I hate Radio Shack. I HATE Radio Shack. They made me so angry, I came home and kicked my kicking bag.
With the wrong foot.
So now it's screaming in pain at me. I don't know what I was thinking. (There was a moment where I was trying to figure out whether it would be worse to stand on the bad foot while kicking with the good foot, or kick with the bad foot while standing on the good foot. I can figure out electronics, but I couldn't figure out that I needed to stand on the BAD foot and bang the GOOD foot with all my might against the kicking bag filled with a hundred pounds of sand until it crashed over and broke the speaker on the right of the TV. (I am so proud I did not forget all my TKD training.)) Cripes. It's like God gave me a little intelligence in one place and made me supremely stupid in others to make up for it.
I very pleasantly told the Radio Shack people I didn't want any help. What is so hard about that? It's not like I was bothering anyone. I just wanted to figure out what I needed by myself thank you very much.
And when they wouldn't leave me alone, when the THIRD freaking person came up to me, I gave up and tried to be nice and answered, "I want a black box with a blue dot." (I actually held up a plug and said I just wanted the plug and I'd connect the wires myself, but it's easier to write 'black box with a blue dot' while telling the story.)
He proceeded to ask me why, wanting to tell me a different way. I KNEW I didn't know the terminology and I would explain it wrong.
So I repeated myself: I just want a black box with a blue dot.
He asked questions. He held up orange boxes, green boxes, purple circles and yellow stars, telling me I might need those.
I said again: I want a black box with a blue dot.
He asked questions, I gave in and answered. I got to the car, looked in my hand, and I did NOT have a freaking black box with a blue freaking dot.
I go back in. I wave the people away and get the freaking black box with a freaking blue dot ALL BY MYSELF, which was what I wanted to do in the first place.
I go to return the purple polka-dotted wires and they asked for my phone number. I very nicely told them I don't give that out. They asked for my address; I told them I did not give that out, either.
"We just need it 'for the system.'"
They said they CAN NOT DO RETURNS UNLESS YOU GIVE THEM YOUR PRIVATE INFORMATION! Let's just say, after angry words were exchanged, I finally told them I lived at 1234 Dick Avenue. (Okay, I said Wood Avenue, but I wish now I had said Dick Avenue, or even better, Asshole Avenue. Why can't I think of these things in the moment???)
I get home and kick the kicking bag with the wrong foot to get it out of my system. My foot is throbbing and already swollen. At least I feel better. Does that make me a masochist? And if so, why can't I enjoy the dentist more?
IS IT SO HARD TO LET ME LOOK AT THE FREAKING PLUGS AND FIGURE IT OUT MYSELF? I WILL GET IT RIGHT! AND IF I GET IT WRONG, TOUGH! IT'S MY FREAKING MONEY!
I do not play well with stubborn idiots. *sigh*
I can handle getting in a car wreck without losing my head, I can handle power outages and flooding ruining my things and gas prices costing an arm and a leg and Obama voting to violate our privacy and Bush for eight years and the Iraq war and the person I love most being away for six months and having to eat spaghetti endlessly and having a hurt foot for two years and spending five thousand to not get it fixed and not having health insurance to waste more money on it and two thousand dollars worth of dental treatment but I CAN NOT HANDLE SOMEONE ASKING FOR MY PHONE NUMBER.
That makes perfect sense, doesn't it?
AND GUESS WHAT, RADIO SHACK? I actually needed a BLACK BOX WITH A BLUE DOT and it FREAKING worked and I was RIGHT so THERE!
Big breath in, big breath out.
Big breath in, big breath out.
Big breath in, plaster fake smile, big breath out.
Bury my face in cat's fur and give him a noogie.
I'm better now.
On to the post I wrote earlier, when I was in a much happier mood. So off goes angry mood, on goes the yellow twinkling sunflower lights strung around the porch.
I love punctuation. Lately, since I've been reading Son of the Circus by John Irving, I've been indulging in a few more colons and semi-colons.
I feel so naughty.
I know you're supposed to just split the sentence into two nowadays: semi-colons are out of date and considered old-fashioned. (Was that proper archaic use of the colon?)
But gosh, are they fun.
My one editor wrote before she made a site to sell stories. She used punctuation. With her, punctuation was an art form, a sculpting of phrases.
Oh, and colons! Don't get me started: I love the colon. I'm quite hesitant because I don't actually know the rules. I mean to look them up. I've never really used the colon before, so I think I'm due a period of exploration, no?
While reading Irving, I thought, "What are you afraid of? That a sentence will end???"
While looking at my writing the next day, I asked myself, "What am I afraid of? That a sentence might end?"
If I'm not playing with semi-colons or colons, I'm starting sentences with ands and buts. Not only do I fear a sentence ending, but I'm not all that crazy about it starting, either.
Will I be so afraid the reader might stop reading at the end of a sentence that I write a whole novel in one long sentence?
Come to think of it, I bet that would be a literary coup. It'd be the ultimate in style and fashion: everyone would buy it and no one would read it.
Colons? Semi-colons? What do you think? I'm waiting for my editor to write and ask me what the hell I'm doing.