Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Look What I Found

Out That Someone Else Found. Um... here.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

I Am My Co-Pilot

On my way to a friend's house last night I remembered that I owed my friend money, so I stopped at a nearby Safeway figuring I could buy a candy bar or something and get cash back. I settled on a 12-ounce bottle of Tropicana orange juice and stood in line behind a guy at the 10 items or less register. Nothing about the guy in front of me is important to this story except to note that his grocery needs were limited enough that the bagger finished bagging his groceries before the guy was done paying for them. My expressed motivation for entering Safeway is also not important, nor is the fact that it was a Safeway in particular or a Tropicana, specifically, but I'm not going to go back and edit out that information, and you've already read it, so just thank me for the clarification and let's move on. The only things to keep in mind at this point are that I was purchasing a single bottle of orange juice and that the bagger was present for the entire transaction.

After a short wait the checker rang up the orange juice and, bypassing the two-foot conveyor belt to the bagger, handed it directly to me. I swiped my card, hit debit, swiped my card again because I shouldn't have the first time, entered my pin, OK'd the amount and asked for $20 back in fives. The checker counted out the fives to me, handed me my receipt, and told me to have a good evening. I said the same to him and turned to leave as the bagger asked...

"Would you like help out with that?"


Today I got a call on my cell phone from an unknown caller during my lunch break. I decided that the mystery caller could maintain his or her secret identity all he or she wanted but he or she would have to leave a message if he or she really needed to reach me because I don't like talking to people who waste my time withholding valuable, time-saving pronouns. A minute or so later my phone buzzed to tell me that I had a voicemail, so I checked it.

"Hi," said a man's voice (about a paragraph too late), "I guess I have a wrong number [then I guess you shouldn't have left this message]. I'm trying to reach a friend but I must have an old number for him [yep, must], so I'm just leaving this message so you aren't left hanging about why you had a missed call from someone you didn't know [huh, that was polite, maybe I should go a little easier on people in the inner monologue department].

"Anyway, we'll talk to you again soon, okay, bye."

Thursday, February 07, 2008

If Irritation Persists...

I bought a can of dust remover spray at RadioShack today. The guy who rang me up had to ask for my date of birth. You have to be over 18 to purchase dust remover spray. He'd have to ask me even if I looked 60. Company policy.

That's a good policy—limiting the purchase of dust remover spray to adults and dishonest minors with a working knowledge of the Gregorian calendar system and first-grade arithmetic.