Color Me Bad

File this under “One of those Things That Might Make Me a Jerk”, but it often bugs me when people use alternate words to describe certain colors. It just does. Like saying something is orange when it’s yellow or pink when it’s salmon… though, admittedly, sometimes salmon walks a fine line. Swims a fine line? Whatever. Or gray when it’s blue, etc.

Color-blind?  Ok, I’ll have to suck it up there – my dad was colorblind (or so I suspect of Mr. Olive Pants-Brown Shoes-Purple Shirt) – but only about 5% of men and less than 1 percent of women are likely to be color-blind so when I hear a reference to something as yellow when it’s orange or vice versa, it’s like nails on a chalkboard to me.  Hopefully, this doesn’t incite the wrath of the color-impaired.

I realize it’s the persnickety designer in me, the part that actually cares about the nuances of ecru vs. tan vs. cream vs. eggshell.  And I realize sometimes people can’t help it and color may be considered somewhat subjective, but I certainly am not going to go outside and declare the sky aubergine simply because that’s how I perceive it (that’s ‘eggplant’ or a deep purple/black with what some might call a slightly red undertone, in case you were wondering).  And no, I don’t think the sky is eggplant.

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Dick Squared

Last night, my friend mikey came over to watch Project Runway with me and we ran out to grab some takeout before it started. We stopped at Rite Aid to pick up some beverages and Rocky Road before heading back to watch Heidi Klum walk around being gorgeous.

The line at this Rite Aid is always slow and for some reason, people always form one big line instead of lining up at each register (there are eight registers), then the next checker that is available takes the next customer.  Well, last night, there was an Asian dude in front of us holding two bottles of wine, a crotchety guy in a yellow shirt holding a box of Tucks or something, this Isaac Hayes (R.I.P.)-type guy (who we saw tip his hat at someone earlier — I love that), and then 3 registers with customers already being helped.

One cashier finished and called out, “I’ll take the next person!” and Crotchety Yellow Shirt and his hemorrhoid pads tried to dash out behind Isaac Hayes Guy, but Isaac Hayes Guy was no fool and he cut Crotchety off, taking his rightful place at the counter.  Crotchety grumbled and griped, but shuffled back into line, ahead of the Asian Wine Drinker.  While this was going on, a strapping middle-aged, tank-top wearing homosexual (not that his sexuality is relevant, but it paints a picture and I happened to be in the gayborhood) with a cart full of ammonia bottles and paper towels pulls up in line behind us.

Asian Wine Drinker keeps looking around the store, turning around and looking past us, past Ammonia Mo, all over the place. But before I could ponder what he was looking for, Isaac Hayes Guy was finishing his transaction.

This is where I kind of lost my cool.

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Debbie Diapers and the Amazing Technology Craptacular

When I opened this post and titled it, I thought I wanted to write the whole sordid double-feature story of the Little Router That Couldn’t and The Pokey Little Cell Phone.  But I seriously don’t even want to get into what has been my own personal electronics hell for the last few days, so I’m just going to jump right into the highlight of my hell — Debbie Diapers, some miscreant mom in the parking lot of the Sprint store.

I dragged mikey to the Sprint store yesterday with me in a fit of “I’m Getting a New Phone Before I Throw This Against the Wall” and parked next to us was a fairly nice black town car of some sort.  Mike got out of the driver’s side and as I was about to exit the passenger side, I noticed a woman slowly making her way from the passenger seat of the town car.  She saw me waiting for her, but she took her sweet time.  I realized she had a very wee baby with her, so I took a deep breath and tried to be patient. Finally, she rolls out of the car with her baby and starts to walk away.

Using his Spidey Sense, Mike immediately ran over to the town car, bent over and looked underneath.  The look on his face said it all.  Oh yeah.  Diaper..  Used, stinky, poo-laden, stranger-person’s diaper left in the parking lot.  That has long been a “thing” with me… I hate littering of any sort, I hate it. But leaving a napkin on a table is a far cry from leaving feces under your Lincoln. We have laws against leaving your dog crap on the ground, you’d think that it would be understood that people crap is pretty much a no-go.

It was confirmed that yes, there is, indeed, a diaper under the car and I noticed that as the woman was walking away, she glanced back at us a few times. I was certain she knew we were talking about her.  Perhaps it was my, “She did WHAT!?” that tipped her off.

So, anyway, maybe it was my already foul mood, but I’d had enough.  I figured, “Who cares? I’m never going to see this woman again. What’s she going to do?  Shank me?” While she was still a good few hundred feet ahead of us, she entered the Sprint store. How convenient!  With purpose I marched right through the doors, right past the front desk helper girl (mike stopped to give her the dish) and straight up to Debbie Diapers, who was standing with her assumed husband at the counter.  In a voice loud enough for people nearby to hear, but not loud enough that I looked like a crazy person, it went a little like this:

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In Your Face, Open Your Mouth, Give It a Taste

I was absolutely appalled this morning to see not one, but two women open up her car door in traffic and spit.  I kid  you not!  Spit. I couldn’t believe it.  And they were within 10 minutes of each other, too.  When I saw the first woman do it, I thought to myself, “Ew.  That’s…vile.”, but chalked it up to it being a hoochie with 2 inch roots in a Tempo and went about my day.

The second woman really sent me over the edge.  A well-dressed, extremely put-together woman in her late 20’s, maybe early 30’s in a Lexus, while sitting at a traffic light, just flung open her door and hocked one right on the concrete.  It wasn’t even discreet or ladylike in any fashion.  I thought maybe she’d found something floating in her coffee or something, but even then, crack the door, be discreet, or hell! Spit it back in the cup and get a fresh one when you get to work.  Don’t make me have to watch it!  It made me thankful my mom instilled manners in me at an early age.  Gah.

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Whispering Punanni & Slick Dick

I hate Whisperers.  You know those people I’m talking about—those that find it necessary to get right in your personal space and whisper at you, for usually one of two reasons: they’re gossiping about something you don’t give a rat’s ass about or they’re just smarmy like that.

I have two such people in my office.  One is a girl I’ve dubbed Whispering Punanni because my friend GeeDub says that he can smell her business when she’s over whispering at his desk.  She’s always gossiping about something, usually something as thrilling as last night’s hoochie extravaganza involving apple martinis.  I can hear her whispering way over at my desk.  You can almost hear the spittle.  Whispering Punanni is part of a clan I call the Halter-Top Broads™.  You know, the type of girls who care what kind of car you drive, have rhinestones on their toenails and compare themselves to the characters on Sex in the City.

The other guy is someone I call Slick Dick.  You know the one.  The one who calls people “Guy” as in, “Hey guy, do you have that file for me?” He has an intimate relationship with his mousse.  He wears slip on Kenneth Cole mules with stripped socks, grinds his Starbucks at his desk and smacks of smarm.  He often sidles up to me, completely oblivious to my intentional lack of eye-contact, lest I inadvertently invite him to converse with me, and whispers something like, “Hey Jo…how you doin’?” then he’ll swallow and wink.  Piss off.

Jo.  He calls me Jo.  The few and privileged call me Jo.  My name is Joelle, dude. Not “guy”, not “babe”, and certainly, not Jo.  So why don’t you take your new age tuchus out of my personal space and take Punanni with you.