very polar such vortex wow

Hello. This is Fragrant Elephant reporting from the Northeast, where we got a lovely 10 inches of snow today. The storm started around the same time as the crushing of my hopes for a late office opening. No, we here in Boston are far too stoic to be stopped by piffling frozen condensation. And so we dress in layers, strap ourselves into our hats and boots, and trudge to our paychecks.

This latest storm was special in that the sidewalks hadn't seen a shovel by the time I hit them with my mom's fluffy and possibly witchcraft-enhanced waterproof winter boots. I could feel the burn in my calves as I slogged up the streets to the train station, and from my stop to the office.

This season, comfort may be found by wearing two winter coats: a windproof layer followed by your main coat of choice. I dress in red so that I stand out like a raw, open wound upon the frozen streets. This decreases my risk of getting run over by Boston drivers, who admittedly do slow down and act less (M)asshole-y when it snows this much.

Also key: sweater tights. They are a thing and they are glorious.

Fortunately, the city is less likely to suffer power outages during winter storms, although our TV at work does get the signal knocked out. So there's the silver lining!

Now if you'll excuse me, I must eat my feelings.

This post brought to you by Japanese curry.

"That's Disgusting:" A True Train Tale

The following occurred on the first Friday of 2014, on the Orange Line T (one of Boston's subway lines).

Station of Origin

Got on train and stood beside row of seats. Man on seat closest to me is holding on to an orange suitcase. The woman across from him is holding a suitcase, too.

Suddenly, man gets up, walks over to the woman, spits in her eye, and sits back down.

"Really?" the woman asks furiously as she wipes her eye. "Really?"

I assume that they know each other and are fighting.

"I have never been spit on before in my life," the woman continues. "And by a stranger!"

Scratch that, they do not know each other, this man is disturbed and continuing the fine Boston tradition of spitting on people in public transportation. Fortunately, it is cold so I have my turtleneck covering half my face, thus reducing the surface area for targeting if he decides to spit some more.

"What's wrong with you?" the woman asks. He grips his suitcase and twitches, mumbling.

"You have issues," she says. "You clearly have issues."

Next Stop

Another woman comes up to the man, leans down, and says firmly, "That's disgusting." As she walks out the doors, she passes the spit-upon woman and says, "I'm sorry."

The train doors close. We start moving again. People who have seen the spitting incident stand around awkwardly.

"You should get off this train," the woman says to the man, becoming more visibly upset.

"You should get off this train," he responds.

"I will," she counters. "My stop is coming up."

Then she glances over a few rows down and has a conversation with a tall dude who seems to say, "Do you want me to punch him in the face?"

Stop Three

We roll to a stop. A burly T worker comes down the aisle. "There's been an assault?" he rumbles.

The woman puts up her hand. "I was spit on!" she says.

"Is he still here?" the worker, who is likely the train driver, asks.

I am still standing beside the spitter, so I point frantically at him. The T driver begins to lumber in his direction.

The man stands up with his suitcase and punches the woman in the face as he runs out the door.

Other passengers start yelling that she needs medical attention. Her nose is bleeding, but she keeps assuring people she's okay. Everyone with a tissue pack is crowding around her and offering their nosebleed solution. "I've never been punched before," she reveals. At one point, she even apologizes for the train being delayed.

"Don't apologize," a fellow rider says immediately. "This is not your fault."

Some people are asking the driver to chase the man, who had booked it down the platform. "I can't touch him," the driver responds. He turns to the woman and gives her a choice: keep the train at the station so we could all wait for the police to arrive and hunt down the escaped crazy person, or disembark and give her statement.

She chose to disembark. The guy she had been speaking to earlier, the one who I thought volunteered to punch the offender in the face, turns out be a victim as well -- he had also been punched in the face, apparently prior to the spitting. Someone must have hit the emergency call button after the first punch, or the high-velocity, close-range sputum.

Both punchees follow the T worker out of the train.

Moments later, the doors close and the T continues on its merry way. "We apologize for the delay," says the loudspeaker.

We all stand there. "What is wrong with people?" asks a woman nearby.

I have no answer for her.

###

I haven't seen this covered in the news, so I guess it must have slipped under the radar. The polar vortex that has killed 17 people in the midwest so far overshadows all.

At this point, only doge can express my feels:

On the plus side, it was heartening to see people rush to help when they finally understood what was happening.

So...Happy New Year?

Yay Movember, Nay Beard

Here in the land of the free, there are many movements to raise health awareness. The most prominent example in recent years has been the profusion of pink during October, meant to remind us of the scourge that is breast cancer, killer of hundreds of thousands of women a year in the US alone.

The menfolk have their own cause: Movember, celebrated in November, when beards are grown to encourage screenings for common conditions: prostate cancer and the like.

I applaud Movember. It's important for people, especially men, to overcome the stigma of medical visits and own up to the fact that maybe that isn't heartburn, it just might be CVD, our species' number one killer disease. And if so, a trip to the doctor is in order!

However. I am not a fan of beards. My thought on beards: "Ew." Puzzlingly, other men see beards and swoon in admiration. Just this morning, Fragrant Husband spoke enthusiastically about the utilikilt worn by a man who I mistook for a woman.

"Why did you think he was a woman?" he asked.

"Well," said I, "he had boobs and long silky hair, and he was wearing a skirt."

"But didn't you see his beard?" said he. In his head, a beard made everything okay. Now, The Oatmeal has feelings about utilikilts, which I don't share because I think that the gender with sensitive dangling bits ought to wear such garments, unless they plan to climb up ladders or ride a horse bareback. The issue here is the beard. It's icky.

Science agrees with me -- as far back as 1967, microbiologists concluded that "beards retained microorganisms and toxin despite washing." See? Yuck. No wonder beards smell bad. They're prickly, too.

I do know why some guys grow beards: to cover up acne, or to hide a lack of chin or a round face. Fair enough. My gender uses makeup or a pushup bra to deflect attention away from perceived physical flaws.

I understand why beards must exist. I just don't get why they're supposedly attractive. Maybe it's because I grew up in a region where men have lots of hair from the eyelashes upwards, and barely anything below.

In conclusion: The only cool beard is of the ancient kung-fu master variety, which smells of centaur sweat and righteousness.

This post brought to you by the weekend.

Insecure

The other day I overheard a classic example of the humblebrag:

"Oh, I just graduated."

"Cool. Where'd you go?"

(pause) "...Harvard."

"Oh, wow. Is it hard to get in?"

"No, I'm actually surprised I got in. I applied to an Ivy League on a dare, and I chose Harvard because it had the easiest application process."

Now, before you injure yourself rolling your eyes, consider this: I, also, applied to Harvard because my thesis advisor recommended it, and I didn't expect to get in, and certainly not with a full scholarship and stipend.

See what I did there? I just humblebragged LIKE A BOSS. 

Now, the humblebrag is a skill (/annoying habit) honed by the insecure. Humblebraggers are keenly aware of their perceived position relative to all others present, and want to demonstrate said position without seeming like a jerk. I've only recently awakened to my own tendency to humblebrag, so if you have been in my company while I obliviously went off on how not-great-but-really-great I am -- sorry! Growing up is a process, and self-awareness is key.

Speaking of, I've also been more attuned to the fights inside my head. There's a bad person in there who is mostly quiet, but she came out in full force at the gym a couple nights ago. I was doing random exercises because my usual class got cancelled, when in walked this girl. She was skinny and blonde and immediately the voice barked, "What the hell? Why is she wearing makeup and pearl earrings? What is with the bracelet and watch? This is the gym!"

"Shut up," I told the voice inside my head, not like a crazy person at all, "I'm wearing a ring with diamonds, for baby Jesus' sake. I'm in no position to hate on her."

"What. Is. She. Doing," the other voice continued nastily. "She's let her hair down and is retying it into a ponytail! Ugh! Just look at her!"

And I did. She was pumping 8-lb. weights like it ain't no thang. She was rocking the medicine ball sit-ups. And she was minding her own damned business. I willed the voice in my head to shut up, and focused on the tiny little muffin top peeking out sheepishly from my pants. That's why I was in the gym, innit? To be lean! To get fit! To be the best Fragrant Elephant I could be!

"ROAR!!!" I roared at insecurity, and insecurity fled. For the moment.

Fear lies at the heart of insecurity. So whenever I feel bad about something, I ask myself: "What are you afraid of?" Often, the answer is: "Failure." Failure is scary because it can lead to more failure; it can keep you down; and you have to fight like the devil to find the lesson and learn it instead of beating yourself up, or worse, start blaming other people.

I'm still learning the lesson, and fear is everywhere. You see it blustering on your TV, you read it in the news, you smell it every time someone rails against change. But I've come this far, I've earned this much, and I'm going to keep going.

...Did I just humblebrag again? Goddammit.

CVS ExtraCare Rewards Must Die

CVS is a national pharmacy that has a big presence in Boston. It has decent staff, self-checkout kiosks, and a good selection of everyday products ranging from shampoo to cookies.

Alas, it also has a “rewards” program that I suspect is secretly a means to drive customers insane so that we go to the pharmacy and buy concoctions that numb us to the pain and fury.

Now, I define a reward as something nice that I receive because I have been good. Petco, for example, will take five dollars off any purchase after I’ve spent a certain amount at their store. I get the coupon by email, print it out, and present it to the register after I’ve loaded up on kitty snacks. For added convenience, I can just show the cashier the coupon on my phone, and s/he will manually enter the barcode number into the machine. (I meant my convenience, obviously, not the cashier’s.)

By contrast, the ExtraCare program at CVS seems to have been designed by a cohort of the criminally insane. It barely makes sense, and you want to expel it from society at the earliest opportunity.

The entire process begins innocently enough, and then spirals into a maddening redefinition of the meaning of “reward.” First, you shop and then scan your ExtraCare card to get any listed discounts. After you pay, the machine prints out a receipt roughly the same length as an NBA player. The receipt contains the pièce de résistance of CVS’ tireless efforts to assail your sense of all that is right in the world. It makes extravagant promises of “X dollars off for…” and, here, here, is where it all goes down the toilet. For example:

$1 off the next $10 purchase of bar soap! …I don’t buy bar soap.

$2 off any L’Oreal Age-Defying Moisturizer! …I just hit my thirties, but thank you for reminding me about society’s obsession with youth and/or looking young.

$1 off any $5,000 purchase of pain medication! …I presume this is based on that one tiny bottle of Advil I bought one time. 

The worst part is that you need to bring the receipt, with its easily-fading ink, to collect said “rewards,” and you usually only have a week to do so. Sure, I understand that CVS wants repeat customers, but does it really think that promising discounts for stuff I usually don’t get will make me come back and buy them? “Oh boy, a dollar off a razor for butt hairs! Better hustle to the nearest CVS! ...Wait a minute.”

Also, why can't they put the rewards on my card? I carry that around everywhere.

In short, as far as incentives go, the ExtraCare Rewards program is a pile of stinky poop trying to look like a cupcake. I shall never touch it. I would say to it, in my Inigo Montoya voice: "You keep using this word, 'rewards.' I do not think it means what you think it means." For shame, CVS. 

This post brought to you by sheer mental exhaustion, as if you couldn't tell.

The Tyranny

Forget the protests in Egypt. Look beyond the continuing saga of Snowden. Ignore US politicians' attempts to control women. The true tyranny is here:

These innocent-seeming shoes, which I snapped up at the new TJ Maxx at the Galeria, gave me blisters. Blisters! Small pockets of fluid caused by friction! Oh the pain! The agony! How can you compare violent national protests and invasions of privacy and cruel patriarchalism to my office dress code-induced pain?

You cannot. Please, readers, learn from my tragedy -- walk, do not run, and certainly not over great distances, in brand new shoes. Then you shall be spared the suffering. 

This post brought to you by Vacation Mode, Fourth of July subcategory. 

How was the First Week?

It was good, until I delved deeper into the shared drive and did one of these:

Duplicate files in redundant folders! Documents in the wrong places! This is madness! This...is...SPARTAAAAHHH...!

Note: In my failed attempt to look up a word that rhymes with "Sparta," I googled "smegma." Except I forgot to do it in an incognito window. Blargh.

Happy Friday!

Still Not Married, Despite Wedding and Honeymoon

Massachusetts regulations dictate that a couple wishing to become Smug Marrieds (Bridget Jones' Diary, anyone?) must:

a. Apply together for a marriage license at City Hall.
b. Have the wedding officiant sign the marriage license and send it back to City Hall.
c. Pick up copies of the marriage certificate.

I've gone to City Hall four times now, in the hopes of securing copies of the marriage certificate so I can get the ball rolling on getting my name changed.

(Incidentally, my decision to trade my exquisitely exotic last name for a surname that sounds like fluffy winter hand gear is based on my burning desire to finally stop having people getting it wrong ALL THE TIME. Rrrrgh.)

I assumed that, since almost a month has passed since the ceremony, and the officiant lives about 45 minutes away from us, that step (b) was complete. I was wrong. I got a big fat nothing burger all four times I made the trip to City Hall, making my failure rate an impressive 100%.

So, mothers, lock up your sons, Fragrant Elephant is not legally married yet! Still a Singleton! Wooooo!!!

And now I shall cry giant woman tears of sorrow into my goblet of sangria.

The Layoff Dirge

Bullshit, that travels 'round
Business too lame for song;
Hopeful dreams, quickly drowned
No cubicle to belong;
To the worker, a rejection,
Severance, a poor compensation,
This unwelcome vacation--
Wail, or play along?

*Adapted from "A Dirge" by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Miffed to Melancholic in Ten Minutes

This morning I congratulated myself for already having achieved the worst idea of the week: affixing my thigh-highs to my undies via safety pins. I won't go into detail, but let's just say that gravity overwhelmed my civil engineering efforts.

Then I went from miffed to melancholic in about ten minutes. The transition began when I sat down at my desk and checked in on the latest in Health & Human Services news, because that's part of my job. Usually I read articles about state budgets for deinstitutionalization, or studies about co-morbidity rates, or opinion pieces on healthcare. Pretty dry stuff, usually. Sometimes I get inspiring stories where children with disabilities get intervention early enough to make significant improvements in the quality of their lives. Those are great.

However, the news items this morning were neither great nor dry. A colleague sent me a link to an article about the new guy heading the L.A. County's Department of Children and Family Services. As I read it, I saw the picture of a little girl on the left sidebar, along with the headline link: "Report excoriates L.A. County agency in child deaths, torture." Now, I usually see these types of reports associated with Florida, so I clicked the link.

If you didn't click like I did, and I don't blame you, here's the skinny: case workers who basically give zero shits contributed to the deaths by abuse of children. The child in one of the highlighted cases was two years old. The other was a "young boy," found in a closet. In both cases, the agency received multiple tips that the parents or caretakers abused the kids. The agency closed the inquiries. When they did check, Vyctorya and Johnny were dead.

So I stopped reading. I went to BBC to read general news. Then I saw "Lab bids to combat species smuggling." In one example, poachers in Kenya slaughtered 79 elephants and put their loot in six crates that were then confiscated in Thailand. A photo I once saw on BBC flashed through my mind: a dead would-be mommy elephant, her tusks chopped off, her baby cut out of her out of curiosity, both corpses left on the ground.

As you can tell by my blog name, I love elephants. They're smart and gentle and sociable.

It's sad that we live in a world where people murder magnificent creatures to decorate some douchebag's house or improve some sap's fertility. It's awful that horrible people become parents and then hurt and kill their own children.

It really puts my thigh-highs situation in perspective. 

A Tribute to Sailor Moon

Language School Application – Personal Statement

Young women deserve a powerful role model to emulate as they join the struggle for equality. That model is Ms. Naoko Takeuchi’s ultimate creation: Sailor Moon. My one-woman campaign to introduce the Sailor Moon series to the next generation of strong women hinges upon achieving fluency in Japanese. I humbly ask the Sunshine-Sunshine Japanese Language School to consider my application.

Sailor Moon would teach girls the values of love, friendship, justice, and microskirts—the supreme expression of feminine freedom. Sailor Moon and her Sailor Scouts fought off alien invaders, defended the entire galaxy, and routinely sacrificed their lives so that humanity may be saved. Like Jesus, Sailor Moon always came back from the dead. Unlike Jesus, she got right back to work preaching the good news of girl power. She eventually became Queen of Crystal Tokyo, and used her magic crystal to build her own palace. Sailor Moon is the ideal woman: compassionate, resilient, and armed with a solid understanding of mineral-based architecture.

Sadly, the North American TV version of Sailor Moon strayed too far from the creator’s original intent. The first prominent example includes the unforgiveable alteration of Sailors Neptune and Uranus into cousins. In the manga, they are sixteen-year-old lesbian lovers in a stable, long-term relationship. I shudder to think that impressionable girls might believe that they must hide their passion by pretending to be incestuous family members!

Next, DiC Entertainment Anglicized the character’s names in an utterly mystifying fashion. For example, how did Sailor Moon’s beau, Tuxedo Mask, get his civilian name changed from Mamoru to Darien? “Mamoru” in Japanese means “to protect,” whereas “Darien” inevitably reminds viewers of the Darien Pocket Gopher, a rodent native to Panama. How can a girl swoon properly over Tuxedo Mask saving Sailor Moon in every single episode whilst also envisaging a furry, whiskered creature stuffing food into its cheek pouches?

Finally, the promotion of the transgender Sailor Starlights into protagonists in the final season is atrocious. Their actual role in the manga consisted of being badly-dressed minor characters. But on TV, they fought alongside Sailor Moon in her epic battle against Chaos itself. Granted, the Sailor Starlights’ attractive androgyny contributed to the overall sexual tension—a must in any self-respecting series. However, in battle, they wore ill-fitting bikini tops and what can only be described as leather boxer briefs. They do not strike fear into the hearts of evildoers. Nor do they inspire lust—another must in a story meant to empower young ladies. Saving the galaxy requires impeccable fashion sense, and so the Sailor Starlights and their hideous outfits should be rejected as role models.

I hope to use the Sunshine-Sunshine Japanese Language School’s immense resources—including its world-renowned faculty, ultramodern library, and campus in the heart of downtown Inaka—to become the North American authority on all things Sailor Moon. In conjunction with my formal studies, I will read all Sailor Moon manga, magazine specials, and puff pieces; watch the TV show and Takeuchi-sensei’s interviews; and even subject myself to the stage musicals.

Once I have purist knowledge of all things Sailor Moon, I will return to the US and begin exposing DiC Entertainment’s botch-job through viral campaigns on YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, Google+, FourSquare, LinkedIn, MySpace, Friendster, and LiveJournal. I will post tweets, statuses, and videos with accurate translations and thoughtful analyses. I will reveal to the masses the true message of Sailor Moon while deftly eluding copyright laws. I know Sailor Moon herself would approve, for the justice of the universe transcends all.

With the help of the Sunshine-Sunshine Japanese Language School, the women leaders of tomorrow will be introduced to the transformative magic of Sailor Moon; learn from its many lessons; and lead fruitful, fulfilling, and alien-free lives.

***

The Rumpus - Funny Women Blogs rejected the above piece, while The Mary Sue and McSweeney's Internet Tendency ignored it. Why? Because they have taste.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be in the corner huddled in the fetal position.

Newtown

Had to stop reading the profile of the victims because of tears. The gunman killed women and children. You know, the people that get to go on lifeboats first. I read about how the teachers died shielding the kids and I just lost it. President Obama was a wreck, too.

Don't Join the Harvard Club

Do you have standards? Then don't join the Harvard Club.

Sure, the Downtown Club offers beautiful views of the Charles River and downtown Boston. Yes, the food is delicious and the service is unparalleled. And I'm sure the Main Clubhouse is a veritable hall of delights.

But their member services staff can't get their act together. Allow me to expound.

At Fiancé's urging, in mid-October I electronically handed over a few hundred bucks for the privilege of eating out and name-dropping. Were I one year older, I would have had to pony up over a thousand bucks. Fortunately, I am still 30.

A couple of weeks pass by. Nothing from the Harvard Club. In November, I email a member services person. He apologizes and says the new member packet is on its way. In the meantime, I am to use the guest member number 666* to enter the premises. Fiancé and I still need to submit photo IDs every time we want to go up the Club. The guards at the front desk of One Federal have to open the turnstiles for us. Okay, no problem.

A couple more weeks go by. At that point, we'd had a dinner there and enjoyed it. I wrote to the member services person again to check in about the new member packet. No response.

The next day, I received an email from another member services person. "Dear Peter," it began. (If you do not know me, dear reader, I assure you I am not a Peter.) The email gently reminded me that since my member dues were so low, I had to spend a minimum amount at the Club every quarter.

I responded politely that I am Fragrant Elephant, the member, and I'll definitely come again to give them more of my money. I also asked when I might expect to receive my new member packet. Again, no response.

So off we went on the day before Thanksgiving. Lunch was terrific. The wait staff were as superb as ever. I asked the girl at the front desk about a new member packet, and she directed me to member services. I could not even lol at this irony. I asked about maybe getting an ID so we could just breeze in next time. She pulled out a folder, wrote my name on a card, and handed it to me.

I gave it back. "My name is not Elephant Fragrant," I told her. "It's Fragrant Elephant."

She said the system had my name wrong, and she changed it on the computer. She gave me a new card and told me to get a barcode from downstairs.

Next, I wanted to know if I could change my payment information, since I'm there already. (I had recently changed my credit card no thanks to a scam Chinese website and my own idiocy.) When you eat at the Club, they don't give you a receipt -- they bill your credit card. So they needed my new info if they wanted me to pay for the awesome lobster casserole in my stomach. "No, just do it online," said the receptionist. "Use your [REDACTED] and your [REDACTED] to log in."

I logged in and discovered that "hideous" is the aesthetic for the Harvard Club intranet design. Turns out I can only change my credit card info by authorizing the Club to automatically charge me monthly. I am leery of this option, since I just received a bill that demanded an extra thirty bucks for not meeting my minimum. I guess they didn't count our dinner, because Fiancé paid for it. Alas, chivalry! Thy days art over!

In the Harvard Club's defense, it looks and sounds really fancy. But like the University, it seems to have its share of absentminded professionals.

In conclusion: come for the food and service, flee from the management.

This rant is brought to you by Three Drinks Thursdays.

*666 is not actual member number

Let's Talk About Sex...ism

Today, BBC News covered the story of Dana Bakdounis' unveiling, which I'll use momentarily to segue into my favorite topic: me. But first, the background: Dana had been following the Uprising of Women in the Arab World page on that scourge of humanity Facebook, and posted an image of herself on the site, unveiled and holding up a photo of her veiled self with a note in English that read: "I'm with the uprising of women in the Arab world because, for 20 years, I wasn't allowed to feel the wind in my hair and my body." Verily, a powerful expression of freedom and courage, from a young woman raised in conservative Saudi Arabia.

Side note: One of my friends lived in Saudi Arabia as a kid and the other kids threw rocks at her because she wasn't an Arab, even though she's Muslim just like them. Religion: not quite the unifying force of your imagination!

I hope the coverage of Dana's story continues. In the meantime, I remain grateful for my boring life, where the worst I have to deal with is being told to my face that:

• I should never get fat, because all I have to offer my future husband are my face and body;
• I should stop reading, because it's unattractive;
• I'm only marrying Husband-elect because of his credit card;
• I need to get married right away because my value will diminish as I get older.

So awesome!

I've also received backhanded compliments, like how I think like a man so I can be told certain secret manly things. Love the secret manly things! Like, did you know there are websites where guys calculate their chances of landing specific types of women, based on results reported by guys who've already gotten those women? Science!

I'm going to stop right now because I'm going to give myself a rage heart attack. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, so in honor of the Native Americans who so kindly shared their resources with the pilgrims, I give a message of thanks to all men who respect men and women equally. Thanks for believing in us and supporting us as we struggle to lead good lives in a world that often isn't fair. Thank you, and please pass on your values.

And while you're at it, pass the turkey leg and stuffing. I'm hungry.

Fuck You, AT&T Customer Service

Last month, I bought the iPhone 5 and decided it was time to get a new number, too, a Boston number to reflect my current location. I'd had a Philadelphia number before. I stayed a loyal AT&T customer, and what do I get? They're scamming me an entire fucking month for a phone I no longer use. Fuck you, AT&T.

Backstory: I happily activated my new phone, with its shiny new number. I called AT&T Customer Service and spoke to Jason, who then passed me on to Michelle. I explained to Michelle that I had a new phone (Boston), and since the contract on my old phone (Philadelphia) had expired, I wanted to terminate that line. She assured me that the Philadelphia line would be cancelled at the end of the next billing cycle. I confirmed the date -- October 26, 2012 -- and she said there would be no charges after that day, that there would be no more wireless bill for that number, and it would simply stop working as a cell phone.

Today: I plug in the old phone to check what OS it has, and the "AT&T" text shows up on the cell bar. Confused, I called my mom. It fucking rang. The phone still fucking works, nine days after it's supposed to be a brick. WTF. I checked online for the wireless bill. Oh, look they're charging me for the next cycle, which runs from October 27 through November 26. I'm paying for a goddamned phone I'm not using, that I told them specifically that I'm not using, would you please terminate it.

I called AT&T and spoke to [mumbles], who then passed me on to someone else. Here's how it went down:

Furious Elephant: ...and I was told that this phone would stop working last month and I wouldn't have to pay anything. Now I'm seeing charges for the next billing cycle.

Customer Rep: Unfortunately, your request did not go through.

Furious Elephant: I want this line cancelled. Is there a way to backdate the cancellation?

Customer Rep: Unfortunately, I can only future-date the cancellation.

Furious Elephant: So I'm paying for two phones on AT&T, one of which I'm not using?

Customer Rep: Yes.

Furious Elephant: That seems foolish.

(silence)

Furious Elephant: Look, I just want to make sure this line gets cancelled. Will it stop working on November 26?

Customer Rep: That's correct.

Furious Elephant: And is there a way for me to confirm that? Should I just call you guys again?

Customer Rep: No, you won't need to do that. It won't be able to make calls then.

Furious Elephant: Okay. What's your name?

Customer Rep: Robert.

Furious Elephant: Last time I was helped by someone named Michelle. I didn't know her last name, either.

(silence)

Furious Elephant: All right. Do I need to do anything else to make sure this thing gets cancelled?

Robert: No, that's it.

Furious Elephant: Well, thanks very much.

Robert: Thank you (choking) for being a valued customer of AT&T.

- 0 -

GRRRRRRR.

Well, lessons learned:

1. Get the customer rep's full name and any other identifying information to improve chances of correct perp getting screamed at for being incompetent.
2. Kick it up to the supervisor as soon as it becomes clear you won't be helped.

I would've done the above, but I was so upset I couldn't talk. Next time I'm making Husband-elect deal with this crap. He's very good at loudly yet politely informing people that they suck at their job. That's how we got complimentary cheese and champagne at the Westin.

In conclusion: GRRRRRRRRR.

===

UPDATE: 11/08/2012

I sent a furious yet polite email to AT&T right after the call. I wrote out the issue and asked them not to make me call customer service again, since that doesn't work.

I guess a higher-up read the email, because the line has disappeared from the billing statement, and we got a credit for it! Hurray!

Thank you, AT&T!

Rey P.

There's a joke back home that goes something like this: A guy reports that he's been sexually assaulted, when all he did was answer a question. "Well, what was the question?" They wanted to know his name, said the guy. "Okay, what's your name?" His name is Rey Piñoco. In Tagalog, that sounds like "Rape me."

Hur hur hur.

Missouri Congressman Todd Akin got into trouble with malapropism, too. "It seems to me, from what I understand from doctors... If it's a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down," he recently declared, when asked about his stance on abortion in the case of rape. In other words, Ten Things I Hate About You actress Gabrielle Union had no reason to be concerned about possibly getting pregnant after being assaulted at gunpoint when she was 19. Because her Vagilina Jolie can "shut that whole thing down." Also: "legitimate rape"? I guess that's the opposite of "illegitimate rape," which is rape born out of wedlock and can't get an inheritance. For a humorous twist on other horrific--but legitimate!--things and the non-victims that can shut 'em down, see the From Talking to Doctors Tumblr.

Everyone and their mother's dog jumped all over Akin, who by the way is running for senator and is a member of the House Science and Technology Committee. Our very own Governor Scott Brown, himself a childhood victim of abuse, was the first Republican Senator to call on Akin to stop his campaign for Senate. True to form, hardcore conservatives rallied around their besieged hero, touting his "Christian values." I will now stop here before I have an embolism.

Of course, the media will let us know how this story develops. Will Akin step down from the race? Will there be a glorious future where no one says stuff like what Akin said, because we're all going to be mutually respectful, reasonable, and/or educated?

Hur hur hur?

When Karma Strikes

This seems to be a banner week for Shameless Employee.

So I was preparing to stealth-poop in the bathroom (I know you do it, tooooo!) and I hear someone walk in a couple of stalls away. I wait with the patience of a ninja for the other person to leave so I can, you know, go.  Instead, she has explosive diarrhea. Great. I think she thought she was alone, judging by the hearty sounds and heavy breathing. She was going.

Being a civilized young lady, my only option was to pretend to not exist during my mystery coworker's time of rectal distress, but there were a couple of times during that two-minute Lower Body Horror Orchestra that I almost stomped out. Instead, I clenched and waited.

Finally, she left, and I hurried about my business. The last thing I needed was to be washing my hands and then have someone come in and associate me with the stench of someone else's impaired malabsorption of nutrients in the small intestine. Fortunately, this time I got lucky and no one saw me slink away.

At my desk, I went to jezebel.com to cheer myself up with angry, snarky feminist writings. What's the first thing I see on their site? An article about pooping at work. I was like, "Really? REALLY?"

I have two interpretations of the Bathroom Event. One, it's earned karma for me always being the first to reach the leftover sandwiches, and shamelessly squirreling away two or three at a time, for Boyfriend and/or for the next day's lunch. Or, this might be karma that goes toward something awesome that is office-related. 

In any case, I leave you with a lesson: make as much noise as possible when in the stall, to forestall (hur hur hur) similar horrors. You're welcome.

*** Update, two days later ***

I was prepping my lunch in the kitchen when three ladies came in bearing pastries, yogurt, bagels (ugh), and other assorted goodies. I immediately took my pick and told my buddies in Accounting about the loot. I believe this now balances out my karma.

Vibram!

I run so I can eat like a truck driver. A couple of years ago, as part of my campaign to get my lung cilia back after quitting smoking, I decided to increase my running speed by getting the famed Vibram "toe-shoes." My local City Sports had a sale going on, so I got some green-and-grey ones. (Pictured above are Boyfriend's ninja black ones.) The shoes fit my feet--and toes!--like gloves. I zipped through three miles in about 25 minutes, which is absolutely ridiculous. I was delighted. I ran through the winter, and drew admiring stares from passerby. I basked in their respect for my amazing athleticism. "They look so comfortable," said a woman reclining on a bench. "Hohoho," I replied, in my best Japanese noblewoman laugh.

Then, sometime in the spring of '10, I woke up and could not walk without pain. I limped to my chiropractor, a crusty New Yorker who, in between tales of how dangerous the NY subway was back in the seventies and eighties, informed me that I had tendinitis, and had no business running with my special shoes. I weakly protested that the best Kenyan and Nigerian athletes trained barefoot, and she pointed out that they run on clay, while I ran on pavement.

Ohhhh.

Little Brother was visiting at the time and very kindly bought me a bucket so I could dunk my calves in ice water every night until I could walk normally again. After that, I only used my Vibrams for hiking, which apparently was what they were designed for in the first place. Well, excuse me for innovating. Anyway, I sprained my ankle last time I hiked, so obviously Vibram wasn't the product for that activity either.

And then, a couple of weeks before my company charity basketball tournament, Boyfriend and I slipped into our Vibrams so he could teach me to run properly. Apparently, running full speed with your arms out like an airplane with each foot stamping firmly on the ground was not correct. What can I say, I learned to run by watching Sailor Moon. Boyfriend went into his terrifying Teacher Mode and explained the biomechanics of impact transmission in excruciating detail. I eventually figured out that he was talking about how the muscles in my calves will absorb the shock when I spring forward on my tippy-toes, and barely stopped him from scratching out a force reduction equation on the ground with a twig.

And then we ran a couple miles and sure enough, I was limping for a week afterward. See, Vibrams will force you to run correctly, because there's no cushion for heel impact. Also, you are encouraged to jut out your chest and run faster because people are staring at your shoes and assuming you are super awesome. Running faster in Vibram means running on tiptoes and not letting your heel strike the ground at all. My calf muscles, furious at my inability to learn from past mistakes, went on strike and refused to talk to me until I promised to only run in real shoes.

And that is why my Vibram shoes will henceforth be Sheba's playthings. As you may have noticed from the photo above and the one in my last post, she loves shoe-related activities, like sitting, cuddling, rubbing, and rolling around. Cats have it figured out.

Happy Memorial Day weekend!

---

Edit, 05/31/2012: BBC has an article describing Vibram's valiant efforts to shut down counterfeiters.

Superbowl Sadface

Today I didn't tune in to the Today Show, because I know those smug bastards would be happily recounting the Giants' ignominious defeat of the Patriots. Boo hoo hoo. Boyfriend and I hosted last night's Superbowl watching event (on the menu: chicken wings and drumsticks, mini-tacos, chips, veggie platter, and alcohol). We were sadfaced after everyone left. Well, I was sadfaced; he was wearing the face of a serial killer. It was really surprising, though, that the Pats missed three bloody perfect throws from Tom Brady, who by the way suddenly became handsome in my eyes after last night. I used to not think of him as particularly good-looking, despite everyone else around me drooling over him. But there's something about the dark shadow of defeat that made him extra attractive...

Speaking of attractive, I have a Lasik consultation this afternoon! We shall see if I am a candidate for the treatment. Wikipedia has a complete video of the surgery halfway down this page. Oooh, I can't wait!

Anyway, if you haven't already, check out The Real Housewives of South Boston on YouTube. Perhaps a chuckle will wash away the bitter taste of defeat...

Brain Fart Announcements

Brain Fart #1 brought to you by incessant "Win a Free iPad 2" ads, most recently on the company intranet:

Why can't I win anything? I never win anything! How come I can't get a free iPad 2?

My oldest sister has won a TV, a DVD player, a rainbow with matching unicorn, and the way she's going, she'll probably win a hybrid sports car at her office holiday party!

Why not meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee?

Edit, 12/08/2011: Apparently, she also won a vacuum cleaner and a washing machine. She won one of those items in a national department store drawing! WHAT. Sure, God, no playing favorites, huh? (sulk) And my other sister won pizza in a raffle draw, but she claims that doesn't count because it was rigged. Divine rigging versus human rigging: the difference is that one gets you awesome electronics that last for years, and the other is consumed within five minutes.

Brain Fart #2 brought to you by obnoxious jewelry ads on TV:

Pfffffft. Real women wear this ring:

An Aes Sedai ring, my darlings. Only $1,100 in 14k gold! "What?" you exclaim, "Nicole will be eternally happy for merely the price of two iPad 2s? Why, here is my credit card!"

Aw shucks!