17 July 2011

Who needs a razor when you have invisible hair?

Today I hung out with a French princess.

At least, that's what she must have been in a former life. Otherwise, I cannot explain her.

I meet her at the grocery store where we work because it is extremely important for her to find leg hair-dye. Who bleaches their leg hair? If you want people to think your legs are hairless, isn't it easier to just...make them hairless? No, really, stop and think about this for just a second. Every time new hair grows in, you will have to either dye it or shave it. They're probably equally time consuming. Razors are cheaper, and your legs not only look hairless...but they are!

We head to her apartment to drop the groceries off. She's babysitting her friend's kitten, so I occupy myself with this treasure while she organizes her groceries and cleans up her disaster site of an apartment. That's fine. It's an adorable kitten and it's more stimulating than she is.

Suddenly she says, "Hold on, I need to call my sister, it'll take two minutes... Coucou! How are you? I'm alright, how are things in Bergerac? Ah, okay. I'll see you Tuesday. So what are you doing tonight? Really? Nothing, I need to buy a new wallet. So you're staying home all alone?"

I understand what she's saying. I fail to understand why it's so urgent for her to know what her sister is up to tonight. And how she's forgotten that I exist for ten minutes with me sitting a foot away from her, playing with the kitten on the kitchen floor. When she finally hangs up, it's nearly closing time for the shops.

And so we venture out to Rue Sainte Catherine. It is important to note that this is a mile-long pedestrian shopping street. And that we start right at the beginning of it in the city center. And that before we even get there, she casually skims through her cell phone contacts, selects a number, and calls it.

Fine. I'm not excessively talkative. But halfway down this mile-long shopping street, she's still on the phone. "Oui, ├ža fait longtemps! Tu fais quoi demain soir?" I entertain the thought that if I disappear into a shop, she'll continue walking till the end of Rue Sainte Catherine, finish her conversation, and have no idea why she went out just to make a phone call.

"Hold on," she says into the phone. "Kris, I'm sorry, it's been a while since I've talked to him." She puts the phone back to her ear. "Oh, no, it's nothing. So have you talked to Julia?"

I'm a bit miffed because it was her idea to se balader. With moi. I didn't realize that se balader was also French for be my lady-in-waiting.

We're nearing the end of the street when she finally hangs up. "Sorry, he's so stupid. He wanted to talk, I couldn't hang up." Forgetting that she called him twenty minutes ago.

We go into H&M. "The clothes aren't very high quality," she says, "but you like it, so we'll look." Why thank you, Your Highness! Seeing as she's into frill and I've always been lacking in femininity, I trail away from her immediately. "Wait, Kris! We don't want to lose each other."

We don't? I can't shop socially. Shopping is a mission to find clothes that I don't hate. I can't be distracted by others' opinions, suggestions, and questions about their own choices.

"I need to visit the tanning salon. It takes about fifteen minutes. Will you wait for me?"

I hate the concept of tanning booths. People that tan on a regular basis, that need to / avoir besoin de visit a tanning salon with regularity are generally narcissists; and the people that run them make a living off of your insecurity with your own skin color and your impending skin cancer diagnosis. But I can't say these things to her. I have trouble saying no to women. Only the mercy of Finland can explain the salon closing early this evening.

We decide to go home, because this is no fun. I find her mind-boggling vapidity mildly entertaining, but I'd rather chew my hand off than stay with her.

There was a time at work when she was at the cash register next to mine, and an Asian woman checked out on my side. I didn't know which specific country in Asia, and there's no way in hell this airhead did. But as soon as the customer left, she turned around and said simply, "I don't like Chinese people." That's it. Then she turned around to help a new customer, leaving me staring at her in amazement.

Seeing as we weren't talking about much else, I decided to bring it up. "So why don't you like Chinese people?" I asked, as if there was nothing wrong with her labeling all Asians as Chinese or making blanket statements about an entire race of people. The sarcasm was audible, but in her mind, no one else has internal thought processes.

"Oh, it's hard to explain. They just have a way, they annoy me... They don't do things the same..."

Yes. Chinese people are terribly annoying because they don't do things the same way French people do. Goddamn them for speaking a different language and preferring different foods. Who are they to have a non-occidental culture?

Despite this girl's raging bigotry, it's important not to become frustrated with princess mindsets. You must bask in your own incredulity. Recognize that you are in the presence of a living, breathing personification of vapidity. Allow yourself to savor the sense of intellectual superiority. Any other reaction is entirely futile: a waste of energy and a loss of blogging material.

12 June 2011

Lifetime warranty





Kohl's department store has the following return policy: Return any item at any time for any reason, no receipt necessary.

My dad saw this in a commercial and figured that meant anything you buy at Kohl's, and anything you have ever bought at Kohl's, has a lifetime warranty. Now, he does not frequently venture out into the real world. But today he did. To Kohl's.

He brought with him four (quatre, cuatro, 4) pairs of ancient Levi's. None of these were purchased in 2011. Or 2010, probably. It's fair to say they date back to the 90's.

As he placed the jeans on the counter of the Returns desk with a smile on his mug, the woman looked at him, as baffled as she should have been.

"You're wondering what I'm doing?" he said to the underpaid worker. "I don't have the receipts. But I want a refund. They're old, faded, ripped, torn, and they don't fit anymore."

And so the crazy motherfucker got $169 for his destroyed pants.

But the part that blows my mind is his utter shamelessness when recounting the tale to me.

"They weren't dirty," he said, as if this was my primary concern.

"Yes they were," my slightly-more-sane mother corrected.

"Well one pair was dirty, I had to take it off and take it back."

Am I crazy? He's crazy, right? It's appalling, this is the man whose sperm is halfway responsible for my existence. Store policy or not, he is a sociopath.

I love you, Father Bear.