***

I left the parking lot of Justin’s building, made a right, went up to the traffic light, made a left and thusly a u-turn, drove for about five minutes, made a u-turn on the righthand side this time, and poof! The bookstore. That was the least stressful part.

Upon entering, I decided to seek out headphones. I have a pair of headphones but unfortunately I also have a pair of stupid earholes. Most headphones won’t fit into my ears (woe is me) and I have been meaning to get a pair of the right kind for months now. I figured I could either find a cheap pair here, or just deal without them, or, worst case scenario, suck it up and use the ones I have, despite their inability to stay put. I made a brief circuit around the store, including the media section, and found not a pair of headphones. Yoga mats? Yes. Things to drown out the noise? Nah. Weird. I shrugged it off and decided I’d put my stuff down, as it was getting heavy, and then continue my quest.

I walked into the cafe and began the Great Outlet Hunt of 2009. A fellow customer noticed and said, “Looking for a place to plug in, huh? Yeah, there’s only two.”

“In the entire cafe?” I asked, incredulous.

“Yeah. I know. Some guy’s using it, so you’ll have to wait. Only thing that sucks about comin’ here.”

He had a mustache, and so I thanked him for his wise words of advice. I recircled the cafe and sat on the opposite side from him (he may have had a mustache, but he was twice my age and kept staring at me because we had an “unable to plug in” connection) by a window. I left my belongings at a table and went to order a drink and a bagel. I came back and a Hispanic male around my age entered the cafe. He saw me and promptly decided to sit across from me. Not in the seat facing the door — no, the seat facing me. Of course. OF COURSE.

Each and every time I look at him to see if he is still looking at me, he (OF COURSE!) still is, but pretends that he is not by averting his eyes. To add insult to injury, he is having an extremely loud conversation on his cell phone, and as I can’t understand a word of it, I am not even able to eavesdrop.

However, I have no choice but to eavesdrop with the other charming neighbors I have around me. The ladies to my left, if you are interested, are three in number and have been discussing everything under the sun. I tuned out after they stopped talking about American Idol. I hope they are on their lunch break. There are two more ladies behind me and diagonal, talking about Senior Cut Day (sadly, not the day where the elderly take a razor to their wrists; I believe they are referring to high school) and scanning in photos of classmates. I assumed they were in high school — nope, they’re middle-aged. There was another lady behind me who began having an extremely loud Eastern European conversation but thankfully had the decency to get up and leave. The lady who took her spot has been quiet thus far and I think she is going to stay that way.

The asshole who is currently the only one plugged into the outlet right now is behind everyone else, against the wall, and every so often I like to turn around and give him a Look. I am hoping he will get the hint. I am not counting on it.

So anyway, with all this noise going on, I figured it was high time to put the Great Headphone Hunt of 2009 into full effect. I made yet another circle around the store, and thought I was going crazy. I asked the sullen girl behind the counter, who is wearing neon pink and leopard print so it’s kind of strange that she’s so sullen with that sort of an outfit, if they sell headphones here.

“Uh, no,” she said, like I was the idiot for asking.

You can say all you like about my chain, that we don’t have certain things in stock and that our ordering system blows and all sorts of other usual customer complaints — but at least we sell headphones. If you are a store that sells music, you should sell headphones. Even italics cannot fully emphasize my anger and disgust.

I only have an hour or so left on l’internet, so I will wrap this up for now. I am praying we find that elusive Panera Bread on Justin’s lunch, land of the free intarwebs. Panera! Panera! How I adore thee! Please be mine! If I have any sanity left by then!

EDIT: Oh thank you heavens above for delivering unto me Ye Olde Plugge of Outlette!!!!!! The man finally got the hint. Or maybe he was leaving anyway. Staring Dude is still sitting in his seat and looks utterly defeated because I got up and switched seats. Also, his cell phone rang just as I was getting up and it was an amazingly obnoxious techno ringtone. There’s a party going on over there, and I am so missing it.

FURTHER EDIT: Sorry, but this cannot go without being typed on the internet. Those two ladies who are blabbering about their 30-years-ago high school days are now in front of me, and I have an incredible view from here of the blonde. Not only has she got an insane head of New Jersey Poodle Hair (seriously, I think a yellow poodle died on her head), but she is cross-eyed. Oh, man. Oh, man!!

Needless to say, I certainly liked pancakes before, but you better believe I love ‘em now. Actually, I haven’t had a pancake since that fateful day. But it’s cool. I got plenty of time. Justin is officially my Pancake Master. Here is what has happened so far since:

1. “God must bless your marriage!” – my mother, hysterical one night during dinner and possibly possessed by demons;  I was not witness to this transformation but my sister had the great fortune of being there and backfiring with her some choice language of her own. The demon has momentarily been put to rest, but I am sure he will resurface.

2. “Justin is a lovely boy and now he will be my grandson!” – my grandmother, always observant and her usual amazing self

3. “Is she pregnant?” – my sister’s boyfriend, who actually was my Junior Prom date many, many moons ago and so luckily, because of that, I am willing to forgive him.. for now. Actually, he’s a very nice person. Maybe this was just a slip. We all make mistakes. High school just happened to hold the majority of mine.

4. “OHHH MY GODDDDD IT’S SO BEEEEEAUTIFUL AAAHHHH WHEN IS IT AAAHHHH DID YOU PICK A DATE YET” etc etc ad nauseam – most co-workers. They’re female. I can’t blame them.

5. “IS THIS ABOUT ANOTHER BRIDAL MAGAZINE??!” – my sister, after I’d called her 3 times in one night while at work

6. “Are you sure you want to do this?” – my dad, mustached and as optimistic as ever

In order, the answers to those questions are:

No; yes!; NO!!!!!; We’re thinking April 24th, 2010; No (it was about Crasian); and yes, yes, yes.

We haven’t figured many of the details out yet but uh, we got some time. Yesterday on my break from work, I was demanded of my mother what colors and sorts of silverware I was planning on having. I said, “For what? The wedding?” and she said, “Nooo, your house!”

Oh, the house I don’t have! Right! In the hopes of clearing up those vital questions, I registered last night and this morning. Thank goodness for teh internets. Not like I know what to really register for, aside from like.. a MacBook. I think that’s entirely reasonable and I made sure to have it shipped to me.

Also yesterday, we ventured to the Philly Free Library to have a looksee as a potential spot for le wedding. It is currently residing in the “perhaps” position. There are probably 9,000 more spots we will visit, along with the other quazillion decisions I am going to be making. All I know is that I would like a cereal buffet, a coffee/tea bar buffet thing, a Death Star cake (for the groom’s cake, not for the actual wedding one, because I don’t think my older relatives would be able to handle that and/or know what the hell it is), books all over the place, there are a couple songs I have already chosen, and of course I need a shitload of unicorns. Oh, and the colors we’ll be using will be dark blue and light blue and cream or something. I am willing to compromise on the actual number of said unicorn shitload. But not by much. I needs them.

So with all that mushy gushy stuff out of the way, let me leave you with this striking tidbit.

CRASIAN WENT TO MY HIGH SCHOOL. SHE IS 34 YEARS OF AGE. SHE HAS A SISTER JUST ONE YEAR OLDER THAN ME, WHO I KNOW, BECAUSE SHE RODE MY BUS. CRASIAN NOT ONLY WENT TO MY HIGH SCHOOL, BUT LIVED IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD.

I don’t think it gets much weirder than that. Oh, wait — she did tell me last night that we, along with her sister and mother, are forming a corporation. I suggested she make some business cards and get back to me, but she told me those are unnecessary — we are replacing the CIA. 

Sigh.

I could keep going, but really — who wants to hear about silly wedding plans, and there is only so much Crasian one can handle in one’s day. Plus, I have to go RUN. On a TREADMILL. Gah, the things I do for love.

It was 7:49 pm when she called for assistance with a return. I had eleven minutes before the end of my shift, and so eleven more minutes of manager duty. I marched to the register, nametag sparkling beneath the fluorescent lights.

“Yes?” I asked the cashier, who moonlights as a retail employee. By day she is a middle-school teacher, but sometimes, it’s hard to tell which job is trickier.

“She has a return, but it’s from the store in the mall, so I’m not sure how to read the receipt. How do I know which number is the one for the book?” she asked, squinting at the computer.

“Oh, see these numbers? They match. That number is just saying it’s ’01′, the first item on the receipt. If there was any other items on the receipt, they’d be numbered ’02′, ’03′.. get it? But that’s the ISBN.”

Our store’s receipts are different from our smaller, mall-based counterparts. They tend to be a little confusing; when doing a return from one of those receipts, we usually just make it up as we go along. I can tell what the date and ISBN(s) is/are, but that’s about as far as I can get. As long as the register accepts my guesses at the mall’s register number, transaction number, and so on, then it’s fine with me. Remember this. This comes back to haunt me.

“Oh! Right! I get it, thanks,” she smiled, and we walked over to the register where the customer, a female, was waiting. She had dirty blonde hair, was wearing a dirty tan jacket, and held a cell phone in her hand. I glanced at the receipt again, and realized it was from out-of-state. 

“Ah, we’ll have to change the tax,” I said to the cashier.

“I’ve never done that, can you show me how?”

“Sure, it’s easy!” I said.

You can see that this is headed on a one-way track to Hell. Everything was going far, far too well by this point.

“Yeeaaahhh mahbrother got it in the schity, that’sh where he livesh,” the customer said, speaking for the first time. She was slurring her words but hey, it’s nearly 8 pm on a Monday night — if you want to get your drank on before going out in public to return your Christmas present from your brother, by all means, go for it. Or pills. Maybe she’d taken some pills. I don’t discriminate. 

“..and you just press this button, that one, type in the right percentage and.. there you go. Fixed. Matches the receipt,” I said.

“Okay, so you’ll be getting $24.37 back,” the cashier told the customer.

I looked at the receipt again. Really? REALLY?

“In store credit,” I said.

“Huh?” asked the cashier.

“Wha?” asked the customer.

“Well, if you look at the receipt,” I began, “you’ll notice it just says ‘CR CARD’. There’s no indication of what credit card you used. No name, no last four digits of the card, not even what type of a card it is. So it has to be store credit.”

Our store’s policy, like many other stores, I’m sure, is that we can indeed put money back on your credit card with a receipt and within 30 days — but you must have the correct card with you. If it matches the same card as the receipt, then we’re good to go. If the receipt is CRAZY, however, you unfortunately are stuck with store credit. I’ll be honest — this was a new one for me. But it’s not a big deal. Right?

Wrong.

“Well, it was one of theeesshe,” Customer blubbered, and held out three credit cards with her presumed brother’s name on them. 

“Yes, but I don’t know which card it was. I need to know the exact card in order to put the money back on there, but the receipt doesn’t say which card. I can’t just put it back on any card. It has to be store credit.”

I crossed my arms for extra emphasis.

“I’ll assshk him,” Customer avowed. “I’ll jussht asssshk.”

She proceeded to dial his number. (He was sitting in the car outside. But that’s okay. I guess he was finishing off her appletini and/or Valium.) She gave up and walked outside and came back in, declaring it was a particular one of the three. Meanwhile, I had marched to the breakroom, where the real manager (I’m just a supervisor; I have not the skillz for tru management, yo) was eating her dinner, or trying to. I explained the situation. She told me I was indeed correct and unfortunately it meant a sentence of Store Credit. Because that is SO HEINOUS and TERRIBLE. Who on earth would want $24.37 in STORE CREDIT. How GROSS.

I marched back to the register and told Customer of this latest development — I was right, and she could suck it. Her response was fascinating. It was kind of like watching a monkey at the zoo. Except instead of throwing her own feces at me, she threw the return policy.

“My brother doeshn’t want shtore credit.”

“Well, unfortunately, I have no way of knowing which card is the correct one. The receipt does not give me any indication.”

“But he KNOWSH which ONE it ISH.”

“He very well could know, but it doesn’t matter. The receipt does not say. This is an authorization number. It doesn’t match the numbers of that credit card. Do you see this?”

I showed her.

“But thish ish the card he used!”

“I’m not saying he’s a liar. I’m sure it IS the card he used. BUT THE RECEIPT DOESN’T SAY WHAT CARD. ALL IT SAYS IS ‘CR CARD’. There isn’t even a name. Our systems are different than the ones in the mall. I’m not telling you that you can’t return this. I am telling you that if you want to return it here, you will have to get store credit, because the receipt –”

“It shaysh right here that if I have my rescheipt and it’sh thirty daysh, I can return this to your shtore or the mall.”

“Yes, but I can’t put this money back on your brother’s card because the receipt doesn’t tell me which card it belongs to.”

“But he KNOWSH which card it ISH.”

The customers waiting patiently in line behind her began alternately smiling, rolling their eyes, and giving me a sympathetic look.

Madame Cushtomer continued to read the store’s return policy, conveniently taped to the counter in front of her, out loud. I continued to explain that she was from fucking Idiotville, Population: -1, and unfortunately I could not obey her every command. For all I damn well knew, those credit cards could have belonged to her brother, dad, professor, pimp, manslave, or dead dog. They could have belonged to the Queen of England and shit, I love her, but I STILL COULDN’T PUT THAT MONEY ON THAT CARD. I did not think this concept was a difficult one. The cashier, next to me but sensibly having moved on to the next person in line, was doing her best to ignore Moron Battle 2k9. Because I was getting stupider by the minute just by listening to this girl, who was actually drooling at this stage in the argument. Yes, drooling. Out of a corner of her mouth. There is nothing more splendid than a drooling twit trying to read me a policy I live and breathe 5 days out of the week.

Madame Cushtomer decided she was done with me and wanted shomebody elshe. She felt it unfair that she or her brother would have to drive to one of our mall stores in order to return it properly. Even though their system is from the Stone Age compared to ours, because it’s their system, they would at least be able to look up her receipt and return the money to its rightful credit card. 

And so the manager was forced to have her break interrupted. She came to the register. She listened to Madame Cushtomer dribble and slush behind the counter. She looked at the receipt. She tried.

“I have to give you store credit,” she said. “This receipt doesn’t say what card it came from. See? I can’t just put it back on whatever card.”

“But it’sh THISH card,” Madame Cushtomer ins(h)is(h)ted. “Your polishy saysh I can return this to whatever shtore. It ishn’t my fault that your receiptsh are different or shomething, that’sh your fault.”

YES, BECAUSE WE ARE THE REGISTERS AND WE PRINT THE RECEIPTS FROM OUR BELLYBUTTONS.

Sadly, after three minutes of her rambling diatribe of unfairnesh and polishies, the manager couldn’t take it. She said, “Andrea, just do it. Make the exception this one time. I’m done.” She walked back to the breakroom, approximately 1,892 brain cells lighter. Most customers have that effect on us. 

In silence, I gave Madame Cushtomer what she wanted, and as she slithered away from the register, I swear she tripped over her own feet. 

I hate people. I really, really do. It took all the willpower I had to not lean over the counter and scream in her face. How hard is it to read, and more importantly, to comprehend? She was asking me to do something borderline illegal. We’ve had people before who pay for something with a card and expect a cash refund, like we’re some kind of ATM. Or there’s people who think they can buy a book with one credit card and get the money back on another. Yeah, sure, cause we want to help you pay your bill on that card instead. Get the hell out of here. Seriously! How does that even work in your mind! SERIOUSLY!!!

In conclusion, all was made better after I charged into the breakroom for the third time within ten minutes and went on a rampage about Madame Cushtomer. And it was the icing on the cake to hear the cashier, the innocent middle-school teacher, tell me that “that girl needed a BITCHSLAP. Really. BITCH. SLAP.”

You said it, sister.

Anyway, I managed to somehow crack my jaw approx. 11 and 1/2 times and decided it was time to leave. It was 9:02 am by that point, and the appointment was scheduled for 9:15. It isn’t that far away, so I thought I’d make it on time, but I took a wrong turn (you would think I’d know how to get there by now) and thusly did not pull in the lot until 9:21 am.

“Be cool about fire safetyyy, be cool about fire saaafetyyy, be cool about fire safetyyyy.. boooooooks.. check ‘em out,” my phone crooned to me. 

Who would be calling me? I looked at the screen. It was the dentist’s office. 

“Hello, Andrea?” trilled Janice, the receptionist.

“Yes?”

“It’s Janice, from Dr. Yablonicky’s office!”

“..okay, I’m right outside.”

“Oh, okay! Good!”

Are you serious? ARE YOU SERIOUS? Janice is the nicest person in that entire office, and I am pretty sure she is old enough to be my mother, but REALLY. I am twenty-three years old, madame. I can tell time. Were they all really just sitting around, waiting for me? I decided The Guilt Trip was going to be my only ticket out of this.

Sure enough, I walked in to discover Ye Olde Sausage Fingers chatting away merrily to Janice and The Other Receptionist Whose Name I Do Not Know (TORWNIDNK for short.) This was unusual because while I have seen Lady Sausage talking to Janice and TORW..etc before, she has never been, shall we say.. “merry”. I figured it was a ploy and apologized for being late, explaining the jaw situation. I conveniently left out the part about how I whacked my jaw out of place to begin with — by flossing. I am not what you would call a Frequent Flosser; I prefer to wait until roughly a half-hour before an appointment, be it with dentist or orthomodonty-type people. It’s better that way. You get more chunks of food out, and feel like you’ve done something worthwhile, whereas I imagine people that floss all the time get bored and are like, “O! woe is my teef; I have naught to show for my efforte.”

Anyway, Sausage Fingers not only took my bait, but she was hook, line, and sympathetic! I couldn’t believe it!

“I really haven’t locked my jaw like that in awhile, so I was kind of surprised when it happened,” I told her as we walked to the exam room. This is true; it usually only happens if my mouth is open for a long period of time (at the dentist/ortho, people, not because I am a hobag slutwhore) and/or if my mouth is open very wide (again — dentist/ortho; my work on the streets is strictly on the D.L.).

“Well, if you feel any pressure or anything like that while I’m cleaning your teeth, just let me know and I’ll stop to give you a minute,” The Sausage One said. I nearly fell over. She was being nice, an emotion I did not think was in her range of feelings. 

I sat in the chair and awaited the fires of Mount Doom. The radio playing in the ceiling started playing Barry White’s “Never Gonna Give You Up”, which was simultaneously creepy and hilarious as Sausage Fingers began scraping at my poor teethlings. I also made sure to tell her that the last time I’d been at the ortho, they’d accidentally jammed a wire in my gum. She said, “Well, that wasn’t very nice!”

It was seriously at that point that I thought perhaps Sausage Fingers was not as evil as I’d originally made her out to be. Maybe she didn’t really kick kittens when she went home at night. Maybe she actually liked her job, as opposed to liking making people bleed, which is what I’d been assuming all this time. Or maybe somebody finally prescribed her Prozac.

The cleaning was fairly uneventful, except for the fact that she again asked which bookstore I worked at, and whether or not it had a cafe, and if said cafe served food. I suppose she’s going there for lunch; thank goodness I’m off today. But as for the bookstore in which I work — is it really that hard to remember, people? And furthermore — what difference does it make? The only medical professional of mine I have actually seen at my store was my gynecologist, and she was looking at Paula Deen cookbooks, so she thankfully didn’t notice me. (It was still awkward. It’s like, “Oh, hello, I’ve seen your vagi — OHH, PAULA DEEN! I JUST LOVE THAT PAULA DEEN, Y’ALL! GIMME SOME BUTTER!”)

Actually, Sausage Fingers also strangely asked if we had any vacations planned for the winter. I told her no, but that we were actually taking a family cruise to Italy/France this summer. She kind of squealed a little, which reminded me that while she was not actually the Devil incarnate, she sounds a bit like a pig when she is excited. Of course. Of COURSE. Ah, S.F. You are too much.

She didn’t even finish flossing — possibly because I think she may have noticed I actually flossed, but more than likely because the spaces between some teeth are more or less non-existant at the moment and it is quite difficult to jam floss betwixt the brackets. I received my usual goodie bag — toothbrush, floss, special floss threaders for losers with braces, and this time a magical mouthwash sample packet thingamadoo. It isn’t the Legendary Magical Mouthwash I have wished for on many occasions — that shit’s prescription-only — but it’s some sort of oral antiseptic whatever that helps clean your mouth a bit better, especially when you have braces and thusly the million sores, ulcers, etc. that go along with them. AND I got the dentist himself to write me another prescription for this magical/kinda gross dental paste that has saved my life (well, mouth) on several occasions.

On the way out, Janice complimented my hair while scheduling my next appointment. She is the second person this week. Although since the first person was Crasian, I don’t know if that really counts. Anyway, I shall not see my Lady of Sausage until April, so hopefully she’ll be really happy that time as well from like, gorging on marshmallow bunnies and chocolate eggs. Or matzah. Whatever! I don’t discriminate!

So now I am home, and though my mouth is sore, my teeth are intact, and that’s all that really matters. Plus I got two nights of American Idol to catch up on.. I mean.. something that doesn’t end in a preposition.

2. Crasian informed me last night that she is moving to Denmark with a friend named Sammy and a cousin named David (that she later accidentally called Tigger, and quickly corrected herself) and possibly David/Tigger’s fiancee; when asked what her activities in Denmark would be, she said, “Hanging out. You know. Writing long letters back home. Keeping my vocabulary at that of a Kindergardener’s.” Also mentioned that she LOVES my hair, did not seem to care for my new glasses, asked if I was marrying Anderson Cooper (the answer is no), and while she does not have access to her fortune, she does indeed have the ability to transfer funds. Well, thank goodness for that. I can sleep at night again.

3. I was plagued by a wicked headache and while this magical potion stick did not cure it, it did indeed help. The stick I speak of hails from Bath & Body Works and smells of peppermint grandmas, and I think it’s pretty great.

4. It’s Tuesday! We have a new President! I am off work! I get to see Simon Cowell’s shining face on my television set tonight! I think I might just PAINT MY NAILS!

One last one, for old times’ sake:

Crasian: ANDREA! HELLO! I WAS HOPING YOU’D BE HERE TONIGHT!

Me: Oh.. hi! I’m always here!

Crasian: Yes, well, I have.. something to tell you.

Me: Okay, what is it?

(Crasian looks around nervously)

Crasian (whispering): I’m moving. To Denmark.

Me: DENMARK?

Crasian: SSSHHH!

Me: Oh, sorry. So why.. um.. Denmark?

Crasian: Oh, because.

Me: Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, you know.

Crasian: Something is rotten EVERYWHERE. (cackles)

Ah, how true, how true.

The first episode was, in some ways, slightly disappointing. Oh, yes, we saw the really horrible people, and of course only a few of the good ones, but where on earth was all the drama this time?

Apparently, it was in the form of a cold washcloth and a peeled banana. But I’m jumping ahead. Let’s discuss some favorite moments.

OH, OKAY! Yeah, whatever that means. This is doublefunny to me because everybody was asking for his book and cd/dvd last week, which is entitled Hit Man. We ran out of both, so I ordered some more, and now of course nobody wants them. Hopefully he’ll do an appearance on the show and I will be redeemed. Meanwhile, what a bizarre choice of an opener.

So, as we all know, there’s a new judge this season. Part of me thinks it’s because they’re trying to whip all the old viewers into a new frenzy over.. well.. nothing, and the other, more rational part says, “Paula Abdul complained so much about being sexually harrassed by Simon that they figured the only way to get her to shut the hell up was to get another lady on the show.”

Judging by the first night (haha, get it? JUDGING?), Ms. DioGuardi is kinda somewhat sorta doing her job. (If it is to protect Paula. And if that’s all true, I don’t know why we had to be subjected to a clip of them making out. There is nothing wrong with a television makeout every now and again, but it was at least kinda funny when it was Paula and Simon. Now it is just strange. Why must American Idol be automatically turned into Girls Gone Wild just because there are now two females to make that joke possible? I don’t know. I blame the producers.)

Anywho, the judges. Oh, and Ryan, the whipping boy.

Despite the fact that a) Randy appears to be gaining weight again; b) Kara’s makeup is a bit eye-heavy; c) Simon is Simon and therefore all is well with the world; d) Paula is dressed for the prom, and apparently the theme is Puke; and e) poor Ryan was all but forgotten on the first night, the line-up is working fine for now. As my sister and I decided, Kara is like a more outspoken, intelligent Paula. Of course, this means she is also kind of a bitch. But not necessarily in a bad way. It’s tough. When Simon is a jerk, people say, “Oh that Simon! What a jerk!” and it’s okay because he’s male. But if a lady says nasty (but true) things, everybody says, “Damn, she is a bitch.”

From what I have seen of Kara, I think she’s going to do just fine. I am also fairly certain she is going to have knock-down drag-out bitch-slap fest with some girl later in the show, but that’s cool. Pull some hair, pinch hard enough to leave a bruise, and everybody can go home happy.

Now, more on Ryan:

Here is a man who is confident enough in his masculinity that he can wear the clothing of one waiting for the river to rise. In Los Angeles. (That’s why his shirt says “City of Angels”. He is a clever, clever man.) This picture is funny on at least 539874609783475 levels, but I don’t want to talk about any of those just now. I want to ask WHERE WAS HE DURING THE FIRST EPISODE.

Look, maybe my memory is failing me from last season and the one before that, but like.. where were all the stupid, pointless interviews of hopeful wannabe singers in the hallway with twenty thousand American Idol signs plastered all over the walls? Where was Ryan in the tryout room, being ignorant to Simon and hugging every female contestant, far too tightly for television? I don’t know. I think he wandered off somewhere in the canyon for those two days and the producers had to edit together the shots of him that they had. Maybe Ryan is still upset about Brangelina blowing him off at the Golden Globes. Maybe Ryan is working on a plan to end world hunger, or perhaps writing a thesis to get his Master’s Degree in Sun-In Hair Highlights. Whatever the case, I miss you, Ryan Seacrest. I have waited many months to see your idiotic smiling, tanned face. I will slip Nigel or whatever his name is a $20 if he gives you more screentime, okay? Okay.

Okay, Simon, I missed you too. 

Without further ado, the contestants — but only the ones I feel like talking about. If you’re looking for another picture of Ryan highfiving that poor blind guy (a classic Ryan moment), go elsewhere. Words cannot even express the ridiculousness of the two-hour build-up Fox put me through, for a mere two minutes of Scott McIntyre singing Billy Joel. I mean, look, I like Billy Joel, but not enough to wait two hours for it. And of course they were going to pass Scott on. He is blind. It would be really awful if they said no to him. More awful than how they already exploited him to death. Besides, Scott can sing; they would’ve passed him regardless of his handicap.. okay, the other contestants. Let’s do that.

First up is Miss Emily, who is very sweet, has a lovely voice, but..

That’s.. a lot. Of make-up, that is. Her face is so shiny and perspiring. Her pores are crying for love and attention. Also, this was in Phoenix, so that probably didn’t help either. Okay, yeah, also, she’s got a lot of other stuff going on there. If she wants to be all tattooed and gauged and this and that and whatever, that’s fine, but good lord, woman. Are you trying really hard, or is that what you really want to look like? You will be old one day, you know. You might regret it. I’m just sayin’. Despite that, she seems like a very nice person and hopefully will not fall into the trap of singing 9,000 Heart songs like everybody else did last season, both during tryouts and the actual show. If Heart actually had 9,000 songs, I think I would be in shock. Regardless, Emily. Nice girl. Glad they passed her. Moving along.

..sigh. This was a mistake from the start. Firstly, this open-shirted lad is named Randy. (I was confused, briefly, during his audition because there were two Randys in the same room and that’s a lot of Randy, if you know what I mean.) Randy, this Randy, is allegedly a “rocker”. He dyes his hair black, wears a lot of black clothing, and enjoys adorning himself with skulls and ah yes, the obligatory “rocker” cross around his neck. Rocker Randy is probably deep down a little pussycat, but in public he prefers to be known as a panther. Grrrrowl. Etc. I am also fairly confident that Rocker Randy has a lot of mental issues, or perhaps the producers are excellent at editing, because he was either like the above screenshot or:

Crying. Crying, crying, crying. Sobbing into his soul patch. (I hope that’s a soul patch; perhaps it is a tumbleweed blowing down his chin, or maybe, more realistically, a shadow.) For a Rocker, Randy sure did a lot of crying. Good thing he wasn’t wearing eyeliner — which, technically, he should have been, as he is a Rocker. But hey, if Simon made this face at me, I’d be crying too.

Crying with delight, laughter, and sure, yes, I will meet you in your trailer after the show. Anyway, I am still a bit confused as to why Rocker Randy was commanded — yes, COMMANDED — to join a band. If you feel that he is a poseur (which he is) and that he can’t really sing (also true) then why on earth do you feel he needs to further subject his poseur, non-talented ass to a group of talented musicians? I don’t get it. I suppose they all meant well, but it isn’t like he was pleased with their advice. He, naturally, cried. Here’s a fellow, however, who did not cry, but took it like a man. A man with a ridiculous head of hair.

Sweetheart, there comes a time in all our lives when we have to say, “Cut the mullet.” Or, in your case, “Cut the afro.” He explained that he is half-Vietnamese and half-Caucasian, and that “no Vietnamese person has hair like his”. Well.. duh. Because it’s awful. Why would anybody, regardless of race, do that to themselves? An afro is one thing; having a family of birds happily nesting in your hair is quite another. Again, seems like a nice boy, but really trying far too hard. And what was WITH his dance moves? Ugh. Ugh, ugh, ugh. At least he didn’t wear a chicken costume or whatever. 

Another contestant who seems like a lovely person, but is ruined by the editing process. I forget her name, but she’s a 25 year old bartender waitress whatever from Kentucky. For some reason, I thought of Sookie (Sookee? S-dizzle?) from True Blood. I guess it was the blonde hair and naïveté that did it for me. So, anyway. She came to the auditions without a family, which is a common occurrence as some kids will lie and audition without their parents being none the wiser, but since she was 25 I didn’t think she was going to be too broken up about it. And she wasn’t. But she still decided to “adopt a family” anyway. Above, she is pictured with the only member of her “adopted family”, a small moustached man who I think spoke broken English. He disappeared after that scene and did not reappear later, even after she made it. Well, what kind of a family is that, I ask you? He should have at least been there to pat her on the arm or something. Depressing.

Also depressing, but in a completely different way. I think her name is Katrina. Katerina? Kat.. whatever. Bikini is what we’ll call her, because that’s evidently all she cares to be known for. Any twit that strolls into an American Idol audition in costume — and that’s what what her bikini was, a costume and cry for attention — deserves to be criticized, made fun of, and hopefully told they have no talent. Because the untalented ones are generally the ones wearing the costumes. They have nothing else going for them, and they figure at least they’ll get some screen time. Unfortunately, Lady Bikini got far too much screen time. There wasn’t really anything else going on, so I guess they figured, hey! Why not! Who doesn’t want to see a girl in a bikini!

Well, I don’t. She wasn’t that pretty, for one thing, nor was her body so devastatingly amazing that I felt compelled to agree with her choice of clothing (or lack thereof). And she was a bitch. She can sing — if you’re into whiny, “ooh, look at me, I’m going to drag this note out for a long time and wiggle my arm up and down like a diva I saw on TV once”, dull singing. Sure, then, she can sing. But to be so ignorant to the judges, for the judges to be ignorant right back (Kara baby, I’m lookin’ at you here).. I don’t know. The entire bit left a nasty taste in my mouth. And also in Ryan’s:

Yes, this is Ryan Seacrest having his face sucked off by Lady Bikini, because she decided when she got her “golden ticket” to Hollywood, she was going to “make out with Ryan”. Yup. Mmhm. Wow. Lucky him, huh? I’m so jealous. I long for the days when a young, bikini-clad upstart makes my day with a face-swallowing kiss that smells strongly of Mystic Tan. Mm, mm, mm. Doesn’t matter, really, cause you know she’s going to get knocked out during Hollywood Week. Lady Bikini has no staying power. I predict a mudwrestling jamboree, lots of tears, and her getting bleeped out when talking about Kara in her exit interview. “You haven’t see the last of me!” she’ll cackle, and dissolve into a puddle of tanning solution.

HOLY SHIT ELIJAH WOOD! Hey, what’s up? Getting bored until The Hobbit starts filming? Or has it, already? Or maybe you’re not even in that. Well, cheer up. They’ll give you a bit part, somewhere. Or perhaps a “flash-forward” scene into the future, as your hairy feet clamber up Mount Doom or something. In the meantime, you should probably not audition for American Idol. I know you’re lonely and stuff, but count your blessings and give Sean Astin a call. You’ll feel better, I promise.

What the hell are you laughing at? Oh, wait, it’s you. That creature who laughed at.. everything. She was one of the many 16/17 year olds featured on the show, but thankfully was not passed on, because she couldn’t stop laughing. She laughed at her name, her song choice, her this, her that, her.. whatever. She was so frightening. I’m fairly confident she was under the influence of Pixi Stix, Pop Rocks, and Tang. Did anyone else notice how her hair got bigger and scarier further into the episode? Also, I totally didn’t buy the whole “omg liek I am Kara Diowhosits BIGGEST FAN”.. really? Considering most of us weren’t exactly sure who Kara is, I highly doubt that. Yes, sure, the woman’s written a load of songs and been in studios with famous people, but you’re like 16. You care more about, like, the color pink. And your Gigundo Binder o’ Songs. 

Seriously, that thing was huge. And thick. See how excited Ryan was? Nah, just kidding. His caftan shirt delight thing calmed him down.

Anyway, it was no surprise when she was dismissed from the room, sans a golden ticket. But it was apparently surprising to her.

Sorry babe, but you’re 16. Your music is probably nowhere near a cross between Madonna and whoever else you said, and for heaven’s sake, get some hair serum. Afro Boy might try to mate with your hair and the world would probably end.

Ah, Michael Gurr. Another child who suffered from the editing process. And apparently lack of potassium? I am sure in real life he isn’t such a greasy-looking dweeb, but as I sat in my family room watching him I kept thinking, “Conor Oberst?” and then I thought, “Ew, I hate Conor Oberst” and then I further thought, “..wow, I really don’t like Conor Oberst, and this kid really can’t sing”.

Whenever a male has attempted to sing a song sung by a female singer, it has never gone well. I think there was maybe one instance of it almost turning out okay last season, but it was still met with a lot of criticism. And so when he announced he was singing Carrie Underwood, my stomach dropped a little bit.

He isn’t in pain. They haven’t even critiqued him yet. He is “singing”.

That face drop is CLASSIC. I feel terrible, but come ON. Carrie Underwood (who is quite talented, even if I do not care for her type of music or really, much else about her) is not within your vocal range. Frankly, I don’t know what is in your vocal range, but I can safely say not anything sung by a female. You don’t have the same sort of voice. If you could sing soprano or alto or anything like that, well, I’d be worrying a little. Cut your losses, my friend. At least you got a banana.

The fact that they showed his “dramatic” hallway scene in black and white is even funnier than the whole breakdown. I am sure he was indeed very nervous, like most of the other kids are, but to be that upset afterwards is a little silly. It isn’t the end of the world. You’ve still got your senior year and college ahead of you. There are bazillions of people who audition for American Idol, barely any out of that number go to Hollywood Week, and still few from that go on to the actual show. With odds like that, you can’t have really expected to make it. Even some of the halfway decent people are told no. Ah well. Michael Gurr will be an internet celebrity and hopefully that’s good enough for now.

To close, possibly my favorite auditionee of all time.

Sir, the Shakespeare auditions are room 211. This is American Idol. No, no, save that love sonnet. I don’t want to hear if you’re going to be this or not be that — wherefore art thou? In the wrong room. There’s a good chap. Go on, now. There’s a razor waiting for your beard, and scissors for your ponytail. 

He was my Midwinter’s Night Dream. Wink, wink.

Anyway, I have yet to see the second evening of auditions, but rest assured that when I do, it will be discussed. At length. With pictures. Also, Simon. Ah, Simon. Remember that one time he likened an auditionee’s singing to that of a horror film? Me too. Gimme a pound, dawg!

American Idol starts tonight. WHO’S EXCITED?!

I cleaned my room last week and was immensely pleased with myself. More importantly, I rearranged my bookcases. You see, I have always loved to read. I am a big fan of books, and all things literary. Sometimes my taste wavers a bit, when I am reading things like, say, um, Twilight and shit, but we all make mistakes and okay, maybe vampires are interesting. Stephenie Meyer, whether you like her or not, at least has an interesting mythology when it comes to otherworldly creatures. Admittedly, most of her mythology is pinched from Anne Rice, but I’m digressing. ANYWAY, books, I like them. I have been reading since I was three and a half. I have been collecting books just as long as that, probably longer. When I say my room is overrun by books, you may think that I am exaggerating, but I am not. I had books crammed onto two long bookshelves, a pile on another smaller shelf, two canvas boxes full of more books, my desk had a row of books, the floor was covered in some, and there’s always at least one or two in my car. I have a problem.

So I finally broke down and decided to clear off yet another shelf for my literary addiction. I planted a flag in it and claimed it in the name of Nick Hornby, Philip Roth, and Haruki Murakami. (I like lady authors too, but I am missing all of my L.M. Montgomery books from when I was a wee’un and it makes me sad.)

Here is my end result; pls look for my small but growing unicorn book selection.

For kicks, here is some more! Because I know you’d like to see my Darth Vader collection.

Yes, that is a banana with a moustache; yes, I sewed him myself; yes, I can make you one too. 

My pink Domo-Kun brings aaaall the boys to the yard.

Oh, and — BEFORE:

AFTER! So pleased.

That is all for now. Over and out.

And furthermore, while we’re talking about that, go read some Salman Rushdie. It’ll do you good. 

To-day we are going shopping, then to my favorite Chinese food place for a late lunch, and then (of course) I am going to work and Justin is going home. But we will regroup later this evening. Kind of like Transformers, or maybe Power Rangers. This weekend is a good weekend, and not because I just compared our love to Power Rangers. (Original series only; if there’s no Kimberly Jo Johnson, I don’t want a part of it.)

1. Crasian 

Life has been full of ups and downs for my favorite cuckoobonkers person. She has weathered a Universal Divorce from the Emperor of the Universe; she has proclaimed her love/hatred for Anderson Cooper; she has given a full-size unused (!!) Chanel lipstick to a terrified barista; she has touched me with her icy cup of water and run away, cackling. However, one of the funniest recent tales doesn’t involve me, or even my store. 

Crasian likes to make her rounds, kind of like a doctor, but only if that doctor was slightly unhinged and had a fondness for Karl Lagerfeld. Regardless, she makes frequent visits to other bookstores and cafes in the area, but also to a local mall. At this local mall works a former employee of my store, and it is there that our story takes place.

He is aware of the Crasian’s crasianosity, and also gets a kick out of provoking her. In some ways, this could be interpreted as cruel; however, she once asked somebody if they “had a death wish” because they would not wait on her, so maybe she deserves this a little bit. Anyway, he keeps in touch with several current employees, and every so often finds out the latest thing Crasian has said, in the hopes of bringing it up in conversation with her. She visits the new store that he works at, but she won’t actually step foot inside — she stands in the doorway, and talks to the same employee (not the one from my store) and refuses to go any further. Old employee will pass on the newest Crasian episode to the doorway employee, and he will then pass it on to Crasian, in the hopes of getting a reaction out of her. As she usually feigns memory loss or will act completely normal when anyone tries to bring up a past thing she’s said, I suppose it was only a matter of time before she actually reacted.

One day, Crasian came into my store and was talking to Chris about being a “Shadow Hunter”, whatever the hell that means. I can only hope it means she’s secretly a superhero, fighting in the shadows of the night for truth, love, and justice. But it’s probably just a code word for “cuckoobonkers”. So Chris relayed this to the former employee, who relayed this to the doorway employee, who let the bomb drop later that week when Crasian waddled up to him.

“I hear you’re a Shadow Hunter,” he whispered to her. 

“What?” she asked.

“SO AM I,” he gasped, and she turned tail and ran away. 

First of all, that’s amazingly funny. Secondly, I felt really sad after I heard about it, because, after all, she is crazy and we shouldn’t be treating her like that. Thirdly, she is crazy and.. well, she is crazy. It rubs off on you after awhile. 

The other day, she came up to me, patted me on the arm, and asked if I was okay. This is a fairly common occurrence; I must look fairly miserable at work. I assured her that I was fine, but she didn’t believe me.

“Did your boyfriend break up with you?” she whispered.

“..no, he just works somewhere else now,” I said.

“So you don’t see him everyday? I understand. I UNDERSTAND. It’s going to be okay,” she said, in the most soothing way a lunatic can sound soothing. I nodded, and she waved goodbye, waddling towards the wedding magazines. I guess not even a Universal Divorce can keep her spirits down.

And so that brings me to:

2. The Aforementioned Boyfriend, Whose Name is Justin

He is indeed employed elsewhere; you read that correctly. It is a place full of magic, wonderment, and oh yes, video games. It is true at last; The Tall One is animating video games for a living. It’s only been a couple weeks, but it is still exciting news, and perhaps more exciting news will follow shortly. But in the meantime, he is very tall, and very pleased with himself, and this means I had better get a job not in retail one of these days. Soon, soon.

3. My Teeth

Because it’s always about my teeth at some point, isn’t it? Well, today I went to the orthodontist and it was one of Those Visits. The majority of the time, it’s a wire out here, a new wire in there, swapping out of bands, and we all go home happy. Unfortunately, there were enough of those that today was bound to happen, and happen it did.

Last time I went, roughly five or six weeks ago, I had my bottom wire adjusted. The orthodontist bent two small skinny U-shapes, on either side of my four front bottom teeth, and led me to believe it was supposed to change the course of the future. Well, for my teeth; not really for anything truly life-changing. And so I went home, slightly sore, but in a mite more pain than usual. Because, you see, while the left U-shape was behaving itself, the right U-shape was cackling maniacally and ramming itself into my mouth. An altogether unpleasant experience. I waited it out for five days, thinking perhaps I needed to adjust (because things of this nature have happened before), but it became clear that my wire needed adjusting instead. I popped in for an emergency visit, whereupon the orthodontist, in all his toothly glory, said, “Ooh! That’s poking you, isn’t it?”

I am glad to know that my teeth are making payments on his Mercedes.

He bent the wire back within a matter of seconds, and sent me on my merry way again. Unfortunately, while the wire was indeed fixed, it was not fixed enough, and I spent the last five weeks going through tubes of Orajel. (I would have gone back again, but I didn’t see the point. The more I complain, the more painful the visits can be sometimes, so it’s better to just suck it up and buy stock in Orajel.) 

Of course, a mere two days ago, my teeth shifted that blessed centimeter, and the wire was at last away from the insides of my mouth. (It hadn’t been able to heal properly, because the wire kept rubbing against the spot. Aren’t you pleased you got braces when you were eleven, like normal people do?) So today when I tra-la-laed to the orthodontist, I was feeling better, mouthwise, than usual.

This feeling dissolved about fifteen minutes into the appointment.

There are six chairs total in the office; four in the big, main room, and two in a room that is an offshoot of the main one. I used to assume the two-chaired room was the one reserved for screamers, cryers, and the patients that nobody wanted to deal with, because I used to always be there. Now I know that it has no significance whatsoever; it’s whatever chair happens to be free. Anyway, today I was in the big room, the 2nd chair from the window, but the 3rd chair, if you were counting them the other way. I was waiting for the orthodontist to check my teeth first, because he’s the one who pokes around, tells a hygenist what to do, and then they are the ones who do the real work. The orthodontist will come back at the end, take one last look at my pathetic teef, and say, “Okay, see you in six weeks!”

Good to know, again, that he is getting paid the big bucks.

So there I sat, in my chair, awaiting the orthodontist’s unmistakable cologne and prodding fingers. He cologned over, prodded, nodded, and went on to the next patient. I also learned that I have another three months before the gaps on the top of my mouth close up. Considering they were supposed to close up, oh, hm, December of 2007, let’s hope it really happens this time. (My teeth are older and thusly slow movers. Again, aren’t you happy that you had braces when you were eleven?)

All of the other chairs were filled, and they were short a hygenist this morning, so it was getting a little hectic. One hygenist asked the orthodontist if the 3rd chair (the girl next to me, technically) was ready for her wire. The orthodontist, who was poking at the teeth in the 1st chair (on the other side of me) said, “Yes, she is” and turned his attention back to the 1st chair’s teeth. The hygenist proceeded to put in the 3rd chair’s wire, pronounced it done, and the orthodontist said, “No, not her! I meant HER!” Pointing to me.

The hygenist blinked for a minute. The orthodontist said, “I thought you asked if HER wire was ready, and it is! I hadn’t looked at that other wire yet!” (He has to approve any changes made to a wire, or bracket, or whatever, before it’s put in anyone’s mouth.) By then, 3rd chair had already walked back over to her mother, so the hygenist had to call her back and proceed to take out the wire that she had just put in. A frustrating situation, to be sure, but misunderstandings happen. 

However, by the time that same hygenist had taken out 3rd chair’s wire and come over to put in MY wire, she was not exactly happy. She wasn’t really mad, either, just slightly annoyed. It’s not like putting in wires is easy, and it’s certainly not easy to take them out again, and she also kind of was reprimanded in front of everyone even though technically, it was more the ortho’s fault than hers. He did apologize, but the damage was done.

So you can imagine my complete and utter horror when, in the midst putting the wire back on my upper teeth, she jammed it right into the gums above my back molars.

Let us take a moment of silence for my inflamed gums.

Tears were rolling down my face, unashamed, as she muttered, apologized, stood up and walked over to get her glasses (that I guess she should have been wearing to begin with.. sigh), muttered again, apologized again, and she attempted to remove the wire from my gums. She poked me again. Harder.

Let us take an hour of silence.

The bit of wire was eventually extracted from my gums, and I was told to “brush back there”, even after we both agreed it’s a pretty tight squeeze, what with the metal band around my back molars and tangle of wires and things. I can only brush so well, madame, and my teeth do not deserve such torment. 

I slathered on a layer of Orajel when I got in the car, before driving home, and I think it’s finally begun to uninflame itself. But really. REALLY.

4. One last one, for good measure.

There are many delightful customer stories to share, but this one is a favorite.

I was assisting at the register the other day because we were a bit short-handed. A girl approached me, probably around my age but I’m betting a couple years older, and presented me with a Wedding Planning kit that she wanted to return.

“Do you have your receipt?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, and slid it across the counter. She was fairly short, with dark hair and big eyes and looked terrified of something. I don’t think it was of me; I think she’s just somebody who has that permanent “Deer in the Headlights” look going on. 

I looked at the receipt, which was a string of other wedding planning items, and I concluded that she had recently gotten engaged and bought a ton of crap the minute it happened, and was only just now realizing one only needs so many books and kits. Upon further inspection, I realized the date on there was older than 30 days.

“I’m sorry, I actually can’t take this back,” I said.

“Why not?” she asked, blinking stupidly.

“Well, it’s older than 30 days. We can only take back items with a receipt within 30 days,” I explained.

There was a quiet moment as she contemplated this.

“But it says 60 days on the back of the receipt,” she said, and turned it over. I didn’t look because I didn’t need to.

“It’s 60 with a gift receipt, yes. But 30 with a regular one. I apologize; I didn’t know what the date was on your receipt until you gave it to me.”

She stood there. I think a brain cell wept.

“Well, what am I supposed to DO with this?” she asked.

Can I just interject and say WHY do people ASK me that? What do you think I’m going to tell you? Surely you can donate this to a library, give it to a friend who is also newly engaged, or put it up for sale on the internet?

I apologized again.

“Can I see the manager, please?” she asked, bravely.

“I am the manager,” I told her, in a voice made of ice.

Now, that is a halftruth. I am not really a manager manager, per se, but as the only supervisor on the clock for the rest of the evening, I was technically a manager because I was in charge. However, this girl died a little bit when she heard me say that. A part of her was thinking, “YOU? HOW OLD ARE YOU, REALLY? BRACES? DO YOU EXPECT ME TO BELIEVE THIS?”

But all she said aloud was, “Okay.. um.. thank you.” 

She walked out the door and the cashier next to me hooted with laughter. 

It was a shining moment in an otherwise dull evening.