Just call my name, and I’ll be there.

A co-worker just called in to work and informed our boss she’s coming back from vacation early. Her dog is in intensive care, suffering from some sort of tumor on its bladder, as well as frequent seizures.

Our boss said the woman was really shaken up over the phone, and that her voice start cracking. I don’t blame her; she’s had this dog for a decade, and the idea of spending its (potentially) last day stuck in airports, leaving vacation several days early, is no doubt disheartening.

I instantly thought of the day when I’ll have to make that phone call, when I’ll have to tell my boss I’m not coming in because Chunk died. I think about that a lot, actually, but today, in the midst of my anxiety, a pinhole of light broke through. I won’t have to make that call, I realized. Adam will make it for me.

What a comforting thought, the idea that when the breakdown comes (which it will), someone will be there to sweep up the everyday detritus and make your tragedy a little more convenient. That is perhaps the most wonderful thing about marriage: the assurance that even though will  have to face catastrophe,  someone else will be there to make sure your laundry gets done and your phone bill gets paid, so you can focus solely on yourself and your sadness.

What a gift, the gift of proper mourning.

 

They can afford to be grumpy

I love that for all their expertise, great hourly pay and irreplaceable spot in our society, auto mechanics, as a whole, violently resist any sort of professionalism whatsoever.

I called several local repair shops last week, hoping to get my brakes looked at over the weekend. The first place I called had to transfer me to three different lines, the last one being an actual mechanic. “Yeah?!” he screamed over the clanks and squeals of repair work being done in the background. Once I explained what I needed, he gruffly said, “Yeah, we’re not open on weekends.” I replied, “Uh… not at all?” He said, “Nope.” And hung up. Seriously.

The second place I called was too busy to take my car. Okay.

The guy who answered at the third place said he could probably squeeze me in on Monday, which worked out fine because I had the day off from work. I told him I’d drop my car off Sunday night, if possible (to avoid getting up early Monday). “Okay,” he said. “What’s your name?” I told him. “Okay, I have you down.” And then, he hung up.

He didn’t get my phone number or address, nor did he ask what kind of car I have or  what I suspect might be wrong. He just took my name, wrote me down under “Monday” and that was it.

Now, obviously, this system of bare-bones customer service is working for the auto repair industry, so who am I to suggest they should put more of an effort into being courteous? And really, I pay these dudes to fix my car, not boost my ego. But I still find it odd that someone who gets paid $40 per hour, someone who is so crucial to keeping an entire population and economy running smoothly (pun intended), someone with a head full of  such specialized, amazing knowledge, can’t take the time to get a phone number from a customer.

But, like I said, mechanics apparently don’t need to waste time on professionalism; I picked up my car Monday night, wrote a check for $488 and drove away not knowing what they did to my car, but trusting it was beneficial. After all, a mechanic wouldn’t screw me over, right?

 

Feeding the hand that bites.

I’m sorry, Kendra, but if you’re so upset about paparazzi having “no soul,” maybe you should stop issuing press releases every time you take a dump.

Someone in my office subscribes to People, Us and another stupid tabloid, and leaves them in the breakroom each week, so I’m unfortunate enough to keep up with current pop culture–who’s “Still Hot at 40!” or what couple just had the “Fight That Could End it All.” Literally, almost every single week, Kendra is featured on the cover in some stupid non-story. There was a feature photo when she got a Snuggie. There was another feature photo when she got DJ Hero. There were photos of each trimester of her pregnancy, a “sneak peek” of her nursery, an “exclusive report” on the precious first month of her son’s life.

A simple search on People.com shows that just this month (which is only 9 days old), that magazine alone has already run five stories about her, including this nail-biter: “Kendra Wilkinson: Baby Hank Will Be Rocking a Colts Jersey Sunday.”

None of this is news, of course, but it’s not even celebrity news. It’s nothing. It’s a woman living a very mundane life and trying to make it seem important. So, how does she keep getting ink? I mean, who the hell is she, even? She’s a one-time girlfriend of Hugh Hefner… who moved out of the Playboy Mansion, like, two years ago. Why did we care about her then, and why do we still care about her now? Because her publicist is the most savvy PR pro in town. Or gives really good head.

So, don’t complain about too much media attention, Kendra. I mean, Jesus – you had to authorize your publicist to issue a press release to the media about how the media made you cry. What? If something leaves a bad taste in your mouth, you stop eating it. And if a situation makes you uncomfortable, you should stop encouraging it.

 

“Fiscally conservative”

Does anyone else find it delightfully ironic that the TEA (Taxed Enough, Already) Party’s basic, uniting principle is that they’re sick of the government “wasting” their money, but then they charge people $549 to attend their first-ever convention–and $349  just to attend a speech by Sarah Palin, who is actually being paid a reported $100,000 to speak at her own group’s meeting?

Seems like “fiscally conservative” can be spun any way you’d like, hmmm?

 

A little extra something

I’d been holding it in all night, but I finally let it burst during the car ride home, around 8 p.m. last night.

I don’t even remember what Adam said that triggered it, but there it was. Loud and obvious.

“Hahahahah-snort-hahahahah!”

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I snort when I laugh. Not all the time, just when I really get going. When I can’t get enough air. When I forget my inhibitions, my surroundings, my company. It happens mostly when I’m around Amy and Adrian, maybe because a) they’re funny, and b) I’m completely comfortable. In that sense, I suppose it’s a term of endearment.

But still, it’s stupid and embarrassing, so I try to consciously control it–and I’d been doing a great job last night, up until the ride home (perhaps it was the two giant beers finally catching up with me). I’d hidden it all evening, because just as it takes a very special person to love a pug (the snortiest of all creatures), it takes a very good friend to resist mocking a snorter.

That being said, I still openly mock my dog for snorting, even though I know she doesn’t understand English. Because I’m a big, snorty hypocrite.