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December 30, 2002
Rejected New Year?s Resolutions
I do not know what my New Year?s resolution is going to be, if any. I can?t find one that seems right: meaningful, not too scary or unlikely, not dependent on the vagaries of chance. Here are some of the resolution ideas I?ve rejected so far.
I will stop checking my site stats every 15 minutes as though they meant something. Rejected because life is hard enough without setting myself up for failure.
I will eat healthier/sleep more regularly/exercise more. These were all rejected due to a growing belief that one should not make changes in one?s approach to life?s fundamentals (sleep, food, movement) out of a sense of obligation, but from the natural joy that they provide. Feeling better should feel good. Making oneself feel bad in order to feel better is contradictory and wrong.
I will watch all those movies I?ve been meaning to watch. There?s not enough time in the world. I?m not even sure there?s enough time to make up the list.
I will decide on a ?career path.? The problem here is that I?ve made this ?decision? several times already, and it always ends up mutating into something else. The fact is, I do not have a calling. I could, and might, do any number of things. Why bother committing?
I will give up caffeine. Riiiiight. Look. I don?t have many vices. I need one or two to keep my good and evil sides balanced properly. So take your grave concern and your scientific data and leave me alone on my twitchy trembly roller coaster ride, mmmkay?
I will have less stuff. This is always a hot contender, given that my apartment resembles a storage locker more than a place where people might live and, occasionally, need to move around. Sometimes I long for a serene, blank-walled space, with no visual stimuli or piles of junk begging to be tidied up. However, the fact of the matter is that I like stuff and it ain?t gonna change. And even if I went through the pain of discarding all the neato stuff I have now, I would acquire more to take its place without even meaning to. There?s just something about me. It?s as though orphaned tchotckes can tell that with me, they have found a safe haven. I think that I will choose self-acceptance over a lifetime of struggling to resist these wandering gimcracks and thingamabobs. Come unto me, ye brightly colored and/or shiny things! Here there is sanctuary!
I will fulfill my barely articulate desire to be the gliding, well-dressed, soft-spoken, bills-paid-on-time, ready to face stress and strife with a smooth brow and a steady hand, never being a big grumpy late out-of-sorts meanie-pants, best that I can be Hilatron. Rejected because sometimes, just not being smelly or itchy is all that I can manage for a particular day.
I will stop wasting money on [pick one of the following]: snacks, when there is perfectly good food at home, young lady; novelty shoes; beauty products which I will use only once; thrift store dresses; compilation CDs. Oh, no, I won?t.
I will still be alive in 2004. This is tempting given my somewhat morbid tendencies, but doesn?t it seem like tempting Fate a bit? Mightn?t Fate be all, ?Look at this chick, thinking she?ll be all flippant and overly literal with her ?staying alive? resolution, I?ll show her?? and then, whammo! I don?t think we?ll risk it, thanks.
You know what? The hell with it. For 2003 I resolve to change not at all. Or a little bit. Or a lot. Or however much and in whatever way seems to be appropriate in the upcoming months. I resolve to stay on my toes and make no promises to nobody ? that includes you. Yeah, you, with the diaper and the top hat. Who gives their word to a drunk baby anyway?
Posted by hilatron at 09:41 PM | Comments (3)
December 27, 2002
Merry Trails to You (The Requisite Traveling Whinge)
I've had quite a Christmas. I got snowed in by a record-breaking storm, ate enough to make three strong men fall to their knees and whimper "...please...no more cookies...in the name of all that is holy!" and received so much in comparison to what I gave as to give the phrase "making out like a bandit" a new, ominously literal, meaning. I come to you with a newly intensified sugar addiction, loads of cash and goodies in pocket, and nothing to contribute but these observations from various bus rides, all of which have probably been done before and better than this. Be kind. None of my pants fit anymore!
Meditations on Traveling
Why do I always feel the need to clean the house before leaving on a trip? I have no such compulsion while I'm actually here, but as soon as I know I'm leaving overnight I need to tidy up, do all the dishes, vacuum, the works. The only explanation is that there is a teeny tiny mom living in my brain saying, "What if your bus crashes and people need to come collect your things? What if there's a fire? You want people to see you live like this?"*
What is with the snacks? I am compelled to bring food with me no matter what the length of the journey, as though instead of a 90-minute bus ride I am going a-pioneering, and must prepare for the possibility that I will be trapped in the stagecoach by wolves. Except, pioneers did not have Diet Coke, Hostess products or Cheez-Its. But this doesn't stop me from vending my little heart out whenever I get near interstate transportation.
I come from thrifty stock. I have been on many, many buses, in all types of weather. I know that buses are equipped with climate control systems, and I know that they use them. I mean, that violent gust of air coming from above and mussing my coiffure must mean something, right? Yet I don't recall a single trip where the temperature and humidity combined to create something resembling comfort. Instead I spend nearly every bus ride donning and removing approximately fifteen thousand clothing layer combinations in an effort to maintain core temperature. How do they do that?
Saturday was an amusing bus-riding day. Saturday Josh and I were to travel from Boston to Concord, New Hampshire on the first leg of our Eastern Seaboard Winter Holiday Whirlwind Tour. When we arrived at the terminal with tickets in hand, we were confronted with A Line. This was startling. I don't believe I've ever waited in line with more than five people for the bus to Concord, except for one time when I traveled at rush hour and rode with all the sleepy grumpy commuters. On this particular Saturday, however, oh so many people wanted to go to Concord. So many that people kept asking if ours was the line for New York City. So many that a Concord Trailways representative came out of his booth, goggled at us, and said "You're all going to Concord?!?" in a movie-perfect tone of befuddlement tinged with fear. So many that I got caught up in the fever and plunged headlong into the first free seat I came across, abandoning Josh to wander to the back of the bus and discover the many empty pairs of seats that would have been available to us there, had I not been so hasty. Ah well.
(It's possible that you may have to not only have been there but to have spent some time as a disaffected youth in Concord for this to be funny. I think the universal shock that all these people would want to go to Concord, like, huh? was what got me.)
I must remember to screen people more carefully instead of turning up the Stand-Offish Dial to full throttle when they try to talk to me on the bus. I overheard the single most scandal- and drama-filled conversation ever, this week, between two Instant Bus Friends. Didn't even need to crack my book. Had either of them sat next to me, I would never have known about her crazy family, crime-ridden past, or sexual exploits.
Dude. Greyhound. I know other people have bitched about this before, but: who do you think is riding the bus anyway? I am modeled on the shortish human female type, and yet it becomes increasingly difficult for even me to cram myself into the tiny amount of leg room you allow per passenger. What is going on? I am beginning to suspect that you would prefer us to stand. You could just give up the pretense and build us pens, like cattle, so we don't have room to fall over.
I could travel anywhere, for any amount of time, with the utmost serenity if it were possible to bring with me a small hyperspace portal leading to my own bathroom. Not that I'm criticizing the bathrooms of my various hosts, all of which were lovely. But my bathroom contains my Products. I know where the towels go. I understand the ins and outs of the shower. And then there's the wonderful thought of never, ever, having to decide between a bladder infection and the lurchy, smelly, damp horror that is the bus bathroom again. Oh, yeah.
*My real mom never says things like this. My inner mom is the Universal Nagging Mom and does not reflect any person, living or dead. Back
Posted by hilatron at 05:15 PM | Comments (2)
December 22, 2002
Correspondence #3: Notes for the Laundry Room
Dear Incredibly Slow People:
I realize that your conversation about what to get "him" and "them" for Christmas was engrossing, but next time could you HURRY IT UP WHILE YOU EMPTY THE DRYER DAMMIT? People are waiting, you know.
Everso,
Hilatron
P.S. Nice towels though!
__
Dear Person Who Did Nine. Loads. Of Laundry. IN A ROW! On a Sunday:
Dude. Not cool.
Wearily,
Hilatron
__
Dear Oh Holy Crap, the Biggest Centipede I Have Ever Seen:
Gaaah!
Cringing,
Hilatron
__
Dear Person Who Left a Note the Other Week:
I read your note, as follows: "Please do not remove my items from the washer. I have private things in there and I do not want people to go through them."
Ha, ha. This is not your mommy's house, so either a) Toughen up; b) Arrive at the laundry room before your wash cycle has expired; or c) Buy a washer and dryer of your own. We have places to go, and we do not wish to spend our time sitting around watching the silent machine, waiting for you to mosey in at your leisure.
Sternly,
Hilatron
P.S. Your note has only made everyone more eager to fondle your laundry. "Private things?" We wish to know.
__
Dear Nervous Small-Talkers:
We don't really want to talk to you either. Can't you learn to just say hello and then stare at the wall like civilized folk?
Tongue-Tied,
Hilatron
__
Dear Pigpen,
I don't know what, exactly, you got all over the folding table, but yuck. Were you raised in a barn?
Grossed Out and Mystefied,
Hilatron
__
Dear Whoever Used This Washer Before Me,
You left an entire book in your jeans pocket, didn't you? It's the only explanation.
Needing a Ladle to Get All This Crap Out of Here,
Hilatron
P.S. A BIG book.
__
Dear Lundermac Washer Repair:
Here are some current problems with our machines. If you could see to them before my next laundry day, that would be super. Thanks ever so much!
Washer #1: Seems to eat panties.
Washer #3: Smells funny.
Dryer #1: "High" setting is not so much high as it is nuclear.
Dryer #2: Does not go up to "High" at all.
Dryer #3: See Washer #3.
Also, we are concerned with the fact that Washer #2, even when started at the exact same time as Washer #3, finishes a good three minutes earlier. Are we being cheated of important cycles?
Lastly, we seem to be missing Washers and Dryers # 4 through 6, and have been since we moved in here in August. Please reinstate them as soon as possible. Surely, you cannot have intended only three of each machine for this large a building? No, for that is inhumane and laughable.
Sincerely,
Hilatron
Posted by hilatron at 11:12 PM | Comments (5)
December 19, 2002
These Thighs? Oh, I'm Taking These to the Pound Tomorrow, or, Grrrr.
Here is something that has been perplexing me lately. Lately, I seem to have encountered a great deal of self-loathing of a very specific sort. I recently overheard someone saying something that really, really makes me want to jump up and down and shake my ass like a red-assed baboon* when I hear it: she was talking about her running regime, and during this discussion she dropped the phrase "I just need to get rid of these thighs" while slapping the offending body parts. My immediate reaction was to ask, "But then whatever will separate your knees from your pelvis?" but since I am not (usually) a complete asshole, I resisted. However, what is up with this? I have heard many people express similar sentiments here and there throughout my travels. "Oh, if I could just remove this [offending body part]!"
I realize that people making these statements don't literally want to remove parts of their body. However, the phrase evokes a level of dissociation which I find depressing. It's always "this" or "these," not "my." "Oh, that stomach? That's got nothing to do with me. We just shared a cab over here."
Poor body parts! Faithfully doing whatever their particular job is, although flabby or lumpy or too big or whatever they may be, and they get cut dead like that. I cannot claim to be a grand prize winner when it comes to self-esteem, but I would nonetheless be quite alarmed if someone switched asses on me in the night, and I woke up with a strange ass, however gorgeous and beautiful the new ass might be. Wouldn't it be weird to have the same you with a new, different ass attached? And this kind of segues into the secondly part.
Secondly, it is weird to watch people dissect themselves like that, as though they are performing a self-autopsy. Maybe I'm having trouble with the mind-body split, but to me it is just not right when people divide themselves up into bits and then rate the bits independently from each other or from the functions they perform. "My thighs (which incidentally take me running three miles a day, three times a week, something Hilatron would probably throw up and pass out if she tried to do) are too flabby and I wish to wash my hands of them (which I will do THROUGH RUNNING, oh the irony)." I guess this dissection process is what makes it easy to talk about getting rid of one?s limbs and things so cavalierly, but it's creepy to watch someone act like they could be disassembled and rebuilt using different components. What are you, a Tinker Toy? They can't even do that for me, and I'm a robot**. You're just going to have to deal!
These things fill me with impatience and make me wonder where all the loyalty has gone. Most people's bodies mostly tend to do what they are asked to, with the exception of resembling the 1% of the population that are models or look like models, and yet, all this vitriol. I don't understand the casual dismissal of one's parts. I would certainly not embarrass my current ass by talking smack about it at a party. Would you do that to a person? Would you announce, "Oh, the next time you see me I'll be back on the market, because I'm dumping that loser Henry the first chance I get," while poor Henry stands there all "this is news to me, but I'm just gonna keep smiling and try to retain what little pride I have left?"
Enough, I say! I urge you to make peace with your parts - they've stuck by you longer than Henry has. At the very least, remember that they are yours, and that you need them for important things like remaining corporeal and stuff. They are not a separate entity, or a mortal enemy. Your body and you are pretty much evenly matched. You make those biceps an enemy, and one day you'll let your guard down and live to regret it, mark my words. Wouldn't it be better to find a way to work together?
Oh, and anyone I hear bitching about overeating during the holidays? I will start removing body parts for you. Cookies are good, but not worth it if you're going to burn off the calories yapping about how "bad" you just were for eating them, like someone is doing a report card on your eating habits. Grr!
*I don't know exactly where this urge comes from, but for some time I have felt that shaking one's (preferably bare) ass at things is a perfect way to express exasperation that has passed the point of intelligent discourse. Try it and see if you don't agree: the next time you see something on TV that is so insufferably stupid that you lose the power of speech, get up, turn around, and shake your ass at the set. You can also make unpleasant hooting noises. It's very gratifying. Back
**Stupid Earth scientists! Back
Posted by hilatron at 10:19 PM | Comments (4)
December 16, 2002
Google Search I Ching
Because I desperately need a hobby, I have invented a game for you. It is called Google Search I Ching. It is played thusly:
1) Get out your bingo set. If you do not have a bingo set, reconsider the path your life has taken, and select an alternate method of choosing numbers at random, such as dice.
2) Make four columns on a piece of paper. Label them "Page," "Line," "Word," and "Number."
3) Use your bingo set (or paltry substitute) to select a number. Write this number in the "Page" column. Do the same for the remaining three columns.
4) Select a book from your library.
5) Using the numbers you have selected, find the appropriate page, line on the page, and word in the line in your book.
6) Starting with the word you arrive at, count out the number of words designated in the "Number" column.
7) Enter this string of words into Google, sans punctuation.
8) Surf away!
A note on numbers: if the number you select at random is too high to be applicable or convenient, reduce it by adding the digits together. So if your bingo set tells you to count out 23 words, for example, you can add them together to get 5 instead.
Some examples of the results:
Hollywood Husbands by Jackie Collins (21, 33 [reduced to 6], 18 [reduced to 9], 64 [reduced to 10]): A search for had met on assignment in africa she was doing leopard led me to this interesting peek at the history of comic books.
The Selected Short Stories of Edith Wharton, edited by R.W.B. Lewis (49, 2, 33 [reduced to 6], 12): A search for he brought with him was due less to the influences of the proved less satisfying - sometimes the oracle is cloudy - but eventually, I discovered this treasure - an astrological chart reading for Zeppo Marx. (The number of religion or superstition-related sites that came up with this search was quite astounding. Was it the word "influence" that did it?)
The U.S. Armed Forces Survival Manual (54, 56 [reduced to 11], 62 [reduced to 8], 19 [reduced to 10]): least 15 minutes before loosening the tourniquet if after 15. This was tough. I could not decide between the Texas Junior Naturalists' snakebite page and these instructions from Trevor about how to enlarge one's penis so that one can, like Trevor, measure it down to the last decimal point. Lucky Trevor!
Posted by hilatron at 10:01 PM | Comments (6)
December 14, 2002
Sassy
Today needs some sassy jokes, lest I end up just giving up and going back to bed. I have chosen the format of "Hey, you! The _________ called, it wants its _________ back" for today's jokes. Because this is my blog and I like that sort of thing, you get extra points for overly elaborate, cumbersome jokes. Here are mine:
Hey, Human Race: the snails called, they want their pace back.
Hey, Face: my teenage years called, they want their complexion back.
Hey, Stop & Shop Shoppers: the blow-up dolls called, they want their vacuous stares back.
Hey, Stop & Shop Cashiers: the Empire State Building called, it wants its ability to destroy objects by dropping them from a great height back.
Hey, Layout Designers of Trader Joe's: the Overlook Hotel called, it wants its maze back.
Hey, Driveway: Lake Erie called, it wants its water back.
Hey, Ceiling: Swiss Cheese called, it wants its holes back.
Hey, Bedroom: musty tombs called, they want their stench back.
Hey, Ambition: Kelly Clarkson's notoriety called, it wants its tendency to rapidly diminish back.
Now you play!
Posted by hilatron at 07:55 PM | Comments (5)
Linky Winky
Hello! I have drunk far too much tea. This is why I am awake now. Right now I am organizing my favorites, twitch twitch. Revisiting all these favorites, many of which I recorded and then never looked at again, has made me want to share some with you. You deserve it!
This is a great site about farts. I was relieved to learn that I do not fart abnormally much. Do you worry about things like that? Or is that abnormal?
Here lies randomness. Click on different things and see what happens.
Go here to have your questions answered. It is a bit pop culture and a bit Rube Goldberg, and that's two good things.
Posted by hilatron at 03:12 AM | Comments (3)
December 13, 2002
It's not the leak that gets you, it's the monsters.
There is a hole in my bathroom ceiling. It is rectangular. It is caused by the absence of a ceiling tile. The ceiling tile was disintegrated by water; the decay was hastened with the help of The World's Grumpiest Maintenance Guy, who poked his fingers into it and broke it into little bits so that he could see where the water was coming from (and incidentally caused a deluge of rusty liquid to pour copiously all over the bathroom).
TWGMG arrived at our home on Wednesday evening, after Josh discovered water dripping onto the litter box and splashing the toilet and other essentials. TWGMG was displeased. He asked us rapid-fire questions which had little do with leaks, such as "Who owns this apartment?" He rolled his eyes when we did not know the answers. He seemed to suspect that we might have caused the leak on purpose, just to make his life hard. We explained that this was not the case. He wondered if we had asked our upstairs neighbors about the leak. We responded that as far as we knew, our neighbors are not plumbers. TWGMG then removed our ceiling tile, peered into the hole, barked something into a cell phone, made snarling noises which resolved into something about "need to talk to the oil people," and left. "Thank you!" we said. We were relieved to see, at least, that our leak was not a frivolous leak. I mean, when you need to call in the oil people, your leak is For Real. It is worth TWGMG's time.
Things then became eerily quiet, the better to hear drip-drip-drip. Josh went to class. Josh came back. Drip-drip-drip became drip...pause...drip...pause...drip, and eventually stopped. Huzzah!
The phone rang. On the other end was The Oil Guy Who Maybe Knocked Back a Couple Or Six, Or Has Something Else Going On Which Causes the Awkward Pauses Which Punctuate His Speech. TOG... asked if we were still leaking. I assured him that no, it had stopped. He was triumphant. "...I fixed it!" he said. I was glad for him.
So. Restorations occurred. The litter box was reinstated, the cat assured that all was well. Buckets were emptied. Peace reigned once again.
Except, there is a hole in the ceiling. The hole destroys the illusion that we are safely enclosed. Every time I pee or brush my teeth, I am reminded of the dank, dark, pipe-laced space above my head, just an inch of pourous sound insulation away. There could be anything up there. It looks like a really good place for, well, all sorts of nasty things. And now they have a portal. Great.
And then there's the other thing.
In the last week or so, there has been critter activity in the ceiling. That alone is a bit squinky. I'm not particularly freaked out by mice, but I defy you to not get a little alarmed when you hear skitter-skitter-SKRITCH-wokka-wokka-wokka-THUMP going on just above your head. And, sure, it's probably not giant centipedes, but I would like to remind you all that "the absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence." For you laypersons out there, that means that there could totally be giant centipedes. Giant centipedes which now have a rectangular, leaky portal.
Because, the leak? Came back in the night, soaked the floor, and left a squishy damp bathmat waiting for my feet this morning. The cat, whose litter box has been displaced twice in three days, is on full-out bushy-tailed crazy-eyed red alert.
Ugh. I don't know how we're going to explain this to TWGMG.
Posted by hilatron at 06:26 PM | Comments (2)
How dumb is she?
Today, Hilatron is SO DUMB that she went to set the timer, the timer that counts in minutes, for one hour, and entered -1- -0- -0- -0- -0-, and then stood there, gazing at the digital numbers, knowing that something was wrong but unable to figure out what, for a good five seconds. Five seconds is a whole lot of cognitive processing, people, but that's how long it took Hilatron to realize that a) timers that count in minutes cannot be set for -1- hour, and b) an hour is composed of sixty minutes, not one hundred.
Posted by hilatron at 05:46 PM
December 10, 2002
Bizarro-Tron
Today an unprecedented thing happened. Today I awoke and my clock informed me that I had slept waaaaay past the intended beginning of The Waking Process* (note to those who know me: shut. up. This is not the unprecedented part yet), leaving me a mere thirty minutes to get ready to go. I leapt from my bed, filled with thoughts of a Hostess breakfast in my future, and showered quick like a bunny. After departing from the bath, I realized something important: in my fumbling attempts to turn off my alarm this morning, I had set my clock an hour ahead. And due to my misguided rushing, I was early! I was showered and all, and I had over an hour to complete my toilette! (Yes, this is the unprecedented part.)
So this turned out to be a good thing, but since then, life has been a bit surreal. My timeline has been displaced. I spent the remainder of my newly expanded getting-ready time developing paranoid fears that, no, I was right the first time, I AM late, assuaging those fears, and then starting anew. I somehow managed to leave for work early, yet get here late, with people waiting at the door to pick pick pick at me with their needing things. Since I arrived, I have learned of three separate incidents where some work project I am involved in has turned out to be messed up or unpleasantly surprising, due to confusions of timing. I keep being wrong about when it is, by great hunks of time (it's winter? what?) My universe is off-kilter, all due to the brief temporal misconception I suffered this morning. I believe I have slipped into a topsy-turvy alternate reality. The flow of time is no longer regulated properly. I am not certain of my ability to tune in at 8pm Eastern time for Buffy this evening. Help!
Do others find that their grasp on time is as slippery as mine? Can you be so easily thrown off course? Do you know of any rituals to help return you to mainstream space-time?
*The Waking Process is an organic and ever-changing experience, not to be comprehended by mortals. It involves heady optimism, rolling over, lying to loved ones, many resettings of the alarm clock, staunch denial, and lots of tea.
Posted by hilatron at 02:47 PM | Comments (2)
December 07, 2002
How To Be A Customer
During the course of my time on Earth, I have spent a certain amount of time being someone who provides customer service of one kind or another, mostly in the form of standing behind a counter and fetching things for people and helping the people to pay for the things. Being on the dealing-with-customers end of transactions has taught me a number of things about how to be a good customer. Most of these things were learned using a method similar to the concept of negative space: I learned what to do by seeing innumerable permutations of what not to do. It seems to me that many a human must have had similar experiences, and yet, I am consistently amazed by how few seem to have actually learned anything. If you are one of the unschooled, I present you with the following tips and techniques to help you be a customer.
Lesson One: Basic Transactions
Here, we will cover the ground rules for engaging in a simple financial transaction. The steps are really quite simple:
1) Are you really done? I mean, really, for real? I know it?s confusing, sometimes, when you?re in a store, but usually all those other people around you are other customers waiting to be served. It can cause distress when you allow half your items to be rung up and then decide to look at a few other things. You may be using your time in the manner which pleases you best, but you are also taking liberties with the time of others, something a wise customer avoids.
2) If you have twelve dollars and twelve dollars only, please do not rely on your friendly neighborhood cashier as a personal calculator and make with the ?Okay, put that back. Okay, put that back,? etc. Likewise, do not assume that you can accurately gauge how much an unmarked item will cost. Remember how hard ?The Price is Right? was? It?s easy to avoid the dreaded void key with some simple arithmetic, or the following question: ?Could you tell me how much this is??
3) Keep busy. No one likes a slouchabout. One way to keep occupied while your goods are scanned or rung in is to stand, slackjawed, staring into space. Another is to chat on your cell phone. These are, of course, superfun activities, but allow me to suggest an extra-neat thing you can do during this uncertain time: you can prepare your method of payment. Remember, just picking the stuff out does not end your job as a customer. You must also present tender in order to become its rightful owner. Even if you act surprised every single time we get to the part where I say ?That?ll be $14.75, please,? you?re still going to have to cough it up. Why make the moment more painful with that awkward pause as you dig through your voluminous handbag?
4) Kindly move along. We are happy to serve you. We are also required to be happy to serve the person behind you. It?s difficult to do so, however, when you stand staunchly before us, organizing the pennies in your change purse by year.
Lesson Two: Interactions
Pleasant interactions can make life so much more enjoyable, don?t you agree? Some tips for making your engagements with servers oh so much nicer:
1) Let?s do a visualization. Look at the person who is going to be helping you. Fix their image in your mind. Now, close your eyes. Imagine that this person has a name, a family, a life and a personality all their own. Perhaps they like to bowl, or hate radishes. Mayhap their favorite color is green. Have you got it now? Yes! That is a Real Live Person. If you can remember this lesson while engaging in your transaction, it should be simple to interact with them on a polite and friendly level.
2) Gaze into my eyes. Well, no need to make like Svengali or anything, but the occasional glance tells me that you know I exist. It?s very reassuring. Many sales counters lack mirrors, so there?s no way to check that one hasn?t turned invisible.
3) Don?t be afraid to speak. Say you wish, for example, to attend a film. You could do this: walk up to the counter and silently thrust a ten-dollar bill towards the person behind the register. That?s being a customer, technically, but it?s got no pizzaz. Instead, try walking up to the register, bill in hand, and saying ?I?d like one ticket to Blockbuster of the Month, please!? Now that?s being a good customer! Likewise, make with the please and thank you. Remember what your mom said ? they?re free, unlike anything else you?re likely to find in a place of commerce.
Lesson Three: A Brief Exploration of Retail Management
Sometimes, a glimpse behind the scenes can broaden our understanding of how things work. Join me as I reveal some retail secrets that may just make you a better customer!
1) Generally speaking, if someone is performing a task such as folding sweaters, dusting shelves, or scanning the tag on your DVD, it can be assumed that that person is not a policy-maker. It?s confusing, I know. You see this person going around, touching all the stuff and poking around in the cash drawer like ? well, like they own the joint. But in these modern times, it?s highly unlikely that the person you?re dealing with in a store has anything to do with, say, setting prices, or deciding that, yes, when the sale circular says that an offer ends on Tuesday, it can?t be used on Thursday, even if you did lose it under your couch until Wednesday. In fact, chances are that no matter how long and loud you yell about how four dollars for popcorn is highway robbery, the person you?re yelling at doesn?t even have the power to give you a discount, much as they might like to make you shut up and go away ? er, make you a satisfied customer. If you must complain, save everyone?s time and ask to see the manager, who will say, ?Yes, I hear you? and give you a coupon. That?s what managers are for.
2) There is a reason for everything that happens in a place of business. That reason is called: profit. That is the reason why things cost money. That is the reason why stores are not staffed with a salesperson for each customer, necessitating that you wait in lines sometimes. That is why stores close at a certain time, even if you show up five minutes before that time. We swear. It?s nothing personal.
3) Just about anyone can get a retail job. Most people are not particularly good at it, and those who are possess a peculiar and highly valued talent, but there is a great enough need for this type of worker that that doesn?t really matter. Therefore, if you start feeling huffy, it is unwise to make with the veiled threats about job security, because ha! It is to laugh. There is another job down the street, or somewhere.
4) The top favorite thing to do during down time in retail is to hate the management. The second favorite thing to do is to hate the customers. Sometimes, this order is reversed. It?s just a hobby. The best revenge is to be a model customer, thus robbing the cashier of titillating consumer horror stories for the next slow Tuesday afternoon.
I hope that this journey through the world of customer-hood has proved informative. Good luck with your future transactions!
Posted by hilatron at 11:30 PM | Comments (3)
December 04, 2002
Reaching
You guys, I'm not a lot of use this week. Plus I have all this, like, other stuff I'm supposed to be doing besides writing entries. The indignity! At any rate, in lieu of doing much writing, I present you with some of the helpful rules provided at the Port Authority Greyhound Bus ticket counter, scribbled down in a notebook while waiting in an oh-so-long line. Pretty sorry excuse for an entry, eh? Commentary is in italics.
Travel Tips
1. [Something that was not funny, apparently, since I didn't write it down].
2. Baggage is heavy - do not carry more than you need. Let that be a lesson to you: leave your childhood traumas and commitment issues at home to insure a pleasant trip. Unless, of course, you're going to need them.
3. Only ask questions of authorized personnel. A) How do you figure out if someone is authorized to answer questions, though? You have to ask them...but you can't ask them until you know that they are authorized! It's a logistical nightmare!! B) Have you ever asked an Authorized Person a question at the Port Authority Bus Terminal? Ha, ha. Bet you didn't do it twice, unless you get off on having people act all offended that you have the gall to need INFORMATION, or want to know WHERE you ARE, or something.
4. [See Number 1].
5. Plan your trip - arrive at the terminal in ample time to board - rushing will only tire you. Does this just give you a warm fuzzy feeling, or what? Greyhound cares, they really really do!
6. Bring a sweater if you chill easily. It's often cooler where you are going, than where you came from. How sweet, more tips from Ma Greyhound! Sound advice, but, um, if you're already at the ticket stand, aren't you kind of screwed? I love the "if you chill easily..." Kinda gives the impression that these rules are only for the lily-livered, not for those manly burly bus-riding types.
Stay tuned for next week, when Hilatron will deconstruct a VCR manual! Oooh, the tawdry excitement!
Posted by hilatron at 09:42 AM | Comments (2)
December 03, 2002
With a bullet!
So I am in the process of switching over to a web counter which allows me to see what referred visitors to my site.* Yesterday, I discovered that Blogatron is #61 - and rising - on Yahoo's search results for "used panties." Woohoo! We should all be proud.
*Don't know what this all means or how it works? Neither do I! Just practice parroting words you hear, and stop asking uncomfortable questions, willya?
Posted by hilatron at 11:33 AM | Comments (1)
December 01, 2002
Hilatron's To Do List: 12/01/02
Wake up at nine, then go back to sleep until nearly noon, thus ensuring that work week will begin with blearyness and grouchitude: check!
Sing to self in shower while coming up with lengthy list of tasks to be accomplished today: check!
Waste most of day piddling about online instead of accomplishing any number of urgent and worthwhile tasks: check!
Turn a delicious brownie recipe into a really, really weird confection which may or may not ever cook all the way through, in a misguided attempt to make it healthier (like, they're brownies, Hilatron, get real): check!
Discover hideous pimple on end of nose and involuntarily nickname self Rudolph: check!
Fail to start laundry until early Sunday evening, prime time for families of ten to start their own washloads in a desperate battle over the three machines in our building: check!
Step on cat: check!
Give up on finishing Those Goddamn Pants once again: check!
Frighten and alienate friends and strangers alike by visiting their sites again and again and AGAIN in the hope that they will have updated so I can take my mind off my futile Sunday: check!
Stop having days where Charlie Brown could totally laugh at me: not quite done with that one, yet.
*sigh*
Posted by hilatron at 05:27 PM | Comments (2)