The Story of Erin, Maris, the Neighbor, and the Poo Bag (Don’t Assume Shit About My Dog’s Poo)

When you assume, you make an ass of you and me.  We’ve all heard it, right?  Oh, one of you hasn’t.  Well, let me break it down then.  Assume: ass = you + me.  Easy enough, right?And yet, someone made me an ass this afternoon with their stupid assumption.

                

First off, let me give you some background, Chris and I have lived in my apartment for three years now.  The past two years we’ve had Maris with us.  For those of you who don’t know me or haven’t seen my Instagram, she’s the great big, red, Rhodesian Ridgeback spoiled, princess puppy who has made me a pawrent.  We run five mornings a week, we do walks before I leave for work, when I come home from lunch, an evening walk, and Chris takes her out when he gets home from work as well.  We’re a pretty visible little family.

So this morning, like every other morning for over two years, I walk out my driveway.  Only, I get 50 feet down the block before a neighbor woman (who I have never met somehow) walks out of her house.  Upon seeing us walking, she says, “Are you going to pick up her poo?”  This is randomly out of the blue, asking a pawrent while they’re walking their dog – doing nothing to precipitate this – just coming out making assumptions and judging.

                

I grabbed my poo bag out of my pocket (glad it wasn’t one of those few times I rushed out of the house and prayed she’d hold it in before I got to Penny Lane to grab a bag from a dispenser), shook it at her and said “Yes.”

                

Instead of at least commending me for excellent parenting responsibilities, she then proceeds to launch into a diatribe about how she parks her car on the street and has to be careful she doesn’t step in dog poo. 

                

“That’s why I have one of these every time I walk her,” I said annoyed.

                

Now I do understand where she’s coming from.  Chris parks on the street, occasionally out driveway is blocked and I have to as well.  But does that give her the right to accuse me of not picking up after my dog?

                

Before you answer that let me ask present you with this scenario: You’re walking down the street.  It’s hot so you have a water bottle to drink from when someone stops you and asks you if you plan on throw away your water bottle, litter, or recycle.  

                

Or how about this: You’re talking to your mother on your phone leaving the grocery.  You hang up the phone and start putting groceries in your car when someone asks you if you’re going to text and drive.

               

That takes a lot of energy to worry about someone else’s purported future actions and be the morality police for everyone you meet.  Because I was simply walking my dog, I was instantly judged as guilty by this woman.  Imagine what her life must be like, to instantly mark people as guilty.  Does she drive by the liquor store and automatically assume anyone coming out of the liquor store is an alcoholic?  Does she see the mailman as a potential thief since they’ll know when she’s out of town? These assumptions, while correct for a few, do not correctly describe the people doing these everyday things.

                

If my dog was in the middle of pooing and she didn’t see a bag in my hand or that I was looking for a bag, this would be a completely different story.  I’ve offered my bags to people and have pointed out where poo bag dispensers are located.  I have made the mistake before of running out of the house without a bag, thinking it’s not her normal time of day to poo, so I’ll be okay.  And she’s pooed on me.  So I appreciate a helping a bag if I did forget mine.

                

Let’s forget that picking up poo is the right thing to do and look at poo as a whole.  Leaving poo on the ground is unhygienic.  First off, let’s like at what’s in poo.  It’s literally shit your body said, “Yeah, this isn’t working for me, so we’re going to get rid of it.”  So if your body doesn’t want it, there’s a reason for that.  And then it sits and flies gather around, and it smells.  Those are just some of the common courtesy to reasons to pick up your poo.

                

But the biggest reasons to pick up your poo are health reasons (which should be a given since your body already said “no” to that shit).  Forget about pinkeye, poo contains giardia, roundworms, salmonella, and E.coli as well as parvovirus and coronavirus.  If an unvaccinated puppy contracts pardon, their chances for survival are slim.  Puppies can receive vaccines for pardon, but the shots are taken in different rounds as the puppy ages. 

                

Other than it is just plain common decency to pick up your dog’s poo, it’s insuring other animals in the neighborhood stay healthy too.  It’s very hygienic.  Sine my hair was wet from showering, that should be a point for me in the hygienic department.  But no, my wet locks were completely ignored.   

                

So if it’s the decent, hygienic thing to do, that means it is the responsible thing to do.  That in a nutshell is why I’m so mad.  Chris and I are good pawrents.  Chris, a chef, researches what foods are best for him to cook in her food.  Yes, a chef cooks her food.  Not only that, but he uses only organic products (locally grown if he can) with grass-fed beef.  He cooks down bone broth that we add to her dry food (Origen’s b/c that’s the only food the chef will allow her to eat) in the mornings.  He also makes sure she gets a small amount of blueberries to promote her urinary tract.  At night, she eats his food.

                

For my part, I wake up at 5 am four days a week to take her for 4-5 mile runs.  She loves running and looking for squirrels and rabbits.  I take her for walks before I leave for work, I walk her when I come home for lunch, and I walk her at night.  I make sure this dog gets plenty of exercise.

                

As far as on an emotional level, I would bet this 2-year-old dog gets as much attention as a toddler does from his parents.  She’s 75 pounds, and when I come home, she plops herself down in my lap.  She sleeps in our bed.  Yet, she knows she has to sit and have manners when it comes to dinner time.  We try really hard to be good pawrents, to recognize her needs, and then do everything in our power to exceed those needs.

                

Having to ask if I pick up my dog’s poo insinuates that I don’t understand the responsibilities of pet ownership and recognizes me as irresponsible.  It diminishes me as a pawrent.

                

With that said the moral of the story is: Worry about yourself unless you see said action happening (and then offer a bag).

P.S. My poo bag ended up in my trashcan.  My mother taught me a thing or two.

Chris's Valentine's Day Gift

We all know that I’m easily the best Valentine anyone can ever ask for!

Just kidding.  It was nearly 3o years before anyone was brave enough to by my Valentine.  And when I got my first Valentine, I gave him a pair of running shoes for his first Valentine’s Day gift.  It’s a gift I would en joy, but hey, I’m not everybody.

Anyway, I do know that Chris did love his shoes then.

So, let’s recap with this year’s Valentine’s Day…or Valentine’s Day Eve…

I get off work and haven’t bought Chris’s gift yet.  If you know me, then you are not at all surprised by this.  So I go to the local running shoe store, Ultimate Fit, and get him a pair of shoes.  It’s saved in a database and it’s the same shoe I bought him for our first Valentine’s Day together.

He isn’t home because he’s working, so I met him for dinner.  He was late, I was pissed, but got over it after he bought me two jumbo margaritas.  I know…I’m so easily bought…

Then we left and went home…

Note: I don’t wrap.  At Christmas, my presents get wrapped with the help of my sister.  I wrap some of them, she wraps all of them (because she wraps what I don’t wrap, and then re-wraps what I did wrap because it is so terribly done).

My idea for his present is to put in the LA-Z-BOY chair that he always sits in when he gets home at night and be totally surprised by them.

So I get home after dinner, taking Maris outside (Since I beat him home), and leave his new shoes on this little table we have in the foyer at the top of our stairs.  He isn’t quite so far behind me, and is inside waiting for me after I’ve let Maris out.

“I see you bought yourself some new shoes,” he says to me.

“He wears a mens’ size 13.  I wear a women’s size 8 ½.  “Look at them,” I say.

He does and then and then lets out some grunting sound.

“Open them,” I say.

He did.  And then he realized that they were men’s shoes and that they were for him.  “I didn’t need new shoes,” he said.

“You were complaining about shin splints and knee pain,” I told him.  I’m not new to the running game.  And in fact had to replace shoes earlier than necessary when I trained for my marathon. 

He shrugged, so I said, “Happy fucking Valentine’s Day.”

 But this story doesn’t end there.  Because, I decided to get back at him, you see.  I just didn’t realize what I was doing until I’d already done it.

On Valentine’s Day, Chris and I were signed up for a 5k.  4 out of 5 years, I’d ran this 5k.  Since we’d been together, this would be the third time running it, second time that we would be run it together, and the first time since we had run with our puppy, Maris, who will be 1-year-old in March.

So we drive to the race on Valentine’s Day.  It’s cold, so I go in and register for us.  Did you honestly think I’d have registered in advance?!

I get our numbers and run back to Chris at the car and we put our numbers.  There is some discussion about our key.  He doesn’t have any pockets.  I don’t either.  So I decide to tie the key around my shoe.  But after, walking Maris and being annoyed by the key slapping my foot, I decide to put the key on her leash despite Chris’s protestations.

Anyway, we get to the starting line.  The national anthem is sang and the gun is shot and we’re off.  Maris is really excited and Chris knows I’m faster than him, so we trot off ahead him .  She’s pulling me , and I’m trying to help hold her back and then I look down and the key isn’t on her leash!!!!!!

           

At this point we’re about a half of mile into the race and Chris catches up to me.  He tells me to look for the key…which I’m prepared to do once I finish the race.   Maris and I find our stride, and we take the next 2 miles as fast as we can. Once we finish we start looking for the key.

Chris is furious with me.  I’m retracing my steps.  My mother, who has a spare key to my car is in Owensboro (45 minutes away), and can’t get to us.  Chris calls my aunt while I continue to look (my phone was locked in my car).  Thankfully, she lives close by.

So we look, Melody picks us up, and then drives us to the eastside to get my key out of my mom’s house.  And when I say us, I mean Chris, me, and Ginger Biscuit Bottom, Maris.  We find the key and drive back to the race.

This is how I would end this story, but I have an ace in the hole named Darla.  Darla is an awesome retiree whose husband is in charge of security at the local college (who hosted the 5k).  While I asked several times if the race had found our key, it hadn’t yet been found.

t. 

So I told Darla the story about me losing her key.  She asked me what it looked like and then texted her husband describing my key!  Not one to get my hopes up, I think it is a long shot, especially considering the 6 inches of snow we got since the race.

But, wonder of all wonders, the key was turned into security and Darla’s husband has my key!  He cane bring it home and she can even get it to me at work!

I’m so excited I text Chris, my mom, and Melody and let them all know that even know I’m an idiot, at least I did find the key to my car!

Happy fucking Valentine's Day, Chris!

Creeper Joe and the Retail Woes

I thought I saw it all when I was a server.  I’d been degraded and talked to down by people with little or no education and by my congressman’s wife (and I won’t vote for him again until he can keep his dog on a leash).  I’ve been sweet-talked and complimented by customers racking up a $100 bill to stiff me on the tip (I’m sorry, but kind words are no substitute for cold, hard cash), and just been stiffed by assholes who thought that if I wanted to actually make a living wage that I should’ve chosen a different career path (hey, if you want me to make $8/hour, then your $8 burger is going to cost more like $24).

Now, not to brag, but I’m not exactly stupid.  I did graduate high school.  I even graduated college.  I just happened to get two degrees that are worth about as much as Enron stock.  Sadly, I was making more money serving than I was using my degree.  So now, I am getting my certificate of accounting and have had good enough grades that I was invited to join several honor societies (take that congressman’s wife who told me she went to college after high school).

Anyway, I’m not here to talk about my smarts or my asshole restaurant customers.  I’m talking about Creeper Joe.

Now, we’ve seen some people come through the doors of our little store.  We have Whisper, an online shopping compulsive who will buy $2000 worth of clothes and return IT ALL with the clothes still wrapped in the plastic they were shipped in by way of explanation that nothing fit (um, if it’s still in the plastic, how do you know it doesn’t fit?).

We have those crazies with reverse body dysmorphia who seen themselves two or three sizes smaller than they are.  I’m not one to call someone out for his or her size.  We all have our hang-ups.  But I’m not buying a size 00 and then bringing it back saying the manufacturing is shoddy because the clothes are all stretched to kingdom come and back.  No joke, I’ve even seen a size 0 co-worker be insulted by one of those crazies.  The customer asked my co-worker what size her shirt was and my co-worker responded by size extra-small.  The customer then said, “Oh, it must be running big then.”  To which my co-worker responded by saying “Well, this is the size in tops that I always wear.”

We have Crazy Town, a customer who comes into the store three and four times looking at the same thing, butting into other customer’s conversations to ask their opinion before leaving and not buying anything (which is great for conversion, BTW).

We have loads more nut-jobs that come into our store, but all of those pale in comparison to Creeper Joe.

It was a Saturday.  It was about 10:45.  Kamerin, the other girl that I was working at the time went to the restroom.  With no one in the store, I was just kind of bee-bopping around.  I glanced at the jewelry to make sure no grimy mitts had messed it up to badly, people watched, and finally went to the registers to check our e-mail. 

I was reading e-mail me when I voiced cut in above me.

“Do you have any scissors?”  Now, other than the fact that he was completely in stealth mode coming into my store (most customers you can hear from the other end of the mall), one look at him told me: Do not give this Crazy a weapon of any kind.

“No,” I lied.  And once it was said, I knew that he knew that I was lying.  But seriously, what was he going to say?  “Hey, I know you have scissors?”  He still wouldn’t get a “weapon” from me.

He hedges around and finally admits defeat and then begins to walk for the door.  And then the jewelry caught his eye.  “You’ve got some nice jewelry,” he says.

“Yes we do,” I respond because seriously, this is a women’s clothing store with women’s jewelry.  Now, while I’m cool with cross-dressers (money is money), this creep didn’t look like he had two quarters to buy a gumball.

“Can I try this on?” he asks. 

Before I can respond with “Are you fucking crazy?” Kamerin appears and tells him he can.  He then asks for a mirror and Kamerin points out the little mirror on our jewelry table. 

“I want to go back there,” he says spying our dressing room and big mirrors.

So he treks back there and Kamerin follows.  He tries on the necklace.  Mind you, he has on a hoody with the hood up and he has a hat on top of his hoody.  He also has a backpack.  The try-on doesn’t go so well, so he puts his backpack down, takes off his hat and his hoody and thankfully he has on a t-shirt.  Kamerin puts the necklace on him.

“I just wish it was longer,” he said.

Kamerin goes and get another similar necklace that is longer in length and puts it on him!  This girl is a trooper.

“It’s just not as nice as the other one,” he says.

Kamerin responds by saying, “ But it matches your shirt.”

To which he then responds by pulling up his t-shirt and showing off his boxer shorts and asking if it matches his boxer shorts.

Kamerin got a gold star by saying “It matched your shirt better.”

He then comes up by the jewelry table and to look at more jewelry, and we then learn the true intentions of his mission.

“I really just came in here for some scissors,” he says.  “Nobody will give me any scissors.”  Apparently, we haven’t been his first stop.  “I need to cut my hair,” he says and then proceeds to short us how his greasy hair needs to be trimmed around his ears and his bangs.

I’m about to tell him there’s a salon in the store when Kamerin says, “You can probably get some really cheap at Wal-Mart.  For less than three dollars.”

“If nobody will let me borrow some, I’ll just steal him,” he says.

Now, as a retail worker, this is exactly what I want to hear someone talk about: stealing shit!  If you’re going to steal scissors, what won’t you steal!

Anyway, Creeper Joe gets done looking at the jewelry and heads back to the dressing rooms to put his hoody, hat, and backpack back on.  I watch him like a hawk to make sure he doesn’t pocket any tights, belts, or anything really. 

A security guard goes by and Kamerin asks me if she should go and I get them.  I tell her no because at this point I just want Creeper Joe to leave.  If there’s going to be an altercation, I want it to take place out of my store.

And finally he leaves.  I call security and tell them about Creeper Joe, giving them an exact description about him.  They ask me what I want them to do about it. 

“Well,” I say, “He’s told me he’s going to steal scissors if he can’t find some to borrow and he said no one will give him scissors, so apparently we weren’t his first stop.”

I hang up the phone, shake my head in bewilderment and we talk about Creeper Joe.  I wanted him gone.  Kamerin thought he may have a weapon and didn’t want to upset. 

Anyway, I find out a couple of days later that Creeper Joe had been across the way at Victoria’s Secret and asked my sister-in-law (a manager there) for scissors.  When she wouldn’t give him any, he started looking at the swimsuits.  He tried to pull a girl out of line to get her opinion on the swimsuit and how it would look at him.  My sister-in-law told him he needed to leave.

Another co-worker hears from a friend that Creeper Joe made it all the way to the middle of the mall and approached a jewelry store and asked for scissors.  My co-worker’s friend gave Creeper Joe scissors.  Creeper Joe then turned around to walk to a bathroom presumable to cut his hair.  Her friend asked him wear he was going, and when he found he was going to cut his hair, the guy asked for his scissors back.

Anyway, the moral of this story is that while there are all kinds of creepers in the mall, Mall Security isn’t going to do shit about it unless you sit down in one of the massage chairs to simply sit (not get a massage).  At that point, they’ll pull your ass out of the chair and tell you to move along. 

Trying to steal scissors is okay with them.

Erin and Chris Meet the Neighbors!

Disclaimer: It's been awhile since I wrote.  What can I say, except that life got in the way and I didn't want to force my writing.  But now that I'm studying for an accounting test, words are coming to me a lot easier than these damn numbers are.  Anyway, onto the blog!

It was a Friday night.  And it was a fairly nice evening which has been uncommon since about October of last year.  Chris had a monstrous night at work and wasn't able to leave until after 9:30.  I was at my parent's house that night for two reasons.  One of those reasons is because I like to be around company if I happen to have a Friday night off of work and not in my house by myself.  The second reason is that my parents have food.  Just because my baby is chef doesn't mean we have food in this house (in fact, we have less food in this house than I have in other apartments, ironically...).

Anyway, he calls me and says he's getting ready to leave the club.  I gather up my stuff from my parents house ready to spend at least an hour with my baby before I finally pass out from sleep deprivation.

Our house is located on a corner right in front of a bus stop.  I turn the corner and there is a person waiting on the bus.  It's a little late, and I live downtown, so I gather up my wallet and things pretty quickly because I don't exactly have a death wish and head to my door.

I reach the steps to the side entrance and that's when the stranger waiting on the bus speaks up and asks what time it is.

Now, I know this is going to be hard to fathom, especially for those of you who know me, but I really am not a mean person.  If you're nice to me I'll be nice to you.  If you're a bitch to me...well, I have red hair...so I really think it goes without saying that I can be a soulless bitch.

Maybe I do have a death wish though.  Because what I should've done was acted like I hadn't heard the person and headed straight into my house.  What I should've done, wasn't what I did.  Because I glanced at my cell phone, and I answered the stranger, a girl, that it was 9:51 (It really and truly was 9:51.  I remember it like it was ten minutes ago).

She says, "Dang, I been waitin' on this bus for fifteen minutes."

I respond by saying, "Oh my, that sucks," because it really does truly suck, but there isn't exactly anything I can do about it.  And honestly, getting a bus at nearly 10 p.m. on a Friday night in our little podunk town probably isn't going to be easy to begin with.  We're not exactly New York City.  Hell, we ain't even Grand Rapids, Michigan (which has a good public transit system...I know because I just Googled it!).

"Well," she says, "I'm your neighbor.  See that light," she says and gestured across the street.  "That's my apartment building.  My friend done had a baby, and I want to go over there and see it, but I been drinking, and I'm not about to get no DUI."

"Well, yeah," I respond by saying.  Honestly, though, I can't name one person that honestly and truly wants to get a DUI.  But I appreciate her thought process on this.  However, I knew what was coming next.  She saw me park in the driveway, she knows I have a car that works...And I've already looked around an ascertained that Chris's ass isn't home yet.  His absence pisses me off because I fucked around a little longer than normal at parents just so he could beat me home.  And, despite all of my fuckery, he hasn't made it home and I'm dealing with this drunk woman on a street corner who wants me to take her to her friends to see her new baby (Don't think that fact that she's wasted and wanting to see a newborn baby hasn't escaped me, but I don't judge other people for their decisions...unless they judge my decisions first...).

And then it happens, "Can you take me?  I got like three dollars I could give you.  It ain't far.  It's on Sweetser Avenue," she says but it comes out more like Switser.  I must've have looked confused because she went on to say, "Down by Glenwood School."

I know exactly where Glenwood School is and it's not because of my middle-class upbringing.  It's because a lot of shootings and stabbings and gang-relatated activity happen near Glenwood.  Our little patch of hell may not be Los Angeles, but we do have the occasional drug-related violence here (and happens THERE).

"Well," I say, "I'm waiting for my fiance.  He's on his way over here."  And then, like a sign from God, Christopher comes around the corner.  I wave my arms and yell his name and he stops a few feet short from his parking spot on the curb.

"She needs a ride and wants to know if we can take her," I tell him.

He looks at me, and I can't even begin to describe the look on his face.  It's a mix of disbelief, disgust, and a dash of curiosity.  "Ok," he says.  So I walk the drunken stranger over to the car.  She sits in the backseat, and I get in the front seat.

"I don't know you all," she says, "But you seem like good people.  I hope you're good people because I gotta admit, I'm a little scared."  Chris tells me afterward that he really and truly wondered how she was scared when she was driving us to the worst of the worst parts of our city.

"I got a little money," she admits again and I tell her not to worry about it.  She introduces herself to us and we introduce ourselves back.  She goes onto to explain that she's our neighbor and then says "I ain't got the best place, but I've got nice stuff.  You know NeNe Leakes?" she asks and I respond that I do and that I like her.  "I like her too, but NeNe forgets where she came from," our new neighbor says.

"I don't forget where I come from.  I worked hard to get where I am, but I don't forget.  NeNe was a stripper that got lucky and she done forgot where she came from.  And that's why I can't like NeNe," she says.  Well, everybody's got their opinion, and if she doesn't like NeNe, she doesn't like NeNe.  That's her prerogative.

"I do think y'all are good people," she says.  "Thank you, Chris for taking me.  I'm a little tipsy and I don't want no DUI.  Those cops be liking to target people all the time, so I was taking the bus, but I waited 15 damn minutes and that bus didn't show.  So thank you for taking me."

"It's no problem," Chris says.  Our neighbor gives a couple of directions and then says, "You know, y'all should come over.  Just knock on the door.  I like to drink some beer and wine.  Y'all should come over, we can drink some beer, have a few laugh, maybe even read the bible (Honest to god she mentioned the bible)."

At this point, she is now directing Chris to a house where a car is parked.

"Oh those liars," she says seeing the car.  "They done said nobody could come pick me up."

"Well, maybe they just got home," Chris says.

"Hmm," our neighbor says, "They's gonna hear about this.  Got me waiting for a bus and asking my neighbors for a ride."  She gets out of the car and says, "Well, thank you Erin and Chris.  It was real nice meeting good people like y'all.  Come over for some beer," and shuts the door.

Chris just looks at me.  I can't help it, I start to laugh as he pulls away from the curb.

"Really?" he asks me, the disbelief shining bright in his eyes.

I'm still laughing.  "I mean, we've got a bible-study we can go to now!  And we know she'll serve wine."

Chris just shook his head.  Five minutes later, we were parking at the house.  Thank God the bus stop was empty of any prospective riders.

Fare Thee Well Verizon (Because You're No Longer Getting My Money)

I can't really begin to tell you the level of anger-insanity I reached today when I called Verizon.  What started out as a call to fix my P.O.S. that I'm hanging on to until Apple decides to release the iPhone5 (something else I'm a little bitter about, APPLE!), turned south fast.  I was asked if I wanted to upgrade.   I asked if the iPhone 5 was available (knowing full well it wasn't), and was told it wasn't.  I then asked if I could no longer receive the unlimited data (I pay $20 for unlimited, you *were* so jealous), thinking she'd give me a date WAY off in the future, perhaps around September or October at the earliest.  Instead, I was told the date was June 28.  NEXT THURSDAY!  In eight days!  Like a bunch of greedy, grubby, cowardly lions, they were going to silently slink into the night without so much as a publicized heads up on the date unlimited data died.

Needless to say, I was pissed.  I was so mad, that there is no commonly accepted unit of measure to measure my level of hysteria.  Let's just say that if I wasn't a marathon runner, my heart probably would've stopped.  I was THAT PISSED.  It's too bad I wasn't being monitored at a doctor's office.  I'm sure blood pressure would've looked amazing at the moment I heard the news.

So, like any good, decent, middle class woman, I decided to write a letter.  True, my words would most likely be ignored, but at least they'd be out there instead of pent up inside of me like a time-bombing ticking away.  And so, the following is the letter I wrote to Verizon.  It will be interesting to see if they follow-up with me at all (and if they do, what could they possible say).

Goodbye, Verizon. It's been a nice run together. But, seeing as how you took the cowards way out and didn't bother publicizing the date that your old, loyal, tried and true customers will lose their data, I don't think I can stand by and support your company by giving them monthly checks anymore for a cell phone. In case you haven't heard, you aren't the only cell phone company out there. And all of your plans are all pretty similar. Since I'm losing my unlimited data and am going to a spanking of epic proportions on data now, I'm going to give someone else that money, someone who hasn't yet gotten the privilege of spanking me and beating me into the ground like you have despite our six-year history together (Which should be eight years, but don't get me going on that one. It will only cause me more pain to think about the paperwork that the store in Bloomington LOST back on November 6, 2004 - yes, I can give you the exact date - but still decided to stay with you despite the ineptitude of that store because one little, fledgling store that obviously employees idiots can't speak for a whole company...) 

GOODBYE VERIZON! Like I said, it's been a good run together. And while I may renew my second line on June 27, I will not renew my other lines. They will fade off into the oblivion of once loyal supporters that you so callously brushed off in favor of an already fatter bottom-line.

 I can only hope you don't fall flat on your face and require a government bail out because I don't want your to get any more of money than you deserve.

Oh Verizon, How I Really Loathe You Sometimes...

When the occasion calls for it, I am great at belittling people. Not only that, but we all know that I love a good rant on top of that. So, when I called Verizon back in October to get my sister's phone transferred onto my account and the customer service girl gave me attitude, snide, snarky, sarcastic Erin rose to the occasion and probably ruined that poor woman's day…

Things started out innocent enough. I was at work. Bean calls me and says she wants to get her phone added to my line. Since she's in Denmark 95% of the time, this would only cost me an extra $10 a month and give Andrea a phone to use when she's here that 5% of the time. She's my sister. She's my bestest. I don't mind.

So I call a friend I know that works at a Verizon dealer. I was going to tell him Bean had my permission and gave him all my info to get the transfer all done. However, he couldn't do that. He gave me a number to call and told me it would take five minutes or so.

At work, I called the number hoping that this would be as quick, easy, and relatively painless. However, like a trip to a dentist, the call was anything but…

It started out good though. I called the number. The automated voice answered and asked my for the phone numbers, my account password and all that jazz. Then she said to wait a minute. I took this as a good sign, that the transaction was set to go through. Oh, I was so wrong. Instead of hearing the automated voice tell me that I had successfully added another number onto my account, I got a real, live human person.

And guess what. She asked me what I'd like to do. I was a little put out because I wanted to know what the hell the whole recording-rigamole was, but I wasn't about to get snotty with the poor customer service rep because Verizon was worthless.

So I told her what I needed to do and that I was on a time crunch because I was at work and shouldn't be on my phone.

She responded by saying: Well, ma'am, this is a fifteen minute process and if you don't have the time, then I suggest you call back when you do.

If you just guessed that my next response was less than pleasant, you are correct. I responded by saying: I needed this done now. My sister is getting on a plane to head back to Denmark, where she lives, and adding her number to my line is the best choice for her when she comes back to the states.

Then she asked for our numbers. I gave them to her. Now, she can put those numbers into her little computer and find out everything she needs to know about both lines. But, apparently she didn't do that because she then told me that both of our numbers would have to be Verizon numbers.

"Well, that's good because they both are," I said. Yes, the snark was definitely creeping into my voice at this point.

"I need to speak to the owner of the other line," she then snapped trying to match my snark with rudeness.

This was not settling well with me. "Well, she's at the Verizon dealer. He's the one that told me to call this number.

She repeated herself. "I need to speak the owner of the line."

"Well, you have her number," I said. "If you're not going to callout he dealer, why not call her then!" I huffed.

She put me on hold. For four minutes. You bet I timed her. When she came back on the line, she recognized that she had already been given my sister's permission.
.
"That's what I told you!" I snapped. My patience was gone

She ignored my jab which was probably for the best since this whole song-and-dance number was stretching out to ten minutes. So we moved on to the next phase of the process.

This phase required me to give…(drumroll please)…my phone number! And then…(cue the drumroll once more)…my sister's phone number! And yes, if you're keeping count, this is the third time that I have to had to give those numbers out during this phone call.

I don't mind repeating myself once or twice, but this was borderline ridiculous.

So when she asked my birthdate (something she'd already asked earlier) my mood completely shredded. "Really? What else am I going to have to repeat," I snapped.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," she said. "I can't access the previous information."

I gave her my birthdate. She repeated it back. Wrong. I clarified. This time, she had my birth year as 1918. I clarified again and then said, "Are you trying to go slow on purpose?"

"Ma'am," she tried to interject.

"Because I think you are. You know I'm in a hurry."

"I'm going as fast as the program will let me she said," and then asked for something else that I had already given.

"Do you want to know the new balance," she said.

"I just want to get this done," I said.

"There will be a credit, but I guess you don't want to know that either," she snapped.

"I guess I don't," I replied tartly.

And finally, thankfully, mercifully, the number was transferred and I was ending the call. Next, I texted Beanie to let her know she was all good to go if she wanted to look for a new phone.

Later, after work, I called to get the new information. Obviously, I didn't speak to the same woman. But I did apologize for being a handful!

And there it is: Proof that I can be nice if I want to be!

The Cast of Characters in My Craziness Life

It occurs to me that since I started this little blog, that my cast of characters has changed drastically. Sure, the sis is still there and so is the LB, but I've included a few others (or will include a few others) as well. Since about half of the new characters have the same name as someone else, and the people that I work with can't even keep everybody straight, I'm going to include this little brief cast synopsis complete with nicknames so you can keep everybody straight.

Me: Well, if you haven't figured out by now, I'm a little insane, sarcastic and surly. I'm annoyed by people and love flipping the script on people who try to make my life harder (chiefly the list included my credit card company, my cell phone carrier, and anyone else who may happen to cross my path on that certain day.). I have a dog that I'm nuts over and I find some kind of perverse fulfillment out of running long distances. Oh yeah! I also love margaritas!

The Sis/Bean/Andrea 1: Ok, obviously this is my sis. She is my PIC (Partner in Crime). Before I went to college, we were polar opposite and didn't appreciate each other. Upon my graduating college we both realized that we each had "goodness" in us (I'm using that term loosely. Not that we actually have the kind of God-fearing Tim-Tebow kind of goodness in us, just that we both saw things in each other that we liked) and became not only friends but best friends. She is my bestest and despite marrying a 6'8 giant Danish man and moving to Denmark, we still talk frequently. I also get to have really awesome European vacations now!

The LB/Kevin: LB short of The Little Brother, a moniker he abhors because he is "no longer little." At 6'1, maybe he has a point, but that's not the case. Andrea and I both changed his diapers growing up (and mom would then have to rechange his diapers because our 5- and 3-year-old fingers weren't quite as dexterous as we thought they were) and old habits die hard. He'll never be my "big" brother for the obvious reason such as I was born five years ahead of him. It doesn't matter that he's married and has a mortgage. He's still the little brother. When he makes me an aunt, he'll still be the LB. The LB and I share a love of IU or Indiana University, the college we're both alums from and also a passion for tho damned Yankees. Both the Sis, the LB, and I can talk in movie quotes. It tends to drive a lot of people insane.

Mom: The poor unfortunate woman who birthed me and now lives in sin (Sorry mom, but it had to be said). What can be said about her? Really, the question is what can't be said about her? She's had to deal with my immaturity and shenanigans. Flying marshmallows and burn outs in the grocery store don't seem to bother that thick skin. She expects the unexpected from me. And when the unexpected happens, she ducks her head and rounds a different aisle. Her goal in life is to get me to grow up. I think my goal in life is keep my mom young. So far, I think I'm winning.

Charlie/Chuck/Dr. Homer Noodleman: Charlie is my mother's other half. He's the one that lives in sin with her. Despite being a business owner, Chuck has a juvenile streak in him as well. Call the house and he answers by saying "Crime scene" and then proceeds to act like he's some kind of overseeing detective shouting cop lingo in any way that he can. If it's after 5p.m. Charlie can normally be found holding a glass of Jack Daniels and water - his drink - and coming up with ideas of sheer genius despite their depravity. The Mummy was the creation of Mom and Charlie.

Andrea 2/Dos/the Stepsister: Ok, I know my mom is living in sin, but try explaining to people how Charlie's daughter(s) are related to you. Yeah. Saying she's my stepsister just expedites the process and saves me the weird looks from my rambling description. She is still in college, used to work at a movie theatre, and now works as a hostess. We think she'll graduate this fall. We know that she isn't in much of a hurry to graduate. Anyway, it's not like there are actually jobs out there waiting for her, right Mr. President (ba-dum bump!). Sorry, sorry, I know I don't get political but it couldn't be helped. She is also my roommate at the residence that we have to come to reference as Animal House (because of the 7 boys that lived there prior to us). Like my real sibs, Dos likes the dives that we liked to inhabit.

Jenny 1/The Stepsister: I'm not repeating how she's related to me. If you need that, look at the first three sentences that describe Andrea 2. Jenny is a hairdresser at a local beauty shop in town. She lives at her mom's house, but can often be found at Mom and Charlie's if she knows that Andrea, Dos, or I will be there. She often likes to get involved in my juvenile schemes.

Andrea 3/the Sister-in-Law/Tres: Yeah, Kevin for real married a girl named Andrea. You would've thought after living and dealing with my sister that the name would've been a turn-off but apparently it wasn't. Which is good because Tres can't be any farther from being my sister. She's a manager at a store in the mall and we all totally love it because she gets us presents from the store for birthday and Christmas (and the store has awesome IU gear). She has broadened my brother's trash-TV habits by introducing him to Teen Mom and Jersey Shore. She loves Italian food and I can often count on her to come to lunch with me at Olive Garden, a place I love when I'm needing to carb-load for long runs on Saturdays.

Hans: This is my sister's husband. At first, he was my nemesis. He was tall and awkward and didn't talk to me. I wasn't happy with him for a number of reasons that mainly stemmed back to the first night we were all together. He and Andrea went to find privacy and I couldn't find her. She wouldn't answer her cell phone. Not because he didn't tell her to answer it, but because she can be a complete douche sometimes and she didn't want to answer it. Anyway, it was a big hurdle to cross, gaining my trust because I knew ultimately he would take her away (and he totally did. Bastard.). But he's a great guy who puts up with the many faces of Andrea and gives me free room and board when I visit them. His family is also aces (But not quite as cool as mine).

Jenny 2/Jenny that I Run With/RJ: RJ is a girl from my journalism classes. We knew each other, were Facebook acquaintances, but that was about it. Then I started running. Jenny had been running about a year longer (technically, she ran in high school, but dropped it in college), and we met at a the half-marathon in April. We kept in touch, ran on a team of four for a 12-hour relay (yes, twelve hours of four people switching up running), and then we decided to run a marathon (I'm thinking this was over margaritas). Having accomplished that, we are now looking to become marathon maniacs by running three marathons in 90 days (I know this decision was made over margaritas). Just watch, the next wise decision will be to run a triathlon of some sort (I'm drawing the line at a full-fledged iron man or swimming the English Channel).

I'm sure that a few more people will make appearances during the lifespan of this blog, but at this current moment in time, these are the people matter most to my stories (not in my life, because everyone matters equally in my life). Anyway, this was just a little clarification to help you out when you read these stories and become utterly confused when you see the word Tres used and wonder why someone is called "Three" in Spanish.