggies you tortured? Oh, there’s a place for you in doggie heaven.

Yes, I’m Agnostic and while I find the ideas of heaven and hell for people troublesome, heaven for dogs TOTALLY exists and is the happiest place ever, with clean rivers for swimming, no “Watershed – No Dogs” signs, lots of snow for scooting and sun for sleeping, plenty of soft couches and many, many treats.

Hey, this is my blog, and therefore my delusion.

Um.....

http://www.spandexwear.com/

What's the deal with the "closed-face hoods?"

Seems like nefarious business to me.