tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11075423101363555752024-02-07T19:29:34.860-06:00Fabulously NeuroticA skewed perception of reality from a paradox wrapped in a mystery.Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.comBlogger258125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-89905787023862134562016-08-16T21:29:00.000-05:002016-08-16T21:29:38.806-05:00Going to the Bank=Running the Gauntlet<div style="text-align: justify;">
My company <i>finally </i>got Direct Deposit. </div>
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That's this thing where they automatically put your paycheck into your checking account on payday instead of sending you a check that you have to take to the bank. (Actually, we used to use Chase Bank and then I could just take a picture of it with my phone and it would deposit it for me, but we left Chase and so we had to go back to the bank visits.)</div>
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Before I had a driver's license (and we weren't using Chase), Padawan always deposited my checks. Our bank was simply not within walking/biking distance. When he became a full time student, this became even better because he had no time restrictions on Fridays (the day after payday) so he usually could just deposit it at some point during the day. Every now and again, though, he has a test or a study group or a project or something, and then I have to deposit the check.</div>
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For normal people, this is not a big deal.</div>
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But I am not a normal person. And my bank (which is actually a Federal Credit Union) seems to know that I am not a normal person and makes every possible effort to rake me over the coals as I try to put money in the bank. Therefore, every trip to the bank for me is like running an emotional gauntlet. </div>
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For starters, I leave for work so damn early in the morning (because I have to get to South Austin, preferably before the traffic gets bad) that the lanes of the drive through are not open yet, except the ATM (which is always open). My Credit Union, though, does not have a function where you can deposit your check in the ATM. You have to do it with a real, live person. I believe most banks actually do it the other way around: open the lanes first, and the actual doors open later. Or maybe they all open at the same time at normal places. I can't really be sure, because I've never in my life deposited a check myself until after I got my license. (Please don't judge me. I'm highly anxious, and I've lived in a damn city my whole life. I didn't NEED a license all those years.)</div>
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Because the lanes are closed, I have to park my car. This really annoys me because parking for me is hit or miss. It's usually a miss when I have to park in straight parking spaces instead of those nifty angled ones. Sometimes I can park in the straight ones with only two or three reverse, adjust, and forwards (I have to park DEAD CENTER. I like to minimize the chance of someone dinging my door). More often than not, it takes me four or five tries. (We have straight parking spots at work. My very first day driving myself after I got my license, I made a fourteen point parking job. Unbeknownst to me, I had an audience of seven coworkers who stopped to witness the entire affair. It has been a year, and they still bring it up. To this day, it is the only time I have parked off center because I just gave up.) So not only do I not have a choice of using a lane, but I have to fight the stupid parking spots. </div>
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When I actually go in, they do not have the stupid pieces of paper to fill out like in the drive through. (I think they are call Deposit Slips.) No. They want to engage you in a fucking conversation every time you go in, so they don't let you just hand over the paper with the signed check and get in and out with a "Hi, how are you?" and be on your way. They make me go inside, where I am immediately greeted by three freaking people every time (and yet not one of them can man the stupid drive through lanes!) and so I must look at and greet every single one of them in return. By the time I make it up to the counter, I have had to make eye contact and a little conversation (ugh!) with three different people, none of whom are going to be the actual person helping me. This much human contact and conversation before coffee and breakfast is just torturous. </div>
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Then there is the person who is actually behind the super high bank counter thing. (All marble and gold. Seriously? It's so over the top. Wood wouldn't suffice?) They once again force the whole eye contact thing, smile, and say, "How are you?" I have literally just told the other three people that I am just fine and dandy, thank you, and there is NEVER anyone else in there that early because the bank has literally been open for five minutes by the time I get there, so I know this person always hears my responses to the other people, but still they always ask. I can't be rude, so I have to smile back, answer, and ask them how they are. </div>
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Then this person will ask, "How can I help you?" and I have to say, "I would like to make a deposit, please." By this point, we are already at a ten minute delay because it probably took me six minutes to park plus one minute per employee that I've spoken to since walking in the stupid revolving glass doors. We go through the drill: account number (And do you have any special plans today? <i>Nope. Just work</i>), name on the account (How is traffic this morning? It's about that time isn't it? <i>Awful, as usual</i>), and do you have your bank card with you? (at which point I hand it over and the person makes a comment or five about how cute my dogs are because I have a picture of them in the bluebonnets on my card. Thinking about it, that one actually is my fault. I like looking at my dogs, but when you put a picture on your card, I think people expect that you want them to comment), AND THEN they ask for the check, which I have conveniently already signed but they never look first and always ask, "Can you sign this for me, please?"</div>
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Then they start typing information in. I'm not sure what, but it always feels like they're typing way more than just the amount of the check. Maybe they're commenting on my outfit for the day, or whether or not I am friendly. Who knows? And they always make conversation while they're typing. Sometimes it's more about my dogs, sometimes it's about whatever music or art festival happens to be going on in town. But it's always something. The whole process could take a matter of two minutes if they would stop trying to talk to me and just do their damned jobs, but I never say anything and just deal with it. I just stand there, silently panicking that I will run out of things to say, that maybe I am making too much eye contact and is this weird? Worrying about traffic piling up outside and maybe there's an accident and OH MY GOD what if I am LATE TO WORK????</div>
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When they finally get their novel typed into their stupid system, and they give me my receipt, they hit me with the last fucking punch that seriously makes me grit my teeth and clench my jaw. Padawan and I have a joint account, but we are not married. My name, actually, is the primary on the account. We have different last names and on all of my bank paperwork it has "Status: Single" checked. But when I am leaving, they say, "Thank you, and have a great day Mrs. *last name*. </div>
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Every.</div>
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Single.</div>
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Time. </div>
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Different employees, but <i>EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. </i></div>
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So this whole Direct Deposit thing is like the greatest thing ever in my book. </div>
Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-23704892885651800222016-08-14T21:33:00.000-05:002016-08-14T21:33:30.191-05:00And now...The Rest of the Story<div style="text-align: justify;">
Transferring locations was a huge deal for me.<br />
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The biggest part of it was the location: we'd just bought a house in Round Rock, which we chose because it was close to my doctor (yay!) and only six miles away from the store. The South location stands 25 miles away from our house. On a good morning, that's a 35 minute drive one way. On a GREAT morning, it's 25 minutes. On an average morning, 45 minutes. And then those terrible, awful days happen...and it's 1 hour and 15 minutes. By car.<br />
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By bus? A total commute time of 2 hours each way, so a 4 hour commute daily IF there were no complications.<br />
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It only took one month of driving me back and forth for Padawan to put his foot down: he was NOT taking me to work and picking me up five days a week. NO WAY. It only took me a week of taking the bus to decide I was getting my license. A week later, I had a permit. Two weeks later, I bought a car. Six weeks later, I got my driver's license. (Interesting note: car insurance companies do not actually care how long you have had your driver's license when they choose to insure you or charge you a rate. Turns out they only care about your age. I was 26, so I got full coverage auto insurance plus Gap Insurance for a bargain $87 a month from Progressive, while my then 24 year old sister was paying $322 a month for her full coverage insurance.)<br />
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It must be noted that I learned to drive on Mopac, one of the most awful and terrifying expressways known to man. Mopac and I have a very deep love/hate relationship. I love that Mopac drops me off practically on the doorstep of my job, but I hate her narrow lanes, construction, and all of the assholes that congest her lanes by driving too close and just completely disregarding the use of blinkers. It must also be noted that I refuse to drive on I-35, which would probably shorten my commute by ten miles. But I am an Austinite, and I grew up with the saying, "Stay alive, stay off 35." One day, that may have to change. But today, in the here and now, I have reached my limit. Mopac or bust.<br />
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Fitting into the new location was actually pretty simple. What my title became is anyone's guess: I was not a department manager because there was already a department manager, but I retained all of my authorities and even got a raise, and when the department manager wasn't around I assumed his duties and handled the problems.<br />
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About nine months after my arrival, though, there was a snag. As it turned out, I was doing great and the South store was extremely pleased to have me, but my sudden departure from the North store apparently caused something of a decline. I was called into the Vice President's office one day where I was asked, <i>asked </i>not ordered, if I would consider going back.<br />
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The Store Manager was <i>asking </i>me to come back.<br />
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I'm not going to lie. I wanted to just say "no" immediately and have done with it. I think they knew that was the way the wind would blow, too, which is why they asked me to "take a week, talk to Padawan, and see how you feel about it." It must also be mentioned that they said they knew about my "difficulties with management and some of the staff" and that "management was prepared to make it work" and "if you can't consider it because of a certain employee, you can make that call and we will fire him". (They were, of course, referring to the Game Show Host. It seems EVERYONE thought that people problems were why I chose to jump ship.)<br />
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Wow. I'm not going to lie. That last line super impressed me. And I realized, of course, that the ball was in my court. <i>They </i>needed this. They needed <i>me. </i>And even as I walked back downstairs, I knew that I was going to go home and make a list or pros and cons, and then a list of things that I needed to change if I was going to entertain the idea of going back. In the course of twenty minutes, I found myself wondering if I was going to go back.<br />
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I made two lists, of course. One list of pros and cons for each Store. Having worked at both locations, I now knew the good things and bad things about both. In the end, both lists turned out pretty much even. So I made a list of things that would need to be changed, and a week later I met with the VP and told him what I would need. He said I would have to work that out with the Store Manager, and so the Store Manager called me and we arranged to meet for coffee on my day off, outside of the store. (Because nobody could know about this, obviously. We didn't want to upset anyone South or excite anyone North until we knew which way this would go.)<br />
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Anyone who knows me will not be surprised by the way the meeting went. First of all, I was ten minutes early. He was six minutes late. (I knew he would be late, he always is, so I ordered myself a coffee and a danish to occupy my time.) And I did not make it easy for him. After he got his coffee and sat down and we went through the obligatory "how are you?" and so on, I started made my first comment. "Well, this is pretty awkward, isn't it?"<br />
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Because it was. Let's not mince words here: this man made me feel weird, alienated, and unwanted. It was no secret that I seriously disliked everything about him and that he made me so angry sometimes I wanted to pop him one. And yet here we were, playing <i>nice </i>as if a year ago had never happened.<br />
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"Why is it awkward?"<br />
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I mean, he really opened himself up for what he got next. "Well, a year ago you called me into your office and you said, and I quote, I'm a bad teammate, I'm unpleasant to be around, I make everyone uncomfortable, and if I was fired I would never be able to find another job. I mean, if you believed all of those things, then why the hell are we here?"<br />
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He, of course, said he couldn't remember the conversation. <i>Of course he couldn't. </i>That was <i>exactly </i>what I expected him to say<i>. Except </i>he added that it sounded like something he would say when he was pissed off, and had we been arguing? Well, yes, we had. Two days prior to the conversation, actually. Which brought me to the next point, "You also said, in that same conversation, that if you say 'jump', my only response should ever be 'how high?' and that you expected me to just be quiet and do as I'm told. I can't work in an environment like that."<br />
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And that, of course, brought about a response that I was <i>not </i>prepared to hear. "Well, I don't remember saying those things, but they all sound like things I would say, and so I am sorry about that. I say things I don't mean when I get angry, and then I forget them. I didn't mean them."<br />
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Well, aren't you just lucky to have the luxury of saying terrible things and then forgetting them entirely. I, unfortunately, do not have the luxury of hearing terrible things and forgetting them. But I do have the common sense to know a genuine apology when I hear one. I accepted his apology and then we moved on to my terms.<br />
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He was more than willing to give me every concession I asked for, bar none.<br />
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It seemed we were in agreement, and I was not opposed to returning. I wasn't opposed to staying either, which is exactly what I told the VP the next day at work. "I just want to do whatever is best for the company."<br />
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But then they talked to my department manager who raised enough of an outcry that they decided to scrap the whole idea and leave the North location to deal with their own problems without me, and I was content with the idea that I was a valuable commodity that was wanted everywhere. It's not a bad feeling to have.<br />
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Come April, there was suddenly a new position available. Or rather, created within the company. It came with an impressive title (just in time for my high school reunion), a nifty pay raise, a desk of my very own, <i>upstairs </i>and away from the sales floor, with Monday-Friday hours on my terms, options for vacation at Christmas, Spring Break, and over the summer, and, as silly as this sounds, the best part was that my lunch time became completely independent of everyone else's. I could literally have lunch WHENEVER I WANTED and not have to wait for someone else or ask when everyone else was planning to go. (Yes, the idea of lunch on my own terms was listed prominently in the Pros column of my list.)<br />
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Four months later, Artist (who works the counter and was my counterpart in all things creative and fun) is finally coming around and isn't so mad at me for leaving her anymore. (When a rumor got around that I was considering returning to the North store she point blank told me that she felt like the balance of personalities in the department was perfect and I would totally fuck it all up again if I left.) Although, she still laments the fact that Rivers (my replacement) is not a woman. He also doesn't know a lot of movies so he never gets any of her obscure movie references. We are currently trying to teach him the art of punning. As Lumberjack has so succinctly put it, "It's like trying to teach Data from Star Trek how to tell jokes. It's hilarious."<br />
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In all honesty, sometimes I miss the camaraderie of working the counter, so I stop in about fifteen minutes a day to tell some jokes and let Artist tease me about whatever personality quirk of mine she finds the most baffling that day. (She loves to tell me I'm bananas. I think that's like a common saying up North. Like someone is bananas rather than saying batshit crazy.)<br />
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But I'm very pleased with my new position and all that it brings. (Except the deposit. That wasn't part of my job description. It was dumped on me a month into my promotion, and it is awful.) Turns out I was right (as is often the case), and making the change was a good thing. </div>
Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-14000552566964619642016-08-13T14:12:00.002-05:002016-08-13T14:12:34.103-05:00Making a Comeback<div style="text-align: justify;">
So here it is. I have decided that I really do, at this point, need to come back to Blogger, if only because I need something to save my sanity. This blog was a way to express myself and work out my frustrations. Also, it gave me a chance to embrace my inner crazy that, frankly, is often regarded with horror, irritation, and disbelief in the reality that is my life.</div>
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Let's just catch up for a second. </div>
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Last year, just a couple of months after Relly had her baby (who is now eighteen months old and a genuine little terror running around), I made the difficult but long overdue decision to transfer from our North Austin location (where I had worked for 7 1/2 years, climbing the ladder from receptionist to counter staff to management) to our South Austin location.</div>
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A lot of people think my decision to move was based on my relationship with the new store manager, who had been appointed to the position about nine months prior. Our working relationship was barely functional at its best, but mostly I left every conversation with him wanting to slap him across the face. Mostly I think I made him feel stupid. I like structure, and I have expectations. One time he literally told me to stop working so hard because I literally made everybody else uncomfortable when there was down time and I insisted on doing the things that needed to be done. </div>
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Yes. I worked <i>so hard </i>that it made people uncomfortable. By uncomfortable, of course, he meant guilty. I made everybody else feel guilty because I actually wanted to do the job I was being paid to do. And, quite frankly, my work ethic never bothered anybody until he became the store manager. Now, his style may work in a "everybody has a good time all day" sort of way, except that when it gets to crunch time, they find themselves annoyed, stressed, and hampered by the fact that things don't run smoothly when everybody plays and nobody works because nothing gets done. </div>
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A lot of other people think I decided to leave because a part time staffer that was hired (with my approval, I admit, but then you never really know how somebody will work until you actually hire them) turned out bad, and our working relationship actually wound up worse than the one with the store manager. This employee was a former barista and car salesman who had the personality of a game show host and the work ethic of a twelve year old princess who never cleaned up after herself in her life. He wanted all of the glory (and commission) of selling products, but wanted nothing to do with actually stocking or maintaining anything. When he became a full time staff member, I nearly died.</div>
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I do admit that I was concerned if I stayed any longer I was going to wind up in prison for attempted murder by tuba. Which of those two men would be my victim changed from day to day. Sometimes I thought I would snap and it would just be a double homicide. I started thinking if I just shoved them both into tubas, the world would be a better place. </div>
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When I received the (quiet, under the table) offer to transfer locations, I did <i>not </i>jump at the opportunity. In fact, I took a week to decide. I made my list of pros and cons (I have used this list for every major decision in my life). I didn't tell anybody about the offer, didn't ask for any opinions. What I wanted was to decide if I really wanted a transfer, or if 7 1/2 years at the same job was my limit and maybe I was ready to leave.</div>
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I decided after two days I wasn't ready to leave. I love the company. I love being such a great, strong part of the community. I love working for a family company. I love music. I love sharing music and being part of creating the next generation of budding musicians. I love that I feel like I'm changing lives. Leaving was, ultimately, not an option.</div>
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The reason I chose to leave, contrary to popular belief, was strictly strategic. I had climbed as high as I was going to at my current job. The new store manager was never going to let me go any higher, he made it very plain to me that he didn't want me there (he threw around words like <i>bad teammate </i>and <i>you'll never be able to get another job if I fire you </i>in our last meeting, not that it worked because he literally has no authority to fire anyone) and I wasn't satisfied as a department manager. I wanted, ultimately, not to be in a sales position at all. <i>I hate working at a counter. </i>At the South location, all of the owners have offices. All of the highest company positions are at that location. Ultimately, I wanted to have opportunity to climb the ladder again, and I knew the best chance for advancement was to be right where they could see me. </div>
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So I decided to transfer. Leaving behind two of the biggest tool bags I've ever had the displeasure of knowing was simply a perk. </div>
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And, as it often turns out, I was right. But that's a story for another day. </div>
Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-40634466560080305382015-02-24T17:37:00.002-06:002015-02-24T17:37:55.731-06:00BabiesMy sister had her baby.<br />
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God help us all, he burps just as loud as she does, and he's only two weeks old. Shrek aspires to his potential.<br />
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Being with my sister in the hospital was...probably the scariest thing I've ever seen in my life, to be perfectly honest. Before she received her epidural, she was like the girl in the freaking Exorcist. No joke, she was <i>nuts </i>and absolutely <i>terrifying </i>and, given the choice between being there and having a tooth pulled at the dentist, I think I'll take the dentist.<br />
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I have held the baby, but only when he is wearing mittens. (I once held a baby as a child that stuck his finger up my nose and scratched me so bad that I bled. Quite a lot, actually. The blood ruined my nightgown and my Beanie Baby horse and I was screaming so loud my mother heard it all the way at the pool with her friends and came back to investigate.) I have only recently learned, however, that babies have mittens, not to protect the people holding them, to protect the babies from scratching <i>themselves. </i><br />
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I have established a set of rules, of course, to keep people from becoming confused.<br />
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I do not burp the baby.<br />I do not check the baby's diaper.<br />
I certainly will <i>never </i>change the baby's diaper.<br />
I will not hold a crying baby.<br />
I will not change the clothes on the baby.<br />
I will not hold the baby if he is gassy.<br />
I WILL sing "Do You Want to Build a Snowman?" to him if he is fussy, but not if he is already screaming. (Works like a charm, by the way. Calms him right down if I sing it before he hits his stride.)<br />
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Penny has her own rules for the baby.<br />
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Penny must kiss the baby every time he moves.<br />
Penny must investigate anyone who wishes to approach the baby.<br />
Penny must investigate whoever is holding the baby when he cries.<br />
Penny must sit beside the baby at all times.<br />
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Choo Choo....<br />
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Well, she only has one rule, and it encompasses everything.<br />
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Choo Choo owns the baby.<br />
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And then there is Ripley, who has no rules for the baby because Ripley gets too excited around the baby and jumps around and tries to lick him on the face and scares people with his puppy exuberance because, let's not forget, Ripley just turned two years old. So Ripley isn't allowed around the baby until the baby is not so small and breakable. Or he learns how to be around children. (And let's face it: he's not going to get the opportunity to learn how to interact with children from Matthew and me.)<br />
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I also suspect that motherhood makes women lose their minds.<br />
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I was holding him today, and I thought something felt wet, so I said I thought he needed to be changed. My sister <i>sniffed his butt. </i><br />
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That's the most disgusting thing I've ever seen. <i>Dogs </i>sniff each each other's butts. It's disgusting to see people do that. Especially to determine if a diaper needs to be changed or not. It's also crazy, and not something I will ever do, thank you very much.<br />
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Of course, <i>motherhood </i>is crazy, and not something I will ever do, thank you very much.<br />
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But I would like another dog. Or a goat.Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-61098998919599324162015-01-16T23:10:00.003-06:002015-01-16T23:10:55.476-06:00Sometimes there aren't enough words. <div style="text-align: justify;">
I know it's my own fault, really. I disappeared, dropped off the face of the planet, ran off to do busy, important management things that consumed all of my time and energy and didn't teach me a single damned useful thing. It makes sense that the rest of you moved on with your lives, left the blogosphere behind as you became entrenched in your own lives. It is extremely selfish that I came back so suddenly after...what, a year?...to find that most of you had gone. </div>
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I was part of a blogging circle that was a very good part of me, and the loss of that circle is very hard for me. Yes, I took it for granted that you would all still be here, and that was sill of me. It's my fault, I know that. I own up to my mistake.</div>
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But I sure wish you guys would come back.</div>
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A couple of you stayed. I'll just go ahead and pretend that you did because you love me and knew I'd be back some day. I'm a little narcissistic these days, so let me go on believing it, Candice. I just wish I could talk to all of you because when I make my big announcement...</div>
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Well, let's just say it would have shocked some of you.</div>
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And don't go thinking I'm pregnant. </div>
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I am not having children. </div>
Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-31031588199991195422015-01-15T18:12:00.001-06:002015-01-15T18:12:20.267-06:00I am going back to school. Hello, all!<br />
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I wonder how many of you are still on here?<br />
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I have about two years' worth of blogs to catch up on. I have become lazy! So lazy!<br />
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Actually, not lazy. Just busy beyond all reasonable belief.<br />
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The big news of the day is: I am going back to school. Like this semester. As in, just a couple of days away at this point. For what? Why, to get a degree in....English!<br />
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Why English?<br />
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Well, why not English?<br />
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All jokes aside, I love English. I love reading and writing, and I thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be great if I could spend the rest of my life reading and get paid for it? I wish there was a job like that."<br />
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And then...<br />
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BAM.<br />
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It hit me like a Krispy Kreme truck full of Original Glaze Donuts. (Doughnuts?)<br />
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<i>Editors get paid to read all day. </i>In fact, they get paid to <i>correct people and tell them what they are doing wrong!</i><br />
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Now, if ever there was a job for me, it's one in which I get to do a lot of reading <i>and </i>constructive criticizing!<br />
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The thing is, I've been doing this for years <i>for free. </i>I have friends who have me edit their papers, even Padawan and my older sister have used my help (and received A grade papers for my trouble). I even recently edited the scripting for a comic book a friend is creating. I mean, I could probably advertise my skills on Facebook just to edit papers, websites, and other things and make some extra money. People are incredibly lazy, and if I charged something like five dollars a paper, I think I'd do OK.<br />
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And since we now have a house of very own, I have an office where I would have plenty of space, peace, and quiet to work!<br />
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Oh, did I forget that part?<br />
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Padawan and I bought a house. With a big back yard and a huge oak tree in the front yard and not an ugly patch of carpet in sight!<br />
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We also got...Ripley. Who is Ripley?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTno_Q2kK0Wfx-AYOLOkhrLplqmza_QjMoNp7UFz1ZRII-7MPndqSeNEEdjJyKXAaerBhRdOUmQu0mz928xupBWwAE96RiomvcHMlq9wH-F-7noyYGBYXy1epP3DzUoJjsdnhSk8EOtMOW/s1600/Chanel+and+Ripley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTno_Q2kK0Wfx-AYOLOkhrLplqmza_QjMoNp7UFz1ZRII-7MPndqSeNEEdjJyKXAaerBhRdOUmQu0mz928xupBWwAE96RiomvcHMlq9wH-F-7noyYGBYXy1epP3DzUoJjsdnhSk8EOtMOW/s1600/Chanel+and+Ripley.jpg" height="640" width="425" /></a></div>
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THAT is Ripley. We rescued him from Austin Boxer Rescue on August 31st. Actually, we signed all of the paperwork and paid everything and fell in love with him on August 30th, but we picked him up from his foster home on the 31st. He was my 26th birthday present from Padawan. </div>
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He had Cherry Eye, which is why his eye was red in this picture. It has been removed (courtesy of ABR) and his eyes are big and brown and pain free now. </div>
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I also cut off all of my hair, as you might have noticed in this picture.<br />
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So that's a lot of news. In the last year I have: cut and changed my hair, bought a house, decided to go back to school, started studying for my driver's license, bought a house, rescued a dog....and...<br />
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Well, the last piece of news is not news yet. But it's also big and exciting. I just can't talk about it yet.<br />
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So, this is all for now, but I SINCERELY hope that I will be able to keep this blog up once again.<br />
<br />Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-21563630463801007632013-08-11T16:32:00.000-05:002013-08-11T16:32:14.957-05:00Management <div style="text-align: justify;">
I'm really not sure how I feel about the whole <i>official management </i>thing.</div>
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Did I ever tell you guys how that came about?</div>
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The BD Manager position became available suddenly this summer, and after being turned down for SMD Manager a year and a half ago, I was a little hesitant to try for this one. Last time I wasn't even granted an interview: they just promoted someone else and told me "I didn't have any experience as a manager." And that frustrated me. </div>
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You guys know I've been with my employer since I was nineteen years old. If their excuse was always going to be I have no management experience, how was I going to get experience there? </div>
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But when this position came up, I really wanted it. Sure, it would be sad to leave North before the expansion, but there was nowhere to <i>go </i>North. There's the Manager, and then there's the Assistant Manager, and that's it. Now, I get well compensated for making calls in Sheet Music, an override just the same as any department manager makes. But I had no authority behind the pay: just the compensation. This was different, though. I practically ran Band up North anyway. There are only a couple of aspects of my job that differed from the BD Manager at the South location.</div>
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This time, I called R and said I was interested and what did I need to do?</div>
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What surprised me was the answer I got. "Oh, I'm glad you called. We've already thrown your name around a couple of times. I couldn't find your resume on file. Do you guys have that on file up North?"</div>
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I had to explain that I didn't have one, that I literally came in with a friend and filled out an application and got the job on personal recommendation without any real kind of interview. I had never made one before, and I would have to make one.</div>
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She sent me her personal one so I could see what they were supposed to look like, and told me, "Just fax it up to me or e-mail it to me when you get it done, and then we'll set up an interview." </div>
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An interview. A real, honest to God interview. That scared the living hell out of me. I stressed about it the entire week before the day, and I actually went out and bought an outfit (to Padawan's everlasting amusement) because I felt like if I was going in for an interview, they'd probably take me more seriously if I wasn't wearing jeans and a Star Wars t-shirt. Then I made Padawan work with me on practice interviews where he asked me a bunch of common interview questions, so I would be prepared.</div>
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Bit of a wasted effort, really. R and C conducted my interview, and they only asked me one of the questions Padawan had, and it was the ONE question I was really hoping they wouldn't ask. My job before I came here, and why I left.</div>
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*sigh* Padawan <i>told me </i>not to answer it for them the way I'd answered it for him. But you know what? I couldn't help myself. When C asked, "So why did you leave?" I said, without missing a beat, "Because it was <i>Wal-Mart.</i>"</div>
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And I got the exact reaction I was hoping for: they both laughed. </div>
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And then I added how the management wasn't...to my taste. I tried to be diplomatic. I probably failed.</div>
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Mostly, though, they asked me management questions. How would I handle an employee I didn't personally like but had to work with? How would I handle older employees who resented my youth and inexperience? What would I do if I was told to do something by someone over my head that I didn't agree with?</div>
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And honestly, that was the one answer I gave that worried me.</div>
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It's one of my biggest personality flaws: if someone tells me to do something that I think is just flat out wrong or stupid, I fight it. I've been that way since I was a little girl, and I wasn't sure how I should answer the question. I have <i>never </i>been a "Yes" person. </div>
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So I stalled for time. I said, "Let me make sure I understand the question. In this scenario, you would have told me to do something in a way I did not agree with, and you want to know what I would do?"</div>
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"Yes."</div>
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Part of me thought I should lie. But I figured they probably knew me well enough at that point to know if I was telling them what I thought they wanted to hear. </div>
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So I told them the truth. "If I really was against it, the first thing I would do is ask, respectfully, why it had to be done. Perhaps if you explained it to me so I could see it from your perspective, I would be able to agree with your decision and follow through." That sounded diplomatic, but they didn't let me end it there.</div>
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"And if you still didn't like the idea?"</div>
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Well, there was no way around that one. "If I still didn't agree, I would try to offer an alternative. It's useless to just point out why something wouldn't work if you aren't going to offer a solution."</div>
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"And if we didn't like your solution?"</div>
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"Well, if after all of that you guys still wanted me to do it your way, I guess I'd have to do it because you're the boss. However, if we did it your way and it didn't work out, I'd offer another alternative." </div>
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The rest of the interview went pretty well. They asked me, at the end, if I had any questions. And that was the question Matt told me I should be prepared for. And, oh yes, I had a question.</div>
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The concern that had prevented a promotion last time: experience.</div>
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"I know that you had expressed concern in the past about my lack of experience as a manager. I was wondering if anything in our discussion had failed to relax those fears? I realize that I still have no experience, but I've been here since I was a kid. Is that still a major problem?"</div>
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They said no, that my interview and my resume had everything they needed.</div>
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And then they were like, "Okay, the interview is over. Now I just want to ask you some questions to get to know you better." Which kind of freaked me out. Was this is a test? A trap? A trick?</div>
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But it was just a normal conversation, and then we talked about some problems we were having at the North store and normal things. They did ask about my pet peeves, which made me nervous because that sounded like something an interviewer would ask. I gave a little spiel about how tardiness really annoys me. </div>
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I only had to wait a couple of days for my answer. Friday, both C and R walked into the store.</div>
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C is very rarely up North, and when he said that he and R were there to talk to <i>me</i>, I was immediately horrified. I couldn't decide: is this a good thing, or a bad thing, that he came all the way up to talk to me? It was obviously a <i>huge </i>thing. </div>
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They took me into Manager Man's office and closed the door. I wondered if they could hear my heart racing or if was just my imagination that it was thumping louder than a bass?</div>
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Didn't matter.</div>
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R started, "So, we both came up here today because what we have to say is very important. We're changing a lot of things, and we both needed to be here for it. I should start off by saying that we went with someone else for the BD Manager position South."</div>
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Well, my stomach kind of dropped a little. I had kind of expected that, but it was still disappointing.</div>
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"But, that doesn't mean you're not getting promoted."</div>
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I was confused. There was no other promotion available that I was qualified for: sure, my resume mentioned my experience in Guitars, but it was LIMITED. Where was this going?</div>
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"Chanel, we see how hard you work, how good you are, and how willing and able you are to change things when it doesn't work. We were going to give it to you, but then we had someone pop up with almost all of your experience who had managed a large music store before. He was just so qualified we couldn't afford to lose him, but we don't want to hold you back because you've been here since you were so young. Obviously, we're not going to hold you back because you've always been with us."</div>
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C broke in there. "You <i>rocked </i>your interview. I mean, I learned more about you in that hour than I ever knew about you before. I took a class on interviewing, and it was like you <i>taught </i>the class: you did everything exactly right. I hadn't expected that, given the circumstances of how you were originally hired. I was impressed."</div>
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"Well, I'm relieved to hear that much, at least! I was worried about my interview. I've never had a real one before, so that was a new experience for me."</div>
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R said, "Well, your interview gave us a lot to think about. So, we're here today to tell you that we want to invest in your future with the company. So, you're not the Manager, but we've made a position for you. You're going to be the Assistant Manager of BD, and you'll stay North. You'll run the North store BD, and he'll run South. The two of you will work together, and you'll be learning from each other as we go. Obviously, he's got experience you don't, but you know a lot of things that he doesn't. Once a month, you and I are going to meet for lunch to discuss any concerns you might have, things that you've seen. You'll be assigned a book to read, because there are some things you need to learn that you haven't yet."</div>
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Well, this was just sounding better and better. Substantial raise (hell yeah!), actual authority.</div>
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C started talking, "Now, this position has never existed before. We've created this position <i>for you.</i> If you decide to leave the company, or if you get promoted up to another position, this one will never be filled. This is strictly so you have the opportunities you need to learn what you don't already know. That way if this, or any position like it, becomes available we can immediately move you into it and you'll have all the tools you need for success. If we had put you in the position you wanted now, I think you would have quit in six months. It's a stressful job, and some things you need to know before you get put in the situation. This way, you'll be eased into some of the harder things about management. This will also get your foot in the door: if ever you decide to leave the company, you will have this title on your resume and a stellar recommendation from the two of us personally so that you won't be held back anywhere, should you choose to leave us."</div>
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I'm honestly very touched that, to give me a chance, they made a position for me.</div>
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But that very thing is EXACTLY the source of a lot of stress for me.</div>
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It's a running joke North. We all watch the Office, and everybody thinks the same. Assistant to the Regional Manager= Assistant TO the Band Manager. </div>
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South, they all take me seriously. I got congratulations and people ask me questions and defer to my opinion.</div>
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North, they laugh at me. Argue with me. Before, if I wanted something done the people in my department would snap to it. As soon as they gave me that title, I started getting argument instead of action. I thought that once Tuba left, it would get better.</div>
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But it hasn't.</div>
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In fact, it's been so busy (it's our busy season in BD) that we don't have enough time in the day to go through our deliveries. Stuff is just piling on the counters, unreceived, because we just don't have time. It's back to back customers for all of us: if we get five minutes, it's just enough time to START on something, but never time to finish it. And one day in particular, it was so bad that none of us stopped for two hours. And then we <i>finally </i>had a lull, and I immediately started working on the things piled up. I can't stand clutter and mess, it's in my way and it makes it hard to do my job. Three of us could conquer it all in half an hour if we tried.</div>
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But I suddenly realized that my two...employees? subordinates? what do you call them?...had left the counter area. I figured they'd be back in a minute or two, so I kept going. And then I heard one of them saying, "She's playing the guitar on the other side, and it sounded so funny." She was talking about the other girl, and she was telling the receptionist.</div>
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I had been working just as long as them with just as many customers, and I was working by myself now while one played on a guitar and the other just talked?</div>
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No.</div>
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I said, "Hey, can you pull Two over here so you guys can help me with this stuff? It can't just sit here."</div>
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And it would have been fine. D immediately put down her drink and went to go get Two. But then Jazz, the receptionist, spoke up. "Oh my god. Just give her a minute!"</div>
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And it wasn't the words. It was the tone that pissed me off.</div>
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Because, for God's sake, I had been working non stop just as long and I was still trying to accomplish something! I wasn't asking anymore of the girls than I was planning to do myself. And since I'm the fucking head of the department, when I say you have to do your damn job, you have to do it! There is no arguing, and you certainly don't need to use <i>that tone. </i></div>
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<i>And am I no longer human</i>? I mean, <i>I'd </i>like a fucking minute to myself, too! </div>
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The thing is, my authority is limited. I am responsible for discipline in my department, and Reception is not my domain. So she, like everyone else, just kind of mocks my position. She feels free to argue because I can't do anything to her about it. </div>
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It had already been a stressful day: it took every ounce of self control not to tell her off.</div>
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I'm seriously going to have to talk about this ongoing problem that I am having with <i>back talk. </i>Because it's happened a couple of times when I tell D and Two to do something, and Jazz just butts in and argues with me about it. I'm not telling <i>her </i>to do it, but she sits there and argues with me anyway. And it's always in the same tone, which I would find offensive if she used it on me outside of work if we were just hanging out! And when <i>she </i>argues, then the other two start to argue.</div>
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B Money says that it's because nobody respects a position that was made up, and that I should just accept the fact that I'm not any kind of manager and just enjoy the raise. I want to talk to Jay Jay about it, but I don't know how. </div>
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At this point I'm thinking maybe I should resign the raise and the position and go back to what I was before. </div>
Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-48082725465938027082013-07-17T22:44:00.001-05:002013-07-17T22:44:13.665-05:00To Senior: You are not the man you think you are. <div style="text-align: justify;">
Fun facts about Chanel:</div>
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1. I can and <i>will </i>hold a grudge when I feel I have been wronged.</div>
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2. I am not a pliable or easily controlled human being: not at 17 and certainly not at 25.</div>
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3. I am not inclined to be forgiving when I am repeatedly egged on in the same manner.</div>
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4. I dislike being called <i>stuck up </i>more than any other insult. It makes me want to scratch out your eyes when you say it.</div>
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5. I do not like people, even sisters who supposedly mean well, sticking their broken, crooked noses in my business. </div>
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6. I have, according to my coworkers, the patience of a fucking saint, but I do have a breaking point.</div>
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7. If you want my love and forgiveness, repeatedly calling me <i>stuck up </i>is not going to get you there: it take you the opposite way.</div>
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8. I do not consider sharing blood a reason for unconditional love: you may be a relative, but if you are a bad person, I will not love you. And nothing you say or do can prevail upon me to love you.</div>
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I consider myself a reasonable person. I consider myself an honest person. But most of all, I consider myself a human being, and as a human being I do not let anyone, man or woman or beast, walk all over me. I have pride and a sense of self worth that comes from who I am, where I came from, and who I mean to be.</div>
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You can sit there and insult me till kingdom come. You can tell me that I will wind up alone and unloved and abandoned, you can tell me that I am cold and selfish. You can say whatever the hell you want, but it will not change who I am or what I want.</div>
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You can say I am worthless as a woman, that's fine.</div>
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But you will <i>never</i> know all the things that I have done, all the things that I have seen. You will never know all that I have been. You will never know all I mean to be. And you can say those things and think you are saying something important, that your words carry weight, but they slide right by me because I mean to be so much more than what you think of me, and your words don't change that. </div>
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<i>My name is Chanel, and I am myself. I love and accept myself for who I am.</i></div>
Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-7552002000797382132013-07-14T21:40:00.002-05:002013-07-14T21:40:20.546-05:00Writing Books<div style="text-align: justify;">
Do you ever wonder how on earth people manage to write an entire book?</div>
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I do.</div>
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I can't see how they don't just get bored and give up. It happens to me. Every time I sit down and try to write something, I get maybe eight chapters in and then...it just dies. I die off even sooner if I go back and read what I've written. Anything I write after that point seems forced and doesn't flow the same way. If I keep going then eventually I just...get tired.</div>
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It's not like I don't plan where it's all going. I map everything out so that if I get lost or forget something, I can check my thought web and get right back to where I was supposed to be. But even with the best and most awesome thought web of all time (it was pretty freakin' epic, let me tell you) I only got twelve chapters in, and then the will to write it just left.</div>
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I do that. I will suddenly have an intense desire to <i>tell a story, </i>and I will go with it for weeks and weeks and weeks...</div>
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And then I will wake up one morning, sit down, and I won't have a damn thing to write. </div>
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I'm not a writing machine or anything. Even during my "productive phases" I change things and delete and rewrite. On a good day, I'd get half a page done. On a GREAT day I'd get half a chapter. There was one day in particular I wrote a whole chapter from start to finish in three hours, and I felt like it was the best chapter in the history of the world! I never went back and changed that particular chapter. To this day, I still think it is absolutely perfect.</div>
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On my worst days, I sometimes only get one or two sentences that I keep, and the rest gets deleted. </div>
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That's another reason not to go back and reread the whole thing. You tend to change things and then you lose what you were trying to do and then the web doesn't matter anymore and you're left with one big forced story that you hate.</div>
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Except for the one chapter that is still the most awesome chapter ever written. </div>
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My sister suggested maybe I should try writing historical fiction. She thinks I'd be great at that since I spend a lot of my time reading the genre, and then complaining that the author didn't get something right, or in some cases, failed to capture the subject of the story correctly. (I have <i>never </i>read a story about Anne Boleyn that didn't annoy the living hell out of me at one point or another.)</div>
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The problem with that is you can't just write a historical fiction. Even if you choose a subject you know all about and you can just go with it, you can't write it like that. You have to give credits and whatnot. And if you pick a subject you've been obsessed with for your whole life, how are you supposed to remember where you read every single fact you've accumulated over the years? Historical fiction means research, lots of research, even if you already know everything you intend to put in your story. That, to me, means all the fun of just writing gets sucked out of it. </div>
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And if it's not fun, what's the point? </div>
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I have kept every single story I've ever started on my computer. And sometimes, when I'm out of books to read and don't feel like rereading any that I own, I go back and I read them. There are a couple that I read that I just get pissed off at myself for not finishing. It <i>annoys me </i>that I can't finish the story because I never finished the story! But I can't just pick up and start working on it again. Like I said, it never works out. It feels forced. </div>
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So, I know some of you have actually written your own books. I want you to tell me...<i>how do you do it? </i> </div>
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And something else important...<i>Is this just me?</i></div>
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Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-41182339528877900382013-07-08T22:51:00.000-05:002013-07-08T22:51:02.823-05:00No More Books: I am sad. What's it been? Four months or so?<div>
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Bah. Who remembers these things anyway.</div>
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I know I've been a bad blogger. Bad reader, bad writer. Just bad all around. I have no excuses, really, except that I am busy. Which I realize we are all busy, but after working all day and coming home...I kind of just like vegging in bed with a book. Or watching old episodes of the Tudors just so I can wait for Duke Phillip of Bavaria to make his appearance. (Helloooooo, Captain Hook!)</div>
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Sometimes I like to relax by refusing to let Padawan play his video games. (Usually by sitting on his lap and wrapping my arms around his neck so he can't see the screen and then refusing to budge.)</div>
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But mostly I just like my books. Good old friends that I like to visit over and over again. Sometimes I buy new books, of course, but we're really trying not to buy new things because our tiny one bedroom apartment is getting awfully cramped with two full grown humans and two dogs with big personalities. Our bookshelves are overflowing as it is and we have no space for more, so we're really trying <i>not to buy new books. </i></div>
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Honestly, Padawan is better at this than I am. He is all about the public library and being able to digitally check out books on his Kindle, read them, and then get another one, all within the comfort of our own (tiny) home. I am not good at this. I don't like borrowing books. I like <i>owning </i>books and then rereading them over and over and over again. (I've read Gone with the Wind so many times I have entire portions memorized verbatim.) And Padawan likes to read his books once: read it once, and never again. My God, if I want to watch a movie we've seen in the last eighteen months he says "But we watched that recently!" </div>
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Here is the downside to a library: you find a book, you read it, and then <i>you have to give it back. </i>Well, if I've read the whole thing, that means I loved it. (As I love most books. I have only three books in my entire life I did not finish reading: some version of Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest, The Fellowship of the Ring, and Passage to India, although that wasn't a personal dislike for the writing but rather <i>what happened </i>in the story.) When I love a book, I want to read it again. I like to own it so I can read it again at any time. You never know when the mood will strike to relive a particular character's life. </div>
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So I don't like giving books back. </div>
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As for digital rentals...well, I like my Kindle only when I need books to travel with me. It's not exactly logical to go Zilker Park for a picnic and a swim with <i>Gone with the Wind </i>in my bag. It's a huge book! But I certainly don't want to use my Kindle at home! No, I like the feel and smell of the traditional book. I like turning the pages, using a book mark, (God forgive you if I catch you dog earring my pages, for I never will!) feeling the weight of the words in my hands! A Kindle is no replacement for a good old fashioned book. It's just not.</div>
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So while Padawan is all about the new, I am firmly passionate about the old. In fact, you could say I'm a little neurotic about libraries and Kindles and renting books. Don't get me wrong, I love Rosebud. But she's not my book. She's just capable of holding all of my favorite books. It is <i>not </i>the same thing at all.</div>
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What I like to do is go to the book store (these days it's Half Price Books...do those exist outside of Austin?) and go to my favorite sections. Sometimes I'll look for specific authors, but generally I just read titles. When I find something that seems interesting, I take it out. I read the synopsis. If that proves interesting, I'll open the book and start reading.</div>
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If I am not hooked in the first paragraph, I put it back. There have been two instances in my life where I have continued reading past the first paragraph even though it was not interesting to me, and both times I wound up abandoning the book. Those were the Robin Hood book and <i>The Fellowship of the Ring. </i>Now, I really <i>tried </i>with both of those books. With <i>The Fellowship </i>I even made it to the last chapter. And then I just gave up, because reading it was torture. No offense to Tolkien, but if he is as dry when he speaks as he is when he writes, people must fall asleep listening to him! </div>
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And when I go to the store I generally find two or three new books to come home with me, and I read them all that week...and then a couple of months later I'll probably read them again. And again....</div>
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And again.</div>
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Because I do not read it once and then have done with it. </div>
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If you've ever seen the movie Toy Story, you can understand where I am coming from: books <i>want and need </i>to be read. When you buy a book and read it once, you're hurting its feelings! You are denying it the pleasure of whisking you away to another time and place and world! </div>
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Which is exactly how we have so many books. I do not sell or donate them. I buy them, and I write my name in them, and I keep them forever and ever and ever. And so my collection grows, but my space doesn't.</div>
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So. Until we finish paying off the car (planning to do that at the end of this year: six thousand left!) and manage to save enough for a house, we're staying in a tiny apartment.</div>
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Therefore, I must resist the urge to by more books.</div>
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But damn it, it's like telling me not to buy shoes. I just want to buy them. </div>
Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-22207478150411827862013-02-24T00:35:00.003-06:002013-02-24T00:35:57.051-06:00 You tell me: Was I being selfish? I don't know how to start this so I guess for you to understand tonight I have to tell you about what happened like four months ago.<div>
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One night four months ago some coworkers talked me into going to a sports bar/ karaoke bar because one of those coworkers, we'll call him Voices because he's the man of a million voices, was hosting karaoke there that particular night. It was a Friday and it was also the night of the Presidential Election, so Padawan elected to stay home to watch the election (though it was playing at the bar on all of the TVs except one, which was showing a basketball game I think. Some kind of game.)</div>
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We aren't particularly sure what happened to set this all off, but long story short: one very large, very drunk Mexican dude took a strong dislike to my friend Dee's boyfriend, Dayd. Now, I'm not entirely positive, but judging by this man's repeated use of the "N" word and the fact that Dayd had been in the bar for all of three minutes and hadn't spoken a word to anyone other than us when this whole thing started, I'm going to assume it was some sort of racially motivated hatred. Though how a Mexican man can be racist against an African American boy (I did not choose these terms lightly: the aggressor was clearly in his thirties and Dayd was 19 years old) in a city with lots of redneck white supremacists hanging around, I do not understand. </div>
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Threats were made, a knife came out (in self defense), threats of guns in cars...Jazz called the police because this man was threatening to kill Dayd.</div>
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Now, this was the first time I had agreed to go out to a social gathering that didn't take place in somebody's personal home in quite some time. I'm guessing it's been about a year since I agreed to have drinks and relax at a bar or restaurant with any friends. Because I am a socially awkward individual who is afraid of crowds, strange men, and casual human contact. </div>
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It's not that I hadn't been to that bar before. I'd been in there several times: lunch with a friend, drinks with coworkers, a couple of times with my sisters. I knew the bar. I'd never once felt unsafe in that bar.</div>
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But when this large, aggressive man came to our table after he'd tried to beat the hell out of Dayd in the parking lot and started screaming in mine and Jazz's face about keeping our little "n word" friend away or he would wind up dead, I was determined to get the hell out of there.</div>
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But that wasn't anything personal against the establishment: that was fear motivated by the fact that I am a hundred and fifteen pounds and this two hundred and fifty pound drunk guy was hulking around and threatening to kill our friend. </div>
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My personal problem with the bar came because the owner lied to the police when they arrived and said that the man (apparently a regular and a personal friend) hadn't had a drop to drink, was stone sober, and that we had been bothering him for several hours. Now, at that point Jazz and I had been there for a little over an hour, drunky had been there for several at least and he'd already been complained about by our friend hosting the karaoke before we even got there, and Dayd and Dee had been there for all of twenty minutes total by the time the police arrived. And our interaction had started about fifteen minuets beforehand. </div>
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And then, the real kicker, the part that really and truly pissed me off, was when the owner declared that Dayd was banned for life and that the police couldn't trust any of our testimony because we were all drunk and clearly on drugs.</div>
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Me.</div>
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On drugs.</div>
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And his supposedly sober friend who hadn't had a drink all night? He was handcuffed on the sidewalk and STILL trying to get loose so he could attack Dayd. They had to put Dayd in a car to protect him from this drunk psycho.</div>
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So I gave my testimony, and I emphasized the part where I did NOT appreciate being threatened and intimidated by someone who clearly had no idea how to behave in public.</div>
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Ever since that night, I have refused to return to the establishment. Not just me, of course. None of my coworkers have been back, or their friends or spouses.</div>
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My sisters are the only people who, after hearing what happened, insist on patronizing the bar. They repeatedly invited me out with them to this bar after the fact, and each time I patiently explained my reasons for not going. My sister's husband Peacock even apologized profusely on behalf of the owner, who is a personal friend of his, and said that he would set things right with the owner if I would just go with them. I have always refused.</div>
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And then, tonight Lydia and Mo Mo decide they want to celebrate their fifth anniversary by going to this bar to watch the first women's UFC fight. </div>
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<i>Of all the mother effing sports bars in this city of over 750,000 people, they choose to go to the ONE FREAKING BAR I have adamantly boycotted. </i></div>
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Never mind the fact that this is an imaginary anniversary because they haven't even been married three years yet (you guys remember: I posted a rant about their elopement and changed her pseudonym from Wheat to Lydia because she reminds me of the character from <i>Pride and Prejudice.</i>), but they all come out and say I'm being <i>selfish </i>for not going to celebrate with them.</div>
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<i>Selfish. </i></div>
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It's a fake <i>fucking </i>anniversary for one, and I have a very fucking good reason for not going, for two! </div>
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And yet they call me <i>selfish. </i></div>
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So I pulled on my shoes, put on a jacket, and I went. I walked through that door with a look on my face that clearly showed my disdain for the entire operation: location, company, and reason. It was crowded. It was noisy.</div>
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And Lydia and Relly were plastered by the time we got there.</div>
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And then Relly has the <i>audacity </i>to tell me she thinks I'm stuck up.</div>
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I am reserved.</div>
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But I am not stuck up.</div>
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And excuse me for saying so, but I think it's really selfish to HARASS me into going out to a place that scares the crap out of me, and then after I agree to go it's fucking RUDE to insult me once I get there.</div>
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And then she had the nerve to tip the waitress ten percent.</div>
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TEN PERCENT.</div>
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The food was right, the drinks were prompt, she came by every few minutes to clear things off and clean things up. </div>
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What did she do wrong?</div>
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"She didn't ask us how we were doing." Relly's opinion.</div>
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"Yeah, she doesn't deserve a tip at all. I was a cocktail waitress. I know." Wheat's opinion. Who, I would like to point out, was a cocktail waitress for two days on afternoon shifts at a gentleman's club. </div>
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I was conflicted. On the one hand, it really pisses me off that my sisters, who were raised to be better than this, were such rude, ungracious customers. On the other hand, I vowed after that whole fiasco on election night that I would never contribute any money to that establishment in the form of buying drinks or tipping employees. </div>
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If I hadn't seen the owner standing ten feet away while I was having this argument with my sister, I would have left her ten dollars of my own money for a tip.</div>
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So now I am annoyed with the entire situation, and I have told them point blank that next time they can find a different bar, or don't bother inviting me because I won't do it again.</div>
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I just won't. </div>
Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-3972051186383430022012-12-01T19:58:00.001-06:002012-12-01T19:58:37.892-06:00Credit reports suck balls.<div style="text-align: justify;">
In this day and age, I know it is absolutely stupid to not check up on your credit report at least once a year. You know, to make sure bad things aren't happening. </div>
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But I've never been that kind of girl.</div>
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I had a credit card once upon a time, when I was in college and they said, "It will help just to have it. You don't even need to use it." And I used it once or twice, paid it off at the beginning of the month like a good girl...and promptly forgot about it for a while. Then I moved out on my own, got an apartment with a roommate who frequently overspent and then needed to borrow money for rent. And that credit card came in handy, especially when Daddy offered to pay it off for me every month to help me.</div>
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But then, you know, I decided six months into THAT deal that I was a big girl with my own money and financially stable enough to pay my own bills. I asked him to stop paying it. And I forgot about it a couple of times, realized it and did what any sane eighteen year old girl would do. I paid off the balance and closed the card. Credit saved.</div>
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That's about all. </div>
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I mean, I've rented apartments, but I don't know if that actually goes on your credit or not. Does it? I don't think so. It's not like an account or anything.</div>
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So I've just gone through life with student loans (paying off slowly) and some medical (paying off even more slowly) on my credit, and a card that I once had but I closed myself.</div>
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I've never worried about my credit.</div>
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I wasn't interested in credit cards or the idea of loans and mortgages and other things, so I didn't check it.</div>
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But then I decided to do it. And low and behold, my credit score wasn't fabulous. It's not awful, but it certainly isn't in the range I thought it would be. Of course, according to my credit thing my biggest problem is that I have NO lines of credit open. </div>
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Following the advice of my financial nanny (AKA Padawan, who is frequently asking, "Do you really need to buy those shoes?" when we go out), I decided to apply for a credit card through my bank. And for some reason, I got declined.</div>
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Based on my credit score (I got it without getting a credit report), it should have been simple to get one through the bank that I have used for a few years. That I have a savings and checking account through. Why couldn't I get one?</div>
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So I got my credit report.</div>
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Um...in July of 2003 I got a car loan for ten thousand dollars? WHAT????</div>
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Let's do the math here. I'm twenty four years old. In July of 2003 I was fourteen years old! What the FUCK would I do with a car loan? Better yet, what fucking idiot would give a car loan to someone who's social security number said she was fourteen? I'm not entirely sure how it works, but I a pretty sure that my DOB is attached to any information on my SSN, so either some shady loan shark gave it out, or some idiot bank employee wasn't doing their job.</div>
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The crazy part is that I've never had a driver's license or owned a car on my own. It's ironic, really.</div>
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It can be pulled from my record, of course. Legally, I can't be held responsible for identity theft that occurred before I was eighteen and capable of taking care of my own legal affairs. The law, in this case, is on my side.</div>
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But that's going to take a while, and in the meantime I'm stuck with this crappy ass credit score with a few other things that aren't mine. I can't even get a credit card through my own bank until this is cleared up.</div>
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Here's my problem, though. I'm lucky enough to be able to get out of this because I'm clearly not at fault. But getting my credit UP with a score like that? If I was stuck like this, if it was something I had done myself, how the hell would I be able to improve my credit score? You can't get ANY credit open with a score like that...so how does it work? Once most people are in bad credit land...how do they get the chance to fix it? Will they be stuck forever with no hope of improving their situation in life because they made a few dumb choices when they were young? </div>
Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-50526380925230066772012-11-04T14:17:00.001-06:002012-11-04T14:17:20.797-06:00Halloween<div style="text-align: justify;">
So I thought I'd tell you guys about my Halloween.</div>
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First of all, I was off that day. Which on any other day would rock, but my job hosted its first EVER Halloween Costume Contest and a Halloween Party at work. And I've never won a Halloween Costume Contest before, and I wasn't about to pass up the opportunity. You know, because I just wanted to win. The fifty dollar visa gift card prize wasn't the point. I just wanted to win.</div>
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So I got ready that morning, picked up some chocolate and pumpkin cupcakes on the way, and breezed into work, in almost full costume, just after noon. I only needed to be there long enough for the voting, which was supposed to take place when I got there. But. You know. Musicians are incapable of doing anything on time. Ever. So I was there until four when the results of the vote finally came in.</div>
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My competition for the contest: One Dallas Cowbows Football Player, one Star Trek Uhura, one kitty cat, and one Jim Halpert as Facebook. And then there was me. The Black Widow.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZImldrDogb8ylabwA4yRhVhju0WRzKyGkeQGoy542jRr6pmzdDcZdcvH8oNSMhD-lE6iVj93rn00DKQcqq6CDH6K4ncLrxP3WDAsB077IT1fh9xY-afbI96Orpel8wFRBlRnAmQVY0CON/s1600/photo+(5).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZImldrDogb8ylabwA4yRhVhju0WRzKyGkeQGoy542jRr6pmzdDcZdcvH8oNSMhD-lE6iVj93rn00DKQcqq6CDH6K4ncLrxP3WDAsB077IT1fh9xY-afbI96Orpel8wFRBlRnAmQVY0CON/s400/photo+(5).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jim Halpert as Facebook, complete with Dunder Mifflin Paper Company Mug</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJADHRFAdZVdh3IAd-15BO7Jb1u4GuWbtl7zRIqZCcnru4WX_vrbXpr4pNKCeHZVoIxXsaLHKSojnc3Tr0HJ8WHC4nFrBLWmc4fS07HM6AEJZjkC_mLXHgNEu9amKcE3CG3X_gjf6l0iGR/s1600/uhura.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJADHRFAdZVdh3IAd-15BO7Jb1u4GuWbtl7zRIqZCcnru4WX_vrbXpr4pNKCeHZVoIxXsaLHKSojnc3Tr0HJ8WHC4nFrBLWmc4fS07HM6AEJZjkC_mLXHgNEu9amKcE3CG3X_gjf6l0iGR/s640/uhura.png" width="273" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Uhura, Communications Expert or something.</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Vb8bbQsAcRlTCDNfMYPvSP5Hn2Ki6Qt-NvyXTExscNl4rSBE0duE4fVs0O9X7_XXfkdyOC0OvRbgwjp6Bwc4lYkAnttJVLx-iQg8bOoMHpojcBmxPbrSfuPfn6nSQYRn6QovWzrsZ_6t/s1600/nancy+cat.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Vb8bbQsAcRlTCDNfMYPvSP5Hn2Ki6Qt-NvyXTExscNl4rSBE0duE4fVs0O9X7_XXfkdyOC0OvRbgwjp6Bwc4lYkAnttJVLx-iQg8bOoMHpojcBmxPbrSfuPfn6nSQYRn6QovWzrsZ_6t/s640/nancy+cat.png" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Cat with Cheetah Spots</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqheqxFieX5Ujt5zce3kCbrZEno9tjbWHLH1JHfOejnM8f9OciaGwfmBt96CusnEkqQH9wjqT7ZtpUhgsbO529_YqjKxZ-lJN9yFcteLR5ECkuvvGVYHTnkj7_iugaqTQWthrSeL9_WvEy/s1600/photo+(6).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqheqxFieX5Ujt5zce3kCbrZEno9tjbWHLH1JHfOejnM8f9OciaGwfmBt96CusnEkqQH9wjqT7ZtpUhgsbO529_YqjKxZ-lJN9yFcteLR5ECkuvvGVYHTnkj7_iugaqTQWthrSeL9_WvEy/s400/photo+(6).JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Dallas Cowboys Football Player</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOQN1Oa_DqS5esezCjJXC84mh_2OaXsiL_TSPB-J41_-KW7o51cerW5ZkhcZX-2PAj_4AjAjTJybPviewuL6d8e9dS5LEhINd4lcXP-eTpyalq61eu03D1SkziM9d2IboDDyMs_6IgiIEn/s1600/black+widow.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOQN1Oa_DqS5esezCjJXC84mh_2OaXsiL_TSPB-J41_-KW7o51cerW5ZkhcZX-2PAj_4AjAjTJybPviewuL6d8e9dS5LEhINd4lcXP-eTpyalq61eu03D1SkziM9d2IboDDyMs_6IgiIEn/s640/black+widow.png" width="416" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I practiced flipping over the bed in this costume.</td></tr>
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So, I thought Jim Halpert as Facebook had it, or considering that all of my coworkers are extreme Trekkies, I thought maybe Uhura had it.</div>
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But imagine my surprise when the votes were tallied and I was declared the winner. Even without the wig (which Penny ate that morning because she's still in her puppy chew on everything phase) I was the winner.</div>
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Most awesome.</div>
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And I was covered from my toes all the way up to my neck and almost to my finger tips. </div>
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That was pretty fun. I also tried on Padawan's costume when I got home. It was too big.</div>
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Then we got ready to escort Master Plo Koon off for trick or treating. And this was the three of us ready to depart.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ttm18xjwjZSeLsgNtllgbBwRq1ZzisCXgpXUWfRPZhCs4zNqdQtQGJ7eohGXBoIEuQKKudeIhcnvwahKcnqCLNK54dS_aHqwarIBg5qxn5iI0TkHhAVd3ImNFFHGdAx9fLhtnC0qWnEj/s1600/avengers+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="556" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ttm18xjwjZSeLsgNtllgbBwRq1ZzisCXgpXUWfRPZhCs4zNqdQtQGJ7eohGXBoIEuQKKudeIhcnvwahKcnqCLNK54dS_aHqwarIBg5qxn5iI0TkHhAVd3ImNFFHGdAx9fLhtnC0qWnEj/s640/avengers+2.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Avengers! And their giant twinkie.</td></tr>
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So, his costume is something called Jake from Adventure Time. From behind, he looks like a giant twinkie with a tail, and even then...most of the time the tail is invisible. So he just looks like a giant twinkie. He forgot his sword and didn't realize it until I asked. But if he HAD remembered his sword then he would have looked like a giant twinkie with a toothpick. Come to think of it...that might have been funnier.</div>
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We took the dogs, too. They were dressed as Choo Choo the Jack-o-lantern and Penny the Harry Potter Dog. (Which really just meant she wore my tiny tie from my Hermione Granger costume and then I made a small dog sized scarf with red and gold yarn. I also made glasses from pipe cleaners, but she wouldn't leave them on.) </div>
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All in all, it was quite a fun night.</div>
Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-67934333725022915112012-10-31T00:38:00.001-05:002012-10-31T00:38:56.924-05:00Vicious dogs? What are you talking about?<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I was eight years old, my mom and dad drove out one Valentine's Day and came back with a loving gift for our entire family. A puppy.</div>
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But not just any puppy.</div>
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This was the cutest, fuzziest puppy I'd ever seen. Black with a fluffy coat and a purple tongue, it look more like a teddy bear or a lion than a dog. We named him Taz, like the Tasmanian Devil from the cartoon, and he became a beloved member of our family.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbgqB3G2GVgu6JONycSiTcMjihXv0Wfrw3jYS08DZg5DSwdgyRCPpvaA4onCKGCmFZh7JxzEWb1PrcQDLsHDomA2rUFwzaxtHPRXGM3b6juqNz2pbe5Uv5TBXVC08WWhYZa5u1l0-r6FkH/s1600/chow+chow+puppy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbgqB3G2GVgu6JONycSiTcMjihXv0Wfrw3jYS08DZg5DSwdgyRCPpvaA4onCKGCmFZh7JxzEWb1PrcQDLsHDomA2rUFwzaxtHPRXGM3b6juqNz2pbe5Uv5TBXVC08WWhYZa5u1l0-r6FkH/s320/chow+chow+puppy.jpg" width="257" /></a></div>
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Taz was a breed known as a Chow Chow. Until we got him, I'd never heard of the breed, so all I knew about Chow Chows was what I learned from Taz.</div>
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They make great pillows. They are good foot warmers. They like to cuddle. They are warm. You can brush them for hours and it never gets boring. They like treats. You can teach them lots of tricks and they learn quickly. They like oatmeal, and love eating it from a spoon rather than from a bowl. They like to sleep under the covers, head on a pillow. Kisses are a daily requirement before any person is allowed to leave the house.</div>
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It wasn't until he was fully grown that we learned that not everyone loves Chow Chows. We moved to a house in a quiet neighborhood in Jacksonville, and my sister and I were walking him. We were, of course, scrawny and undersized children. Small, blonde, not the kind of kids you'd expect to see walking around a giant lion dog unattended. But like I said, Taz was a giant teddy bear. He was gentle, walked by your side, never pulled the leash. He was a good dog. When we were out one day, a woman stopped us and asked if she could pet him. (We learned later she lived three houses down and her name was Suzanne. Mom never liked her.)</div>
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Taz loved to be pet. A pat on the head was second only to a good belly rub in his world, so we told her of course. She praised him and then asked, "What kind of dog is he? He's so good!"</div>
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"He's a Chow Chow," we told her.</div>
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She snatched her hand away."A Chow Chow? Your parents let you walk him alone? They're dangerous!" </div>
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I remember being confused. How was a Chow Chow dangerous? Taz didn't bite people. I'd never even heard him growl at someone before. We told her, "He's not dangerous. He's a good dog." We told her about how the Twins rode him around like a horse. She was appalled that our parents would have a "vicious dog" in a house with four small girls. </div>
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She hurried away.</div>
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Every time we took Taz our for a walk, someone would comment about how it was dangerous to let us walk him alone. One man even escorted us home and told Dad that he was "concerned the dog would turn on them. Haven't you heard about these dogs?"</div>
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Our dog would <i>turn on us? </i></div>
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What were these people <i>seeing </i>when they were looking at Taz? </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjIQaMuuxsF3gCR9lkmcKXfBjq7b6qaawMpaOPWMVk1oLZLA6F4vw1t9DKiabR6k0ismWrEvqYufxNjV7s8HXt0TEw03yajRl0WI1SSzoEyp_nPtAxrlQSXyR-HmOx5AOvu9HzPt_xqGlg/s1600/taz+chow.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjIQaMuuxsF3gCR9lkmcKXfBjq7b6qaawMpaOPWMVk1oLZLA6F4vw1t9DKiabR6k0ismWrEvqYufxNjV7s8HXt0TEw03yajRl0WI1SSzoEyp_nPtAxrlQSXyR-HmOx5AOvu9HzPt_xqGlg/s320/taz+chow.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Is that the face of a dangerous dog about to turn on his little girls at any moment? What exactly where they seeing that seemed so dangerous? Sure, he looks like a lion, but not in a dangerous way! But all of these people seemed so worried!</div>
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Dad did some research.</div>
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So it turned out that Chow Chows had a bad rap. They were considered high risk breeds. Something about extreme aggression.</div>
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Well you know what?</div>
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It's bullshit. Straight up <i>bullshit. </i>That dog never in his <i>life </i>showed a hint of aggression. He loved children and adults. Yeah, he was a guard dog. The <i>one time </i>he ever tried acted viciously, and he was protecting our house from someone trying to break in through our back door. It was unfortunate for that man that Taz was sleeping in the den by the back door that night. (He normally slept in bed with us. I can't remember why he was in the den that night, but I'm sure glad he was!)</div>
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That Chow Chow was raised in a home with four little girls constantly underfoot, ranging from ages five to nine. Our cousins were often over for visits, ranging from ages four to thirteen. Friends from school parading through, our parents' friends. A constant flow of people in and out of the house. Taz never so much as showed his teeth in anything other than a welcoming smile. </div>
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And you can sit there and tell me, "Well, you had the one good Chow Chow. Most of them are dangerous! They've killed people."</div>
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My answer?</div>
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<i>There are no such things as bad dogs, just bad owners.</i></div>
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You can take any dog of any breed and turn it vicious. You could make a Boston vicious if you were so inclined. It's not in the genes of the dog, it's in the personality of the owner. I've known lots of Chow Chows in my life, and they were all beautiful specimens and a credit to their breed. Polite, loving, cuddly, and loyal. </div>
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I've always said that when I live in a house and I have a yard, I'm going to get another Chow Chow. When we took Penny to her first vet visit, there was a golden Chow Chow in the office. I got really excited and I commented to the owner, "What a beautiful Chow Chow! They're such great dogs!"</div>
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She answered, "Are they? I just got him from a pound because he's so pretty! Everyone's been telling me they're really bad pets because they're mean! You're the first person who had something nice to say."</div>
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I snorted, "They are not mean! They're great furry children! Anyone who told you that has clearly never owned one. I grew up with a Chow Chow, and he was the best dog ever!"</div>
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When I commented to Padawan that I intended to get another one, he said, "Chanel, those are really aggressive dogs. Do you want to risk Choo Choo?'</div>
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I berated him for listening to stupidity. German Shepards and Rottweilers have the same reputation for aggression and violence, and my family has owned both. They were all well trained, well behaved, gentle dogs.</div>
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I've read articles that claim that Chow Chows do not obey well, that they tend to dominate their owners, that they are difficult to train. I don't know who these people are or what the heck they've been doing with their dogs, but if I could train my Chow Chow to sit, lay down, roll over, and shake within two months as an eight year old, then surely experienced dog owners could do better! As for the saying that they are dogs with the personality of cats, I've never met a Chow Chow who fit the description, and Taz most certainly didn't! </div>
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So if you're ever out on the street and you see a dog that the media says is "vicious", pause for a moment before you hurry to get away and think. There is no such thing as a vicious breed of dog. Every dog is different, and every owner is different. Before you label that dog as dangerous, wait and see what it does. Every dog deserves a chance at happiness, and imagine how you would feel if people shrank away from you because they thought you might be dangerous. </div>
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Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-75675480025564788702012-10-27T23:20:00.000-05:002012-10-27T23:20:03.485-05:00Obsession?<div style="text-align: justify;">
Padawan tossed a wretched accusation at me a few moments ago which, to be perfectly honest, really hurt my feelings. </div>
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He accused me of having a shoe obsession.</div>
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And compared me to Carrie Bradshaw.</div>
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Don't get me wrong. When Relly calls me "a total Carrie", it's a compliment. I have an amazing closet and my sisters love to come over and play dress up and borrow things. (Which I reclaim. There is no borrowing forever in my world. I always get my things back.) She's says it with a mixture of admiration and envy. Because, let's face it, my clothes are pretty freaking awesome, and my shoes are always fun. Do I own a lot? Yes. But I wear every single thing multiple times in multiple ways. So when my sisters joke that I'm the Austin romantic/hippy version of Carrie Bradshaw, it feels nice.</div>
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The way Padawan said it?</div>
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He said it more like it was a disease.</div>
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I have a lot of shoes, but I don't feel like I'm obsessed with them. I buy shoes, I wear them. I rock them. When they break, I either have them fixed or I replace them. It's not like I'm just uselessly accumulating piles of shoes here and then refusing to throw them out. If they aren't fixable and aren't wearable, they go in the trash. If I stop wearing them because I no longer love them, they go in the bag for donation. I clean everything out...oh, every three months or so.</div>
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Wouldn't call that an obsession, would you?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So I'll level with you. Right at this very moment in time, I own thirty one pairs of shoes. Sixteen pairs of boots, one pair of running shoes, two pairs of house slippers, three pairs of flats, eight pairs of heels in varying heights and styles, and one pair of flip flops because, apparently, everyone needs a pair of those in this state. (And for the record, of those sixteen pairs of boots, absolutely NONE are cowboy/cowgirl boots. Not. A. Single. Pair.) No, thirty one pairs of shoes isn't really a big number...</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I mean, I have a coworker, who is male, that owns sixty pairs of shoes. Or, he was a coworker but he quit. Granted, he has a very specific kind of shoe. He only owns Chucks. I'd consider that an obsession. Me? I have a range! For different outfits! Different looks! It's a fashion thing, not an <i>obsession. </i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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The day I start sacrificing things like health insurance, toothpaste, and food in order to buy shoes is the day you can brand me obsessed. In the meantime...I'm just someone who likes pretty things. I own over fifty pairs of earrings, but you don't hear anybody harping on about that because they're earrings. They're in a jewelry box on top of my dresser and they don't take up a lot of space. It's only an <i>obsession</i> to other people when they get in someone's way.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Well, he's made his little demand. We're going to clean out some of the clutter tomorrow.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
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But not ONE PAIR of shoes is going.</div>
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Not a single one.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Maybe a pair of jeans.</div>
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<br /></div>
Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-29741689536539153562012-09-24T15:14:00.002-05:002012-09-24T15:14:34.051-05:00Nope. Still hate it.<div style="text-align: justify;">
I would like to formally request (also note that this is really a DEMAND) that Blogger please return the option of using the old blogger dashboard.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
This new streamlined thing is annoying.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I do not like it.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The icons are useless.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I don't like the way things look. There's no longer the same scroll option without moving the whole effing page.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I don't like the color scheme, either.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Just because I disappeared for like six months or something doesn't give blogger the right to just ruin everything while I was gone. I mean, come on. No countdown? That was just plain rude. And that is all I have to say about it.</div>
Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-48876864362370383592012-09-20T20:36:00.000-05:002012-09-20T20:36:02.031-05:00I believe congratulations are in order.<div style="text-align: justify;">
It was not too long ago, I'm sure, when I wrote a rant complaining about the size of my bed. I complained that it was too small, that it was uncomfortable, and that Choo Choo made the situation worse by stretching out and digging in her claws.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Then we decided to adopt another furry child, and Penny Lane moved in and changed everything about our lives, including Choo Choo's life, who is still unhappy with the whole eating and drinking schedule thing. And even when Penny Lane, now a whopping eighteen pounds of Boston Terrier cuteness, became big enough to sleep in the bed, Padawan <i>still insisted </i>that our bed was adequate.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Well, after a month of Penny sleeping in the bed with us, usually between both of our heads so she can snore in our ears all night, Padawan's sleep started to suffer. Mine, already poor, didn't change. And he began to notice all of the symptoms of sleep deprivation that I'd discovered, tragically, months ago when I first realized that our bed was too small. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So when I casually started mentioning that it was time for a new bed...</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
He still said no.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Because he's a man. And men are incredibly stubborn.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But then...it comes about that we're going to need new furniture. (It's a long story.) I told him if we were getting new furniture, then we might as well get a new bed, too. We weren't expecting it until December, but he agreed. So we made plans. New dresser, new couch, new entertainment center, and new bed. He once mistakenly insinuated that we replace my bookshelves that my grandparents got me for Christmas two years ago, but my brutal rebuff sent him off <i>that </i>topic pretty quickly. He never brought it up again.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But then there was a sudden change of plans and it seemed we probably <i>wouldn't </i>need new furniture. Or at least not a new couch, which was actually what had sparked the notion of just getting all new furniture in the first place. But I told him I couldn't hold off on the bed, so we took a trip to the store yesterday to look. (Well, he went to look. I went with every intention of purchasing.)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
We tested out bed after bed, styles, colors, mattresses, sizes...everything. And I <i>finally convinced him that king sized was the only way to go. </i>And then...</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I talked him into buying.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And then a mere three hours after we made our grand purchase...our bed was delivered, set up, covered in new sheets and pillows and an eight piece comforter set...we even got a rug for the bedroom and swanked everything up...</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
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And last night....was the best night's sleep I've gotten since I had that queen sized bed all to myself while I was in Florida for the wedding. </div>
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<br /></div>
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With Choo Choo, Penny, Padawan, and myself...there was no discomfort. It was perfect.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And now that he's seen the error of his ways...let's just hope he's prepared to listen to my ideas about the new dresser and entertainment center...</div>
Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-62504646162935884862012-08-31T21:58:00.000-05:002012-08-31T21:58:37.209-05:00Here I am. Alive.<div style="text-align: justify;">And well. Unless you count the stress. And exhaustion. And the frustration.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But, physically, if not mentally, I'm here and healthy as a horse. (Or I assume so. I have fancy healthy insurance, but I've never so much as gone in for my yearly check up. Although I suppose I should since I'm about to run out of B/C and I kind of need that...you know. To regulate things.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Penny is huge.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Choo Choo is finally adjusted. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">They're like total B.F.F.s now. Inseparable. Except when it comes to the bones. For some reason, Choo Choo lays claim to all of the bones. And since Penny is teething now we bought her these huge rawhide bones that she couldn't chew through in a day...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">She never gets to chew on them for more than a minute or two. Even though she can't walk properly with them and has to drag them on the floor with her head at an odd angle, Choo Choo steals the stupid things and refuses to let Penny near them. And Pen Cushion (that's her nickname)...just kind of rolls over and takes it. Choo Choo, it appears, is the dominant personality. (As we expected.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Surprises, though. Penny is a water doggy. Likes to swim, likes to play fetch, and for some reason picks up a new stick on every walk that she brings home, happy as pie to just chew on it when Choo Choo takes the rawhides. (Except that Choo Choo also tries to take the sticks, even though she has never been interested in mere sticks her whole little Chihuahua life.) We're going to get Penny a life jacket as soon as she's fully grown, and one for Choo Choo, too. (Though she really doesn't care too much for the water, she hates it when we swim off and leave her alone.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">By the way, water can't have sharks in it when it's a creek that's got try rocks on all sides. There's no ocean connected to it! Therefore, I will swim in Bull Creek. So long as I can see the bottom, it is A OK with me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Padawan's company just released the stupid game they've been gearing up for <i>forever</i>, and the back log is awful. MMO RPGs really are silly. And if you need more servers, why can't they just buy them? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Band Season is winding down to a close. We're in the last home stretch week of extended hours and overtime. And I'm freaking exhausted, to tell you the truth. I plan on sleeping in a WHOLE LOT next Sunday.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I know I've been gone for a while...I haven't been on. Honestly, I forgot my password for a while there but then it suddenly came back to me. So here I am. How long do you think it will take me to catch up on the reading? </div>Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-15810833925736922782012-06-06T13:36:00.000-05:002012-06-06T13:36:13.011-05:00The Puppy has Arrived<div style="text-align: justify;">Padawan and I have welcomed the newest member to our family: our very own little Boston Terrier, Penny.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBoiq-HuvFneDzb78ITHj-YOvSEt5iqcxJiNLtp4V6sdvDiJ5afFwkl4hHzhznyBe7QxpRKA2Ece8ggboKkibcPZ5hGw_9wVw-pPTDeo6nIAp4zR5kytPrdKbVadavVuM2eHNbiV0J4Zyh/s1600/Photo0134.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBoiq-HuvFneDzb78ITHj-YOvSEt5iqcxJiNLtp4V6sdvDiJ5afFwkl4hHzhznyBe7QxpRKA2Ece8ggboKkibcPZ5hGw_9wVw-pPTDeo6nIAp4zR5kytPrdKbVadavVuM2eHNbiV0J4Zyh/s320/Photo0134.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'd like to say it's been a graceful transition. We are in day two, and Choo Choo is no warmer now than she was yesterday. In fact, when Choo Choo is on the couch with us and Penny gets pulled up, she will face her head the other direction and refuse to acknowledge her presence.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Worse, Choo Choo has displayed remarkably aggressive behaviors that she's never showcased before. The main concern? Penny wandered into the bathroom, which is where we've always kept Choo Choo's food and water. Unlike most dogs, Choo Choo has never scarfed her food and nibbles daintily throughout the day, so her bowl is never empty. She's never shown any signs of guarding before: I can literally stick my hand in her bowl and pull it away and she will just let it go. But the second <i>Penny </i>stepped into the bathroom, my Choo Choo lunged for her bowl, laid in front of it, and snarled.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was not a cute snarl, like when she plays with Padawan and tugs at her toys.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This was a viscous, my hackles are up, stay the hell away from my stuff snarl. It made the fine hairs on my arm and at the nape of my neck stand on end. I've never encountered this behavior before, so I just picked her up and told her no, then scooted her out of the bathroom.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Later, Penny happened to toddle by Choo Choo when she was chewing on a rawhide dental bone. Not interested in the bone or Choo Choo, she just strolled by. Choo Choo dropped the rawhide and snarled again. This time when I reached for her to correct the behavior with a firm "no", Choo Choo <i>snapped </i>at me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The behavior only extends to Penny. At the dog park, Choo Choo is as social as ever. Today we even ventured into the large dog enclosure where she promptly made friends with two huskies, a shitz tsu that lived with the huskies, and some type of huge fluffy white dog that looked like a cloud. Kira Dog, of course, was there, keeping Choo Choo from escaping into small openings in the fence she could squeeze through. For all that Kira is poorly trained, she's a smart dog and I adore her. (Despite the wolf scratches she left on my arm last year that are <i>still </i>scarred into my wrist.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">From small dogs to huge dogs, my Choo Choo is warm, welcoming, and absolutely fearless. (As long as she's not on a leash: when meeting other dogs while on the leash Choo Choo is anxious and tends to growl or bark.) We suppose the problem she nurses against Penny is because this puppy is in her home, on her furniture, playing with <i>her </i>people.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We tried to ease Choo Choo into the whole thing. We took her to Dallas to pick up the puppy, let them gamble about with the rest of litter together to get acquainted. We let them lay next to each other on furniture that was no ours. The trouble didn't actually start until we got into the car, which is Choo Choo's territory, an extension of our home.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sometimes, when Penny is asleep or looking the other direction, Choo Choo shows interest and will sniff and wag her tail at the puppy. That goes well until Penny tries to kiss her face. Choo Choo is incapable of allowing any dog get in her face: her reaction is always to growl, and if pressed, to snap. She does not bite, though. That is important. She doesn't aim to hurt: only to send the offender away. That's better than a dog that does bite.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Padawan and I are unsure how to move forward. We don't want Choo Choo to ignore the puppy: the idea is for them to be companions who live and play together. We are avoiding punishment. When Choo Choo reacts badly, we say "no", and when she does something good we reward the preferred behavior immediately with love, affection, and treats. However, I really think that this new behavior is something we're going to have to have worked out with a trainer.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In the meantime, Penny is a rolling, wiggly ball of energy and we're very pleased to report she got a perfect bill of health from the vet, and we're already socializing her with as many people and <i>known and safe dogs </i>as possible. </div>Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-74293445033301814602012-05-10T19:28:00.000-05:002012-05-10T19:28:30.011-05:00Guess what?Promoted.<br />
<br />
Nice bump to my paychecks.<br />
<br />
And a bump in my work load.<br />
<br />
We're still shorthanded, and still trying to find people to fill in the gaps. So I'm pulling double duty still, although we DID hire one dude recently and he seems competent and friendly. And entirely too skinny, but that's not relevant to whether or not he can do the job(s) he was hired to do.<br />
<br />
I did actually threaten to leave, you know, if things didn't get taken care of. Shows how much they really want me to stick around. Things immediately got better.<br />
<br />
Go figure. I should have thought of that <i>months </i>ago.<br />
<br />
Nobody wants to send away someone who is helpful, smart, willing to work, not to mention <i>very good </i>at selling instruments. (But let's not kid ourselves here: I sell a lifestyle. Young girls want to be like me. Mothers want their daughters to play like me. Fathers want sons to grow up to date women like me. Alright, well, the last one might not be true, but the first two certainly are.) Especially when what they would be left with is someone who is...well. The exact opposite.<br />
<br />
Deliberately unhelpful, blatantly rude, spacey, lazy, and with a bad attitude that can't sell much of anything...<br />
<br />
Yeah. I'm the better choice, definitely.<br />
<br />
Anyway, that's where I've been. And things are swinging into high gear. Band Season is kicking off, and we're trying to get things in.<br />
<br />
So. I'll write sporadically until things cool down.<br />
<br />
But I'm around.<br />
<br />
So please. Try not to post a million and five things or I'll <i>never </i>catch up.Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-14672285357455253702012-04-18T16:40:00.001-05:002012-04-18T16:40:24.167-05:00Did I fall into a hole?<div style="text-align: justify;">
Where have I been?</div>
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<br /></div>
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I don't know. Sick. Tired. Sick. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Really sick.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Like I was in the middle of a company dinner and I had to run out mid toast to be sick in the bathroom. </div>
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<br /></div>
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It's a damn good thing I have good health insurance now so going to a doctor is not a concern. It's not even expensive. Twenty five dollars for a visit and ten dollars for my medicine. That's a pretty good deal, if you ask me. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
There's a new rule at work that if we're going to call in sick we have to call the owner himself on his personal cell phone and tell him, and then he'll call whoever needs to know.</div>
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Well, after leaving the dinner early and being sick all the next day (which happened to be my day off), I was still sick on Thursday. But the idea of calling the owner was so horrifying, not only because he's the big boss but also because I tend to cry when I describe what feels wrong in my body, that I decided it was better to go to work anyway and just get sent home.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It was brilliant. I went to work in a sweatshirt and jeans, stayed for thirty minutes, and had a coworker take me home with no fuss, and I did not have to call the owner. That's the way to do it, you know. Don't call in. Go to work and then just have Manager Man send you home. </div>
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If I'm ever feeling sick again I will do that.</div>
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I've missed you guys, but I haven't caught up on posts. It seems everybody keeps living their lives without me. It's a little disappointing. I kind of hoped that when I disappeared the whole world stopped functioning until I came back again. But it seems you guys are still up and functioning. Way to crush my dreams, guys. </div>
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Seriously, though. I fully intend to get back into the thick of this particular blogosphere as soon as possible. Which means after I'm finished changing my sister's paper. Second one, you know, and she hasn't improved. It's a nightmare. In fact, I'm supposed to be editing now but I can't make sense of this one opening sentence and it's baffling. I can't move forward with the paragraph until I know what it means. And I have <i>no idea </i>what it means.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I may not be the best writer in the world, but I'm pretty sure my thoughts are always coherent, at the very least, even if they don't make actual sense. (For instance, I'm terrified of sharks appearing in swimming pools. I express the idea well, but it still doesn't make sense.)</div>
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Anyway, I'm going back to the paper now. So...you know. Thanks for still being around?</div>Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-12915854713603432132012-04-02T21:17:00.000-05:002012-04-02T21:17:00.742-05:00Just when you think there's no one crazier than me...<div style="text-align: justify;">I spend like ninety percent of my time imagining horrific outcomes for things I consider doing. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For instance, when I go up a ladder at work to take down an oboe, I imagine all of the things that could possibly happen while I'm up on that ladder. Someone sneaking up behind me, someone dropping a book loudly behind me, somebody screaming suddenly, the ladder buckling, somebody knocking the ladder over on purpose, me reaching too far for the oboe...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">All of these different scenarios all feature the end result: me falling off the ladder and breaking my neck which either leads to my tragic death or puts me in a wheelchair as a paraplegic for the rest of my presumably long life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I constantly think about all of the horrible things that can result from whatever simple task it is that I am doing. My god, using the hole puncher I imagine chopping off part of my finger and getting a serious gangrene infection and dying a slow, agonizing death or losing my finger and living with a lifelong knowledge that my hands will never play a flute again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's freaking horrifying.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's a damned depressing way to go through life, too. My days are filled with horrors and fears and second thoughts. When I decide to do something, half the time I change my mind simply because the worst case scenario my mind creates is so terrifying I become incapable of doing it myself. Simple things like rearranging instrument displays become games of direct and correct as I instruct other people (usually Lord Darminick, formerly Denominator) on how I want things done. It would save time, energy, and frustration if I would just hop up and do it myself, but I could fall with a tenor sax in my hand and the neck could stab through my skin when I hit and sever my jugular. I'd bleed to death in seconds: death my tenor sax. Well, the obituary would be interesting.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's just frustrating. Just once I'd like to be able to do something, anything, without considering the fifty million ways I'm likely to die while doing the things that <i>must get done. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But then I talked to a man today who has problems way worse than mine.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Because, you know, he insists on buying a brand new trumpet that has never been played. By anyone. <i>Ever. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And that is literally <i>impossible. </i>Because no manufacturer, no matter who you are or what you say, will release an instrument from their factory without giving it a play test. It will never happen. They have to test the instruments along each stage of the process to make sure it works. There will always be at least ONE PERSON who has played an instrument before you.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's just the way it works.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So he wants to pay sixty dollars MORE to have a brand new instrument chemically cleaned when he comes to buy it. Just to make sure there are no germs.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And buddy...you have got to be seriously fucked up if you are afraid the germs are coming to get you from a trumpet that had someone put air through it six weeks ago for five seconds.</div>Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-47723655767712545622012-03-24T15:54:00.000-05:002012-03-24T15:54:41.347-05:00Bridal Dresses<div style="text-align: justify;">Shopping for a bridal gown with my sister was...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Different.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It wasn't like prom dresses. When I walked into a store looking for a prom dress (all five times) I was comfortable. Confident.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Walking into a room filled to the brim with white, fluffy dresses and gossamer veils and cases filled with sparkling tiaras and hairpieces?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Intimidating. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I felt ready for it, though, if not exactly in my element. Prom dresses? Hell yeah! How different could a wedding dress be?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The first appointment was at Alfred Angelo's or something like that, which had a dress she really liked. And then she added, "I also had an appointment for a bridesmaid's dress. She's got to try it on so I can see if it will be flattering."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Um...excuse me?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I think I missed something because I'm pretty freaking sure the enticement had been comfortable chairs and champagne and fun as I rated, critiqued, and judged the dresses with cards. Trying things on? No.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">No. No. <i>No.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The entire store had no walls! Just lots of mirrors with pedestals! You could literally stand in any spot and see every other person in the store because their reflection just appeared. All well and good for the bride, but for me?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">No, I do not think so.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then Relly proceeded to try on five dresses. Some were pretty. One was so awful I did my pinched up Queen Look and didn't even bother marking it on the score because it was simply that hideous. Seriously, it looked like three different dresses had been cut up and thrown together.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And she did have one that she liked a lot, but she had another appointment at a salon that sold another designer she was very interested in, so she didn't want to commit. I thought I had made off like a bandit without having to try anything on but then she said, "Oh, Chanel still has to try on the bridesmaid dress."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Great. Balls. Of. Fire.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Relly, you really should have your matron of honor try it on. She's got the hardest figure to fit. If this dress is flattering on me it doesn't mean it will work of her.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Relly was adamant. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Into the dressing room I went, and let me tell you I was <i>not </i>dressed for trying things on. I wore skinny jeans, calf high boots, a cami, and a sweater. Layers over layers to remove to slip into this dress.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That was my size, supposedly, and still too big. And it didn't even cover as much of my anatomy as my bras did, and let me tell you I did <i>not </i>want to step out of that dressing room into the Hall of Mirrors for everyone to see a lot more of me than generally gets revealed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So I stuck my head out and said, "Um...you know, I think something a little less low cut would be best. Some of the other girls will be falling out..."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Just come out."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm not going to lie. I didn't try to put on a happy face. I slouched my shoulders, picked up the dress (because even though the average woman is only five foot four and I am five foot six, they make these dresses to fit six feet tall women so they're all too long) and slumped out. In my stocking feet, I'll have you know, because I didn't take off my socks.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A few pins and tucks, and then, "Alright, it's fitted. You can get up on the pedestal."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Fine.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Stand up straight, Chanel, stop slouching!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Straighten up, but I still held the deep neckline together and restated my case. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Salesgirl: "Wow, this dress is stunning on you. (To Relly:) Look at the way the line follows her body."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Relly: "I love the cut. See how the halter top makes her collar bones stand out? It looks elegant."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Memaw: "You look so tall! It's gorgeous."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Random other people: "Oh, you're so lucky you get to wear a dress that you rock!" Blah. Blah. Blah.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I can literally see myself no matter which way I turn. I am standing in the middle of a sea of brides and bridesmaids and mothers of the bride and they are all looking, commenting on this very red dress that I am wearing that I think needs to be taken up an inch at the neck.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And then the salesgirl starts tucking in the front, getting very close to me, mentioning all of the alterations they can make. "We can have them sew this so it isn't so low here if it makes you uncomfortable. The neck won't be so big, we'll get your measurements and get it in your size. This seriously is a stunning look for you. Are you going with this color? Blue? Oh, yes. Blue will be beautiful."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Relly: "You need a tan, though. You're way too pale."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I am <i>not </i>tanning for your wedding. I am going to be all natural me. Can I please change back now? We know this is the one."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And I jumped down and ran off without waiting for an answer.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But my ordeal was over.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We went to the second store for our appointment to check out the Maggie dresses. And we were early, so the consultant encouraged us to look around and pull anything that stood out while she prepared a room and pulled the dresses Relly knew she wanted to try.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So we perused. And I found this halter dress with this gorgeous, sparse beading and a low back that was <i>stunning. </i>Relly agreed and we added that to her dresses. All in all there were seven dresses to try on. And none for me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So I took a seat in a very large, accommodating arm chair, my grandmother sat in a chair next to me. And we waited for her to come out. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The first dress was beautiful. It was flattering, and even though I hate rouching (is that how you spell it?) it made her waist look absolutely tiny. It was gorgeous, and definitely my favorite of all of the dresses she tried on so far.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The second was pretty, but no good.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The third...not so much.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The fourth...was very pretty, but she liked the first one better.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Fifth...meh.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sixth? Well, it was stunning, absolutely perfect. But it was way too formal and she couldn't see herself wearing it to the wedding she was planning.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dress number seven...was the one I had picked. And she came out with a smile. And she did a little dance and looked at herself and said she loved it. Add a veil, take some pictures, add a hair piece...and it was the one. She tried on the first one again, just to be sure, but it was the seventh dress and she knew it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And that, my friends, was a day of twelve dresses. She decided, and until my fitting, I never have to go back.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My only question is this: how on earth am I going to handle shopping for my own wedding dress?</div>Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-49423939966420855882012-03-15T23:13:00.000-05:002012-03-15T23:13:37.686-05:00A little honesty about my job.<div style="text-align: justify;">I have a secret.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I've been working at our South location recently. Not much...just a few times. You know, when it worked with my schedule and didn't entail a three hour bus ride or a six hour walk home in the dark. Just to see what it's like.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And to lend a helping hand. (The entire SM department just up and quit, you know.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And the secret part?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I kind of love it there.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Okay, I totally don't love the stairs. (Who could?) And it's like a maze up there, and everything is separated. (Which is also a total plus! How many times a day do I get asked for help with guitar stuff at the South side? NONE!)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But I do love the way the people <i>treat me. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I adore my coworkers here. I really do.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But...let's be honest. I started working with them when I was nineteen years old, and I was a receptionist. So that's really all they see when they look at me. (Okay, so Jay Jay and B-Money are the exceptions to this rule, and Preggers and Jazz because they didn't work there until recently and so didn't know me then.) When they do something that they shouldn't and I express my dissatisfaction and take the time to explain <i>why </i>they can't just go around leaving things in my department, I get, "You know, it really doesn't matter. When you get used to this job you'll realize it." And when I get angry and express my irritation, the only answer I get is, "It's so cute when you get mad."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My <i>closest </i>coworker actually told me one day that he's planning on leaving and starting his own lighting and sound business and he wanted to take me and Jay Jay away from the store with him when he left. I asked, "Well what would you have me do?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And he laughed like I'd just asked the dumbest question in the world and told me, "Well obviously you'd be my receptionist. It's not like you can do anything else."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My sales are phenomenal. My customer ratings are up. I had a customer send me <i>flowers as a fucking thank you </i>and the best I can get is <i>receptionist</i>? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">All that I am, all that I have achievede, every ounce of knowledge I have gained...absolutely worthless in the eyes of the people with whom I spend my daylight hours. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And the people at the South location...they've only ever known me on the phone. There is no stigma attached to my name and face for them. So when they met me, they treated me like a twenty three year old woman. Like a sane, reasonable human being. And when I mentioned that something they were doing didn't make sense, rather than just laughing and saying, "Oh, it's cute that Chanel thinks she can fix things that are wrong!" and patronize me over "trying to know better than everyone else," they look at me and say, "My god, you're right." And then they <i>fixed it. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I hate being patronized, and I didn't realize just how bad it was...until I put myself into an environment that actually respected me as a musician, as a coworker, and as a woman. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Oh, I've known for years that my coworkers don't take me seriously. Because I'm young. Because I am "perpetually happy", because I am endlessly patient.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Things are changing, sure. But are the changing in a way that will help me?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107542310136355575.post-57136652391344407052012-03-06T20:05:00.000-06:002012-03-06T20:05:29.998-06:00Sweetest Customer EVER Award<div style="text-align: justify;">So toady I was sitting at work, minding my own business.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Okay, so I was actually on the phone with Bird from our South Store, trying to get through a very complicated pain in my ass special order for a sheet music customer. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">(By the way, Reverend retired. And by retired I mean he came into the store Monday morning and said he was resigning. And then he packed up his things from his office and left and we haven't seen or heard from him since. I just tell his customers that he's retired now because saying he just up and quit on morning doesn't sound as pleasant.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was on the phone with him, talking about how inventory was claiming we had six of them, when I heard, "Channelle? She's standing over there."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So I looked up, wondering who had come in looking for me, and there was a delivery guy holding a <i>huge </i>bouquet of red and white flowers in a giant vase.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Flowers. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was...surprised. Shocked. Immediately thrilled. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In a confused voice, I interrupted Bird's sentence to say, "Hey, I'll call you back. Some flowers just walked in the door with my name on it." And I hung up.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Everyone was looking at the flowers and saying how sweet Padawan was for sending them, and I was agreeing as I was opening up the card and the delivery guy was getting the paperwork ready for me to sign.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And when I read the card, I was beyond shocked.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Uh...these aren't from Padawan."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Every single coworker's head swiveled to stare at me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"They're from a customer."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Everybody hurried over to see.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Oh, I kid you not. A <i>customer </i>sent me flowers. Actually, not even a customer since I failed in every respect to get her what she was trying to find. You see, this woman lives out of state, and she was trying to find sheet music for a song called "Phoenix Burn" by a local band of Austin's called Alfa Rev. The song was featured at the end of a movie called The Sorcerer's Apprentice, and her daughter loved it so much she wanted to use it as an audition piece for a prestigious choir at her school.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So over the last month I have been in contact with the customer, our sheet music suppliers, and the band and band manager trying to locate a single sheet for piano and vocal for this song. And in the end the last answer I received was, "For legal reasons, our manager advises against sending a copy of our originals. We have no printed music."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And that was the end of it. Once they cite "legal reasons" there is no further argument.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So I had to call this awesome customer who was so friendly, so patient, so understanding, and tell her that I couldn't find it. That I couldn't get it. That for legal reasons, there were no copies to be had. And she thanked me and we talked for a few minutes, because she's cool and I like hearing about the goings on up there, and then we hung up and I felt like I had disappointed her. We had been hoping...and all for nothing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And then she sent me flowers today as a thank you for going above and beyond to try to help them out, and a promise to let me know how her daughter's audition goes. (It's tomorrow.) </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The flowers are red and white, and there's a red and black ribbon around the vase to represent their school colors. And it's honestly the sweetest, most amazing thing a customer has ever done to show appreciation. In fact, I'm the only person in the store to have had flowers as a thank you. (Although one of our regulars did send us pizza as a thank you for some repair work and general awesomeness, but that was for everyone.) </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was <i>epic. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And just for kicks...here's a picture.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSOWo9NGyEqmbQrSyzGFnTyfeQ5Lk-N67klg_WDSxeFVvjBbe2yrR3sGL5eOFV8N-ApmzG-_e0oFNLq1IskNZRqzV4uPwNs1Joasr5RfOODzcvSPDnuDvNM479cheTucFeRuSfkuc4BuNM/s1600/008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSOWo9NGyEqmbQrSyzGFnTyfeQ5Lk-N67klg_WDSxeFVvjBbe2yrR3sGL5eOFV8N-ApmzG-_e0oFNLq1IskNZRqzV4uPwNs1Joasr5RfOODzcvSPDnuDvNM479cheTucFeRuSfkuc4BuNM/s640/008.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This completely and totally makes up for every single rotten customer I've had in the last year. I'm even feel ready to forgive the jackass who said my eyes were creepy and lifeless.</div>Chanelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18159248995263246944noreply@blogger.com21