Remarkable Reflections

I hate paper

noreply@blogger.com (Ali S.) — Thu, 31 May 2007 20:05:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ali

A few days ago, I spent 2 hours at Kinkos making copies and assembling packages for overnight delivery. Watching me operate a copy machine must like watching a three-year-old figure out how to land an airplane.

First I printed 50 blank pages. Then I printed 50 pages going the wrong direction. Then I about killed myself (and the machine) trying to grab the original document out before it started printing more flawed copies.

The Kinkos employee who helped me was nice enough and even offered to refund me for the bad ones. But when I told her that I hated paper, and that I hadn't used a copy machine since 1996, she just laughed.

I said, "You must be an old pro with these beastly machines," and she said, "I've only worked here two hours. It's not that hard."

I gave her a look that said, Um, yes it is and then thought about acting like I was foreign or blind or had some valid reason for not comprehending the art of copying a piece of paper. But it was too late.

My only saving grace was that a woman standing near me asked someone at the front desk where she could get an envelope...in order to send a fax.

What's Next...Paparazzi?

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Thu, 31 May 2007 01:34:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ashley

Tonight I was walking my dog, Tucker, on the Monon Trail by my house. A cyclist came up behind me and said "Hey, Ashley."

Me: "Hey......" I didn't recognize the face hidden under the bike helmet and sunglasses. "Who are you?"

Cyclist: "It's DJ."

Me: "Oh...DJ! Hey - wow it's been like a year and a half since we saw each other."

DJ: "Yeah, it has been a long time."

Me: I'm actually really surprised you recognized me."

DJ: "Uh, actually I recognized your dog."

Overheard Last Night at Target

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Fri, 18 May 2007 01:38:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ashley

"Wow, you're buying a lot of clothes," the cashier says to the twenty-something girl in front of me.

"Oh my gosh, I know...you guys have such a good selection."

"Well, your total is $92.98."

"Is that it? That's so cheap. My baby just loves to wear shirts. But she doesn't really seem like dresses or skirts too much."

$92 is not cheap to me, especially for baby clothes. I pull my nose out of Us Weekly to glance at the pile of clothes waiting to be bagged. And by clothes, I mean dog clothes. Clothing for a dog. $100 worth of it.

That's a whole lot of glitter.

This is Not an Email

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Tue, 01 May 2007 23:05:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ashley

I work for an on-demand email marketing software company that has periodic product releases, and I work pretty closely on them. So I like to say that I necessarily become a workaholic the 30-days or so leading up to our product launches.

Our spring release is next week, and I'm in one of my "work zones" right now. There are three stages of workaholic zones, and today when talking with my friend Stephanie, I unfortunately slid down the slippery slope into stage three.

Stage One - Getting stressed out, carrying tension and apprehension in my shoulder / neck area, getting constant headaches, and generally hunching over my desk like Gollum because my posture sucks so badly.

Stage Two - Dreaming about work. Actually, it would be more correct to state "dreaming about working," as in my dreams consist of full meetings and very productive brainstorm sessions with whiteboards and dry erase markers and everything.

Stage Three - Substituting the word "email" in place of other words in everyday conversation having nothing to do with work. For example, "We should go return the email to Blockbuster." Or today, "I was alone at the table because my friend ran to the email."

I love my job, and I love the company I work for. I do think email marketing is important, and I personally work with our own email program. But it's a little sad that I talk about email to the point that I start saying it without meaning it. Because in the grand scheme of things, email probably wouldn't even rank as a top-ten thing that I truly care about. I wonder if I'll ever be to the point that I start slipping in words I'm truly passionate about work conversations.

Like "I wonder what our sunshine rate was in the last campaign?" and "I'll schedule a meeting to discuss our cheese strategy" or "This dog will truly enable the marketer to deliver one-to-one-messaging."

Maybe that's actually the indication of a well-balanced life.

What the Peep?

noreply@blogger.com (Ali S.) — Wed, 11 Apr 2007 01:09:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ali

As I stood in my kitchen eating a Peep that my mother sent me for Easter (thanks, Mom), I just couldn't help but marvel over its squishy goodness and delicious sugar coating.

There are two types of people in the world:

1) Those who hate Peeps
2) Those who love them

There really isn't anything in between, right? And I happen to be a person who loves them. But the thing about Peeps is that you can't eat them at any old time of the year (imagine celebrating Christmas with a plate of them. That would just be wrong) and perhaps that is what makes them so special.

And let me be perfectly clear that when I talk about loving Peeps, I am only talking about the yellow ones, not the pink ones or the blue ones or purple or whatever new color it is that they're pushing this year. ONLY YELLOW. ONLY THE LITTLE CHICKS.

Unlike M & M's, where you really can't tell the difference between a brown one and a green one (seriously, um, you can't. I've done the taste test several times), you can practically smell the difference between a pink and yellow Peep.

But what I love most about Peeps is their nutritional value. Eating an entire box of them is no different than eating a box of air, but with 1% of your daily sodium intake, 13% of your daily carbohydrate intake, and enough sugar to make you go cross-eyed. It just does not get any better than that.

What would you do for a dollop?

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Fri, 06 Apr 2007 23:50:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ashley

So I'm getting ready to eat dinner, and I just opened a container of Daisy Brand light sour cream. On the protective foil lid covering thing (do you leave it on? do you take it off?) I noticed the following quote next to the picture of a tulip:

"If life gives you limes, just rearrange the letters and return a smile."

Are people really feeling so low these days that they need a pick-me-up from their sour cream container? And if so, are they disappointed when they open their cereal boxes and are met with plain, uninspiring plastic?

Note to Daisy Brands: You don't need a feel-good quote on your light sour cream. People already feel good because they bought the light kind instead of the regular.

SWF Seeks Lifelong Companion. Must Be Adventurous, Willing to Travel, and Able to Perform Under Strenuous Circumstances.

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Mon, 02 Apr 2007 00:03:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ashley

I've finally posted, printed, and filed my pictures from Costa Rica. You can check them all out here.

It's kind of ironic, but my favorite picture of the bunch is actually this one from Playa del Rey outside Quepos. The irony stems from the fact that though the beach and sufboards might look pretty, they were in fact my own personal hell. Let's just say my secret dream of becoming a surfer girl like Kate Bosworth in Blue Crush faded very quickly that day.

I must admit that on the whole, I am a little disappointed with the photos. Being the technologically-stunted person that I am, I struggled with using the digital camera that I borrowed from my parents. The delayed display and hundreds of superflous setting choices were annoying and overwhelming. I don't care about the type of flash! I don't care about anti-shaking controls! Just take my damn picture when I ask you to. It seems to me that the photos from Ecuador turned out much better on an old camera I borrowed that took (gasp!) real film. It's too bad I ran it through the washing machine by accident.

I've decided the problem is that I just need to buy my own camera. Trying to use someone else's is like trying to wear someone else's old, worn running shoes -- they may be your size, but those things ain't never gonna feel right. So I've budgeted $700 (thanks for the rebate, IRS) and have the following criteria:

1. Must take picture when I ask it to, no matter how unreasonable I am being. Point, snap, and let's be done with it.

2. Must take multiple frames in succession without me having to push the button every time. My finger is small and gets tired easily.

3. Must be 8.0 Megapixel or higher because someday I WILL get around to framing my photos.

If you have a suggestion, please pass it along. Or else I might end up buying one directly from Home Shopping Network, which I'm pretty sure is not OK. But man, are those four easy flex payments ever enticing...

Why I'm Too Old for This...

noreply@blogger.com (Ali S.) — Tue, 27 Mar 2007 12:18:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ali

I hosted a bachelorette party for one of my best friends this weekend.

It was a lovely night, full of plastic male reproductive organs (well, only a few. And they were actually whistles), joyful screaming from 20+ drunken girls, and a bajillion half-empty beer bottles. Here are a few take-aways from the blissful evening:

1. I am anal retentive. I hate crumbs, mess, people invading my personal space, noise, stink, and most things associated with having a sloppy good time. That does not make well for a relaxed party hostess.

2. I am too old to go to a bar and enjoy it. Well, either that, or I was too sober. By the time we arrived there, my feet felt like they had nails driven into the bottoms and my ears had a nice buzzing sound from all of the in-house screaming.

By the time I left the dance floor at 1:00am (still sober, mind you), I was seriously considering the purchase of one of those Lil' Rascal mover machines to help me get around. Oh, and hearing aids. I pretty much drove home legally deaf.

3. I find nothing more fulfilling than a clean house, which is why I stayed up until 3am taking care of business instead of taking shots. Now, to be completely fair, most of the guests were lovely and respectful, volunteering to help clean up a bit before hitting the bars (and one even offered to Pledge my table! I about kissed her).

4. I don't plan to host that many people over at my 1,000 square foot house again. The thing about parties is that even if you have 10,000 square feet, everyone ends up sitting butt-to-butt in a 10 foot area.

All in all, I'll say that this party certainly beat the parties I used to throw in high school, when the guests bonged beers on the front porch and then got my dog stoned. Which may have happened this time around, but alas, I was too busy wiping up crumbs to notice.

Stop...You're Making Me Blush!

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Tue, 27 Mar 2007 00:16:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ashley

This past weekend, I made a short trip down to Fort Myers to spend some time with my mother. It was just the two of us together for three and a half days, and honestly I was a little nervous about spending all that alone time together. My mom and I have a serious history of butting heads and criticizing each other. In the past few years, most of that has gone away...but still, in my experience spending three straight days with anyone can bring out the claws.

Well surprise, surprise -- I had a wonderful time. My mother and I got along beautifully, and for perhaps the first time in my adult life I think we actually enjoyed each other's company. We went running, layed out by the pool, and even spent a day shopping together (crammed in the same small dressing room at Ross Dress for Less) in total peace.

Yesterday, when she dropped me off at the airport, my mother hugged me a little harder than normal. It took me a second to realize that she was crying. Now, one or two tears is normal. However, my mom was really crying. I could even feel her shoulders shaking a little.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I don't want you to leave," my mother said between tears. "You're just such a nice person. I want to spend more time with you."

And with that, my mother gave me the single greatest compliment I have ever been given. Thank you, mom.

And the Verdict Is...

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Tue, 13 Mar 2007 20:34:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ashley

Many of you have probably heard of the controversy over Delta Zeta at DePauw University. If you're a DePauw Alumni like me, you've probably even received the breaking news "From the desk of Bob Bottoms" that DePauw was severing all ties with DZ on campus. In the slim case you haven't, go here.

My freshman year at DePauw, the Kappa Kappa Gamma chapter made national headlines for "branding" girls with cigarettes. Two of my friends were pledges who were burned, and many more of my friends were members or pledges. Despite all the uproar, Kappa's punishment was to take a reduced pledge class the following two years. Granted, the Kappa's national leaders seem nothing like those of DZ's. But still, it's hard to imagine the drastic difference between a reduced pledge class (for burning people) and "severed ties" for essentially publicly admitting that people don't meet your standards.

As Ali put it the other day (on our way to Target, of course) the sad fact is that every single day we all make judgements about people. This is obviously not an earthshattering statement. But whether we vocalize it or not, every time we meet someone new, or check out at the grocery, or sit in a meeting next to one of our co-workers, we are constantly (subconsciously) making little judgements about them. Ultimately, those judgements add up to whether or not that person meets our standards.

It seems to me that other than lifelong friendship and sisterhood (and yes, I vomited a little in my mouth when I wrote that), judgement, exclusivity, and standards are the very foundations of what the Greek system is built upon. Had girls gotten kicked out of a chapter for not making high enough grades, we'd probably applaud the "high standard" of that chapter. But when one of the standards happens to be a social "taboo" (i.e. beauty, weight, style, etc.) we frown upon those that judge.

I'm not saying that what DZ did was right - in fact, if you want a lesson in what not to do with a sorority, they seem to be a stellar example. But in the days of no-cut high school athletics (c'mon, someone's got to play JV) and no-grade report cards (c'mon, someone's got to flunk), you could actually argue that maybe those crazy old DZ are actually a little refreshing. Wrong...but refreshing.

P.S. I'm thankful every day that Theta was all about rainbows and puppies.

You like me...You really like me!

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Sun, 11 Mar 2007 23:00:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ashley

This weekend, I had four people give me a hard time about not posting on the blog for a while. You have no idea how happy this has made me, since I assumed that only my mom was actually reading Remarkable Reflections. I don't even think Ali reads my posts!

Since it turns out that there are a few more readers (one guy even said he sent the link to his friend in California - cool) I feel rejuvinated. I'm working on posting my pictures of Costa Rica on Flickr and will be writing a post later this week about the trip - I certainly have a few observations / opinions about it.

And, I've just started experimenting with Photoshop Brushes, which means I'm now on a mission to make a new header for this blog. Trust me, I don't have a clue about what I'm doing. But if you come back to the blog next week and the new design brings a tear to your eye...well, let's just say it could happen.

Why do we usually end up with what we don't REALLY want?

noreply@blogger.com (Ali S.) — Tue, 20 Feb 2007 14:02:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ali

I know how that sounds...totally negative. And I don't mean it to be. But I'm beginning to think it's the truth. Life works in funny ways, and sometimes it seems that the things we want the most are the very hardest to attain.

Take for example my current situation. I am a business owner. I always said that I would not own a business, but now I am a co-founder of one. And it's great! Life is good. But I never set out to become a business owner. I never said, "If I don't become a business owner by age 26, my life will be a total and complete failure!" It was a natural progression to get there...I don't want to say that it just "sorta happened" but it happened, and I'm happy with it.

On the other hand, all of us have that one single thing that we just MUST do. It's our passion. It's what we think our purpose is here on earth. It's our calling. And many times, it is not the same as our day job.

I have been working on a novel for 3.5 years and I'm in the process of trying to publish it--querying agents and figuring out the do's and don'ts (and thank you to Kristy Kiernan, because she has given incredible advice along the way). I am a month into it, and no agent. I've had some interest, but no one has said, "This is it! The book I've been waiting for!"

And it struck me over this weekend--as I was proofing the chapters for probably the hundredth time and thinking back to the hours, weekends, and precious moments of my life I have spent on writing this book--that sometimes, wanting something so badly is not enough. It may NOT happen. And the things that DO happen may in face be those that we don't really strive that hard to achieve.

What I am trying to say here is: Don't put all your happiness in one basket. Sit back, be an underachiever, and sometimes, good things may still happen! And to Ashley's point, Sakura does have really good sushi.

Sushi with a Smile

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Tue, 20 Feb 2007 03:52:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ashley

Tonight I ate dinner at Sakura, a great sushi place on Keystone & 72nd Street. I've eaten there a few times before, and the food is always delicious and reasonably priced as sushi goes. The restaurant is almost always packed, and 8:30 this evening was no different.

As I was leaving, belly bulging and slightly "talkative" from the SAKE! my dinner companion commented on how there was really no such thing as service in restaurants like Sakura. The more I think about it, the more I agree this is a great point. Though the service at Sakura has never been notably awful, it has certainly never been notably good either. I'm pretty notorious for being 1) impatient and 2) speaking my mind, so I would certainly have commented or spoken up if the service was unbearable there (or anywhere else for that matter).

However, I gladly sit through the slow delivery of our rolls and sashimi at Sakura, not bothered in the least. When I think about it, this seems to be the case at most Japanese restaurants I visit. And Mexican restaurants, and Thai restaurants, and pretty much any other "ethnic" place. I'm pretty sure this isn't P.C. to say, but I seem to be more tolerant for mediocre service when English is a second language for a staff. And I can't tell if it's because I'm just excited to not be eating at Applebee's, if it's because I expect ho-hum service when I eat at non-chain restaurants, or if it's simply because I feel like if I did complain, my message would be "lost in translation."

One way or another, I look forward to returning for another meal at Sakura. Their soft-shelled crab can rock my tastebuds any night of the week...no matter how long it takes.

T.G.I.S.

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Sun, 18 Feb 2007 17:43:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ashley

I love Sunday afternoons. For me, there is simply no better time of the week. Come Sunday, my "long runs" have been run, I've made it back from the mall alive, my fridge is stocked with food, and I find myself relishing in boredom almost to the point of looking forward to work on Monday morning. Almost.

Here are my five favorite things to do on Sunday afternoons:

5. Take my dog for a walk. This is his favorite thing to do on Sunday afternoons, too. Or any afternoon, for that matter.

4. Watch old romantic comedies on TBS, particularly if they involve Meg Ryan or Julia Roberts.

3. Taking a warm shirt out of the dryer and putting it on. This only happens on Sunday afternoons because that is the only time I can force myself to do laundry.

2. Pouring a beer or a glass of wine, then only drinking half of it because I am too busy sleeping on the couch to finish it.

1. Lying. This does not mean telling lies, but rather stretching out on my couch, with a candle burning and maybe some music playing and doing nothing. Not reading, not watching TV, not sleeping. I'm pretty sure that this is only socially acceptable on Sundays.

Seeing as how it is Sunday afternoon, I'm going to go do one of the above.

A New Kind of Webster's?

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Fri, 02 Feb 2007 00:31:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ashley

It's probably a fitting time to write a little more about words, given Ali's last post. So here's my idea. What if there was a dictionary of some type that listed all the words that people should never use? Like a guidebook of words to avoid and general phrases that no one likes to hear -- or at least, I don't like to hear them.

Wrong Words
Moist
Chunky
Pet Peeve
Actually
Salve
Savoury
Brittle
Panty

Right Words
Holster
Sheer
Fluffy
Ginger
Macabre
Marinate
Woodsy
Sliver
Aquatic
Vivacious

I'm sure there are words that I like that everyone else hates (and vice a versa -- actually, I love the words "vice a versa" but hate the word "actually") I'd love to hear what other words people love / loathe. Who knows, it might even make it into my friend Taylor's book -- which, at nine pages and counting, might just have the makings of an all new Webster's.

My Secret Language

noreply@blogger.com (Ali S.) — Thu, 25 Jan 2007 23:54:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ali

I have always had this thing about abbreviating or modifying words. In middle school, my favorite word was "Prit," which was short for "pretty." In college, it was "Redic," which is of course an almost vulgar sounding way of saying "ridiculous." These days, it's "likey," which is actually a longer version of "like."

When it comes to abbreviating words, I can definitely blame my mother, who has been known to write IM messages that say things like:

Put ho in gar don't forg to sh off out wat

Which after engaging with five detectives and sixteen linguists, you find out that really means, "Put your hose in the garage and don't forget to shut off the outside water."

But for the "ie" or "ey" on the end of words, I have no one to blame but myself. The funny thing is that it becomes uncontrollable after you've gotten used to replacing a normal word with the "ie" or "ey" version for so long. I've become somewhat afraid that I'm going to be in a business meeting and say, "Do you likey?" when walking someone through our financial projections. Or if a salesperson asks what I think of a pair of shoes, I have to fight the urge to say, "Me likey."

Words are all very funny sounding when you really think of them (in fact, one of my sister's friends even keeps a journal of all the words she hates, which includes "pudding." I have to agree with that one) and that's why I like to make them sound even more fun.

Why I Love Slate Magazine

noreply@blogger.com (Ali S.) — Fri, 12 Jan 2007 17:49:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ashley

Ok, Ok...I know I talk about Slate Magazine a lot. But there's a reason why I'm mildly obsessed with it. I just spent 15 minutes on my lunch hour browsing around, and was thoroughly entertained by the following articles:

The CopyCat Syndrome: Why we really hate plagarists like the overachieving Harvard student, Kaavya Viswanathan, and the recently accused Ian McEwan, who supposedly ripped off a few passages from Lucille Andrew's memoir. "The answer, clearly, has to do with work; it seems unfair that Andrews had to sit at her desk and painstakingly consider how to describe cleaning a soldier's wounds, while McEwan could merely sit down and effectively copy out her sentences, moving on to the rest of his story (while getting paid more than she did, presumably)."

Some Pig: Why food writers are obsessed with pigs. It almost made me want to add pork to the "Top Five Meats That I Miss as a Vegetarian" list. Oh wait...the pig is already on there. But that's another blog post.

Smoker's Voice: A great article about Barack Obama's vice...I mean, voice. Apparently, he's a "occasional smoker" who is trying to quit the habit, but could lose his soothing, buttery voice without his cigs. I can't seem to make up my mind about Obama, and this article makes it even more difficult to decide.

And last but not least, here's my all-time favorite article from Slate: Running with Slow Pokes. I definitely don't agree with it (actually, I think the author is an asshole) but you've got to love a magazine that publishes articles like this!

Pumping gas brings new meaning to FUN

noreply@blogger.com (Ali S.) — Fri, 12 Jan 2007 14:13:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ali

I was on my way to a friend's house last night and about to run out of gas. She lives in a nice part of downtown, but the road leading there tends to be littered with stumbling drunks and women on the corner yelling, "Ain't choo gonna come getcha some!"

So after passing two stations that were guaranteed to result in a mugging or shooting (maybe both), I called my friend and she told me there was a Citgo gas station just past her place that was "safe."

Well, "safe" is relative. I guess if you live downtown (which I did at one point), "safe" means that no one is holding a gun to your head.

I jumped out of my car, locked my doors, swiped my credit card, ripped off the gas cap, pushed the start button, and went to jump back in my car...but...wait. Problem. The credit card wasn't sufficient. They wanted my zip code. So I typed it in. 5 digits. No mistakes. I got an "Error--the number of digits is invalid" message. I put in the zip code again. Then I put in another zip code (take that machine! I'll just lie to you). Then I pushed every button possible and the machine made a noise like it was going to kill me instead of a bald guy with no teeth picking trash out of the garbage can a few pumps over.

I hopped in my car and pulled around to the pump next to it. Same thing. I stomped into the gas station and asked if they needed a DNA sample in order to allow me to pump gas.

The guy said, "You're pushing the start button instead of the enter button after you put in the zip code. Everyone's messing it up."

Everyone's messing it up? Interesting. I didn't see any instructions. I'm guessing that most people hadn't realized that a Phd in gas pumping technique would be required in order to fill up their car.

The guy came outside and monitored my performance with the pump. Then he asked if I wanted a receipt. Well, of course. Doesn't the machine usually spit that out after you finish pumping?

He said, "You gotta come inside for that."

So thank you, Citgo. You and Target are on our blacklists. You truly bring new meaning to the word "convenience."

What Makes Me Happy

noreply@blogger.com (Ali S.) — Wed, 03 Jan 2007 14:41:00 +0000

Brought to you by Ali

I saw an article on Yahoo that said most people think they'll be happier if they make more money. But that in reality, in oder to be happier, it doesn't take a BMW and a boat (for some people, I guess. I think those would make me pretty damn giddy). It means being truthful about what makes you happy, and figuring out how to factor more of that into your life.

So here's a list of things that make me happy:

1. A clean house (mind you, I hate to be the one cleaning it, though. I am not good with toilets. I'm one of those people who tries to mop a floor with paper towels)

2. Gossip magazines (my US Weekly magazine subscription recently ran out and I've not felt complete since. Yes, I DO need to know what kind of dental floss Heidi Klum uses)

3. Good food and nice restaurants (if I'm not the one cooking it, it's guaranteed to make me happy)

4. My dog (his name is Tiggy but his nickame is The Smile Maker. that's because just looking at him would make even the most bitter prison escapee on the planet smile)

5. Doing things for other people (as long as it isn't cleaning or cooking for them. I'm much better at pouring a glass of wine)

6. Being outside in warm weather (yes, I'm asking myself right now...why do you live in Indiana?)

7. New purses and shoes and earrings and...(wait, what was that about money not being a means to make someone happy?)

Conclusion? I am never going to find the cure for cancer or become the first woman President, but by God, I am going to be happy as a clam reading about Ashley Simpson's latest plastic surgery, while drinking a nice glass of wine, laughing at my dog, and wearing a pair of pretty new shoes.

A Tale of Two Retailers

noreply@blogger.com (Ali S.) — Sun, 31 Dec 2006 05:04:00 +0000

Brought to you by: Ashley

Retailer #1: My local Target Store in Nora.

Me: Hi, I received this salt and pepper set as a Christmas gift. The pepper shaker is actually defective and won't grind at all.
Target Employee: Ok, do you have a receipt?
Me: No, I don't. Actually, all I want to do is exchange it for a pepper grinder that actually grinds.
Target Employee: Well, you know you only get two returns without a receipt per year, right?
Me: Uh, no. Actually I didn't know that. Is that a new policy?
TE: No, I've been here two years and it's always been that way.
Me: Hmm, well OK. I'd still like to exchange it. Now, does the two-limit start over in 2007?
TE: No, it's a running year. And...oops, it actually looks like you've already used your two.
Me: OK, I'm not really sure how that's possible. So....what do you suggest I do?
TE: I can look up the manufacturer for you and you can contact them.
Me: Are you kidding?
TE: No. Or, you can ask someone in line to return it for you, but they'll be using one of their 'free' returns. Or you can just keep it.
ME: Excuse me. Would you mind exchanging this pepper grinder for me?
Pregnant Lady Behind Me: Well, I WOULD, but apparently I've already used my two returns already, even though I NEVER have.
Shopper Behind Pregnant Lady: Yeah, what is THAT about? This is news to all of us.
Pregnant Lady: You'd think some real liberal state like California or Vermont would have something about this. Like outlawed it.
TE: Well, do you want the manufacturer's information?
Me: Um, no. I'll just have salt.

Retailer #2: My local popcorn store, Just Pop In, Broad Ripple

Me (peering through window, crestfallen because the store closed 30 minutes ago): Damn.
Pop-In Owner (unlocking door): Hi! Come on in!
Me: Well, is it too late? I know you're closed.
Pop-In: Of course not! Come in, we're glad to have you. My mom and I were just wrapping up.
Me: Oh, great. Thanks so much. I've been craving some of your popcorn and am going to get a little bag for my sister, too.
Pop-In: Wonderful! That's so sweet of you, I'm sure she'll enjoy it on a dreary day like this.
Me: You know what? I'm sure she will....Oh, it looks like there's another customer outside.
Pop-In: Well, let's let them in, too! The more the merrier. Mom, could you go unlock the door?
Me: Thank you, and have a really great weekend.
Pop-In: You too! Thanks so much for coming in, and I hope you and your sister both enjoy it. Come see us again!

Moral #1: Contrary to popular opinion, great customer service still exists.

Moral #2: Good thing I ate all the popcorn, because I didn't save my reciept to return it.

Christmas Spirit

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Fri, 22 Dec 2006 02:35:00 +0000

Brought to you by: Ashley

I'm not a sap. But I figure if there is one time a year I can get away with writing about touching moments, it's during the holiday.

This morning, I had the opportunity to deliver Christmas gifts to a few families in need. For the past three years, the company I work for has collaborated with The Christamore House to pair up with local families throughout Indianapolis. The families are typically single mothers with four to six young children. I've been lucky enough to deliver gifts each holiday season, and it is always a touching and emotional event.

But this year was different. From the moment we started loading gifts up in the pouring rain, something just felt extraordinary. At each of the homes we visited, we woke the mothers up with our arrival. Not because they were lazy or sleeping in late, but because each woman worked a night shift at a low-paying job around town (the jail, the hospital, etc.) The homes, though extremely small and in need of some TLC outside, were well-cared for inside, and the women were proud of the minimal Christmas decorations they were able to display. A few had trees donated from their work, but all the trees were empty underneath.

As we brought in boxful after boxful of gifts, the women's excitement grew. One woman, embarassed that she had to ask for help this year, simply teared up in the corner. Another kept asking "There's more?" in astonishment, then had to take her asthma inhaler to calm back down.

And another, a mother of five, spoke openly about her troubles this year. On Monday, she found out her mother's cancer had returned and she had just a few months to live. A few weeks ago, her beloved brother was shot thirteen times and died just a couple blocks away from their home. She simply asked us to say a prayer for her family, and clung to the back of my shirt when I gave her a hug goodbye.

As we walked out the front door, one of my co-workers spotted somthing shiny in the rain. It was a .45 bullet, laying in the sidewalk next to her house. Without a word, he scooped the bullet out of the puddle and put it in his pocket.

Boot Camp for Billionaires

noreply@blogger.com (Ali S.) — Wed, 20 Dec 2006 22:21:00 +0000

Brought to you by: Ali

What exactly is boot camp for billionaires? Well, it’s what many of us call “everyday life.”

It’s a place where billionaires are stripped of all belongings and forced to get in touch with reality. Without the daily distractions of jets and jewels—and in the company of a tasteless bowl of porridge—these billionaires would have no choice but to reach newfound levels of appreciation for what they have.

Imagine it…

Donald Trump doing his hair without access to his Products Room, where he typically removes 60 or so cans of AquaNet per styling.

Ronald Perelman scrubbing a bathroom toilet dirtied by Ellen Barkin (that would NOT be pretty).

Sergey Brin and Larry Page riding banana seat bikes (stolen from two eleven-year-olds) to Google headquarters.

Oprah Winfrey wearing rubber gloves and cleaning up 300 pounds of dog doody in her backyard.

Bill Gates sans his staff of “junk email filterers”, forced to delete every single “WORK FROM HOME AND MAKE BILLIONS!” or “INCREASE YOUR PERSONAL PLEASURE!!!!!!!” spam email from his inbox himself.

Here is Forbe's list of billionaires.
Who else needs a good dose of reality?

Canine Eloquence

noreply@blogger.com (Ali S.) — Wed, 20 Dec 2006 04:40:00 +0000

Brought to you by: Ashley

Why is it that we will say anything to our pets?

In general, I pride myself on being a reasonably intelligent and well-spoken human. I try to refrain from using "ain't" and attempt to conjugate all my verbs correctly. When speaking with other humans, I typically think things through and generally try not to sound like an idiot.

Every day when I get home from work, I rush downstairs to greet my dog, Tucker. As soon as I see his tail wagging, it's like I revert back to being a three-year-old who can't put coherent sentences together. Here is a sampling of the garble that comes rushing out of my mouth:

"Tee-ta-ta-tee-tee-tee-tee-tee!" = A long-winded way of shortening the name Tucker, often screamed in a high, shrill voice.

"Hello, my little king. My little little king." = Tucker is the king. Of everything.

"OOOOOOHHHH, Tuckie's such a good boy. He's SUCH a goodboy. Tuckie! Tuckie! Tuckie!" = Tucker is laying around, doing nothing.

There is really no excuse for this kind of babble-behavior. But I know I am not alone. Even the most calculated, articulate talkers can (and will) speak whimsical nonsense when they are:

1) Alone.
2) In the presence of an animal or baby.

Why is that when we are around something (or someone) who cannot speak back, we let our guards down? Is it because we know they will not - and cannot - judge us?

One thing is for certain: it's a good thing there isn't a hidden camera in my house, because my doggie-speak might make some people question my judgement as a human being. But then again, those people probably don't have a pet of their own.

A Brutal Lesson on Self-Worth

noreply@blogger.com (Ali S.) — Tue, 19 Dec 2006 13:11:00 +0000

Brought to you by: Ali

Here’s when the concept of “what we’re worth” really hit me hard:

A few weeks ago, I was at a marketing conference in Chicago. One of the sessions was all about making money with online advertising, specifically for bloggers.

The most important thing I learned during that session wasn’t about the speaker—it was about his daughter. She was making $20 A DAY from her blog.

After he said it, I quickly did the math: 20 x almost 400 days in a year = $8,000 a year. (Remember, I’m ordinary. I didn't want to tackle 365. Too hard).

No, I thought. That can’t be right. There’s no way this daughter is making ¼ of an entry-level salary by writing an online diary.

I did the math again. And again and again and again. I thought, That little brace face daughter makes enough to buy a car.

It probably helps to know that this guy's daughter is 10. That’s right, and she probably makes more in a year than a part-time Pizza Hut delivery person.

She's pulling in a small fortune by writing a diary dedicated to neopets. Go ahead. Search for “neopets” on Google, and you will be just as baffled as I am. You’ll ask yourself, But why would anyone would want a neopet? And, more importantly, Why would anyone want to read about neopets?

I did a few more calculations, which only get scarier.

Let’s say the ten-year old was a poor typist and it took her an entire hour to get her neopet entries down.

$20 divided by 60 minutes = $0.33 a minute

So, I concluded that 10 year-old neopet daughter earns $0.33 / min.

Then I did my calculation. My last job’s salary, divided by the brutal hours. I won’t go into details, but here’s the long and short of it…

I earned $0.32 per minute. And that is the honest truth.

Warning! Four Important Disclaimers

noreply@blogger.com (Ali S.) — Tue, 19 Dec 2006 03:22:00 +0000

Brought to you by: Ali

Disclaimer 1: This is not a how-to-blog.

This isn’t a step-by-step guide on what to do if you make a complete mess of your life, you have trouble finding a relationship, or you run out of money. I don’t have 101 tips. I don't have a checklist for you. I don't have 10 steps for becoming a better person. Please reread the title, then drive to your local Borders. They have a whole section on how-to and self-help. They’ve probably got what you want.

Disclaimer2: I am not a famous person.

I am an ordinary person who wanted to write on topics that people want to know about. That means high demand. If my theory proves true, this will turn out to be a top-ranked blog, and eventually, a bestselling book.

Disclaimer 3: I am not rich. I am not poor.

I can afford a house, furniture for the house, clothes (for my body, not the house), and mindless purchases that I look at two months after buying and think, You honestly paid money for that? Just thought you should know.

Disclaimer 4: I hate research.

I’d like to think that the content on this blog will be along the lines of Malcom Gladwell’s Blink and The Tipping Point. He takes complex theories and boils them down so that somebody with a GED can understand. He notices profound things. He's an observer. But whereas Mr. Gladwell did his research, I will do little. And whereas Mr. Gladwell was a known writer before he published his books, I am an ordinary person writing just a blog. And whereas Mr. Gladwell had focus, I do not. And whereas Mr. Gladwell refrained from using too many personal instances, I will not.

Ready?