Protected: HJNTIM, 2nd Edition
UPDATED: A Shady Mall Parable
[This morning, I started fretting that people would think I was being casually racist by using the term “ghetto”. To be clear, I was using “ghetto” to mean crappy and substandard, not to refer to anyone’s race. (There were actually no people of color involved in this story.) Even so, I’m editing the post just a bit.]
Eight days ago, I got an iPhone.
(I know I was talking about this months ago, but I’ve already told you I need to say I’m going to do something for a while before I actually do it.)
It’s a delight, as you might expect:
- I play Words with Friends;
- Yesterday, I documented a family birthday celebration with Instagram photos;
- I watched, from the ether, myself as a blue dot meandering around Orange County this afternoon;
- I’m reading my book club book anywhere I want because it’s ON MY PHONE;
- And when I don’t know a word in the book (Pulphead by John Jeremiah Sullivan—P.S. That’s how I want to write when I grow up.), I put my fanger on it, and the definition pops up.
WE LIVE IN THE FUTURE.
Anywhoodle, I wanted to research and order from the Internet (THE FUTURE) the perfect cover, which would both be protective and express the whimsy that is Amy Scott. But when I canceled my insurance three days after purchase because it had a stupidly large deductible of which I had not been informed—honestly, eleven bucks a month and then $169 for a replacement, no thank you—I got all panicky and bought safety ware at the shady phone cover kiosk (redundancy of that phrase noted) in the shady mall.
I pointed at the cases. “How much are the iPhone covers?” I asked.
“Solid colors are $15.99, patterns are $17.99,” said the salesgirl. That seemed a little steep for a piece of plastic from China, but as I said, I was desperate. She pulled the one I wanted out of the display. “Do you want a screen protector?”
“Oh, that doesn’t come with it? How much is that?” I said.
“$9.99. It’ll keep your screen from getting scratched. I can put it on for you.”
Service. “OK,” I replied, “I guess I better get one of those too.”
I got distracted for a second by a pair of very unfortunate skinny jeans walking by, and when I looked back, she was cutting a piece of sticky plastic to fit on my phone. I was reconciling in my mind the fact that I just spent $10 on a sticker, when she snapped the cover on and said, “You need anything else? A car charger?”
“Oh. Hm. How much are those?”
“$21.99,” she said.
“No thanks.”
She shot back, “You can take it right now for $16.99.”
Two thoughts wormed their way through my brain at that point: (1) Goddammit, everything was negotiable—I was a sucker to take the first price, and (2) Seventeen bucks seemed pretty good for a car charger. (A quick check of the internet on MY PHONE would’ve told me otherwise, but I wasn’t remembering just then that I lived in THE FUTURE.)
“I’ll take it,” I told her.
She looked under the counter. They didn’t have any. She called the store, which was about 200 feet away (Do they really need a store and a kiosk in the same mall? Never enough shadiness for the shady mall, I guess.), and asked the manager if they had any in stock. They were out too. No big deal, she said. “You got a USB?” I offered that I did. She opened a package—that’s right, opened a package—that had two parts, a USB cable and the jack-thingy you stick into your car cigarette lighter. “The whole thing is $24.99, but I’ll give you this part for $12.99 and you use your own cable.” My eyes flicked over the “No Returns, Exchanges Only” sign, but I was in a buying haze, I couldn’t stop myself.
She rang me up and handed me my credit card receipt. I realized as I was walking out of the mall that I didn’t get an itemized receipt. Oh, well. Whatever.
I still had the box the phone came in, complete with USB cable, in my car, but I was out of the parking lot before I thought about trying the charger. I connected the two pieces and shoved the jack into my dashboard. On the end glowed a solid blue light, but nothing seemed to be happening. Maybe it takes a while, I thought. Nope. Over the next few car trips, the little green battery icon stayed determinedly at half mast.
So the next day I decided to return it. By then, I was no longer in Must Protect My Precious mode. I would return the charger and buy one from a legitimate business.
Different salesgirl. I gave her the story. She put the charger piece in a little something-or-other under the counter. “It works,” she said, pointing. Sure enough, the end of the jack glowed blue, but it was blinking.
“The light doesn’t do that in my car,” I said. “It’s solid. It doesn’t work. I’d like my money back.”
She gave me the whole No Returns rigamarole. I told her I wanted to speak with the manager. She sent me to the store 200 feet away.
I explained the situation to him. He told me his boss would deduct it from his paycheck if he gave me a refund. It was all I could do not to yell, “That’s a crock of shit!” I did say, “This is not a good business practice.” He responded he wasn’t the owner.
We went back and forth for a while. He encouraged me to get another case. I wanted to say, “What, so I can match my phone to my fucking manicure?” Finally, I said, “What can you do for me?”
He said they had the iPhone car chargers in stock now, he could exchange it. “How much did she charge you for this?” he said, holding up the defective jack.
I thought about the ten-dollar sticker. I thought about the trouble it was to go back to the mall. I thought about the wasted minutes debating business ethics with this schmo. And I thought about the $12.99 she charged me for the defective piece.
“$17.99,” I lied. What was he going to do? Nobody had given me an itemized receipt.
Holding up the new charger, he said, “This charger’s only $16.99. What if I give you this one and a dollar cash?”
“Fine,” I said, grabbed my stuff, and left.
So I got myself a five-dollar hardship discount on my crappy merchandise.
The lesson, children, is don’t buy shit from the kiosks in the shady mall.
Also, don’t bullshit a bullshitter; I can be shady too.
The Foster Chronicles: Buffy, Week 4
Day 1
Aside from seven poops of an undesirable viscosity, Buffy seems to suffer no ill effects from
She and I go to an adoption event in the afternoon. When my mom and I speak about it beforehand, she says, “Are you hoping she will get adopted or won’t get adopted?”
“Both,” I tell her.
Normally, these shindigs are held in front of pet supply stores to capitalize on foot traffic, but today’s is at a kennel/pet resort. The people who stop by are definitely interested in getting a dog, but those people are very few. Like, four. For now, Buffy doesn’t get adopted. I’m OK with that.
Day 2
Buffy keeps vaulting the fence to go after that meddlesome mini-poodle. This last time, she doesn’t come directly back when I call her. I fuss for a minute, and she comes back. I don’t like the direction this is going.
Day 3
Lots of wrestling. Redford is always the Monkey in the Middle.
Because of her safe-breaking skills, I take up locking Buffy in her kennel and then closing the spare bedroom door when I leave the house.
Day 4
I forget part 2 of the process in the morning. Guess who spends the whole day with full run of the house and greets me at the door when I get home from work.
Later, I peer at my bedspread, right up by all the decorative kindling pillows. None of my dogs have ever been allowed in my bed, including Buffy. Apparently, when the cat’s away, the foster dog will make herself very comfy, or so says the oval indentation filled with grey fur I find there.
While on the phone with my sister, I flop into the green chair with the mismatched pillow. Buffy stands between my feet for a moment, facing me, then reaches up with her front legs* and wraps them around my waist. After I hang up, we just stay there, hugging each other, for another ten minutes.
*When I explained Violet’s injury to the vet the first time, I said the left leg. She said, “Left hind leg?” I thought, “Of course. I said her leg, not her arm.” I always want to call my dogs’ front legs their arms.
Day 5
I latch the side door of the crate from which Buffy keeps escaping and shove the crate between the sofa and the closet door.
The daily grammar warm-up I give my Honors classes happens to be about dogs, and I find myself telling the students all the Buffy stories. Talk about student engagement. I let them know she’s up for adoption. Several kids express interest, and I tell them to get a note from their parents if they want to meet her. At the end of fourth period, one of my students says, “Ms. Scott, what if two kids brought in notes from their parents at the same time? Who would get her?” I let her know that the foster organization makes the adoption decisions. (The next day, she tells me her parents said no.)
Back at the homestead, while I’m effusing about what a good dog Buffy is to my sixth graders,
At least she’s closed in the bedroom.
I ask Facebook how I determine if my dog is a superhero. One friend suggests taking off her glasses. Another asks if she disappears inexplicably when there’s trouble only to reappear when the situation has been handled. A third said, “Cape. Duh.” Alas, none of these things helps, but she does eat glass, leap high fences in a single bound, and escape from impossible traps. She’s not quite faster than a speeding bullet, but close, especially when she takes off after the mini-poodle.
Day 6
I put her in
which is larger but has locking latches. While I’m at work,
Also, I DID NOT RAISE THAT BLIND. I mean, it’s the kind you can push up on and it’ll stay, but still. Still.
I realize, if I made a movie, I could title it The Crate Escape. Har har.
Day 7
On the neighborhood loop, a dude shouts, “Hey, you wanna breed the little one?”
I reply, “I don’t believe in breeding dogs.”
He says, “I believe in making money,” and gives his buddy a high-five.
I want to scream, “YOU’RE THE PROBLEM.”
The mini-poodle follows us the whole way.
Protected: I’ve Got It Bad
The Foster Chronicles: Buffy, Week 3
Day 1
Remarkably, I refrain from texting or calling my babysitters 1,000 times during the day.
Buffy is doing well at Wa’s house, though she won’t go near the Scary Man (my brother-in-law, who Violet has always been terrified of, despite his being a totally righteous human being).
Buffy is a super-snuggly bunny with my sister. Won’t leave her side. My nieces and nephew are delighted to have Buffy around and, on their errand to Target, ask their mother to buy her a bed. She says no.
Day 2
Wa takes Buffy on a 3-mile run. Buffy is a runner.
My girlfriends and I are late getting back from Georgia, so my sister meets Redford’s sitter at my house and gets Redford and Buffy settled inside. I pick up Violet, who wags herself in circles, from my other friend’s house.
I talk to my sister on the phone. “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have brought her back to you,” she says. “The Scary Man is unmoved by her cuteness.”
Day 3
On our neighborhood walk, Buffy poops! While on the leash! Right in the middle of the street…? Close enough. I’ll take it.
Buffy has not yet figured out the outside-bell system, but Redford and Violet are back in the swing. On one jaunt outdoors, they sprint off the deck to corner a white miniature poodle in the yard. I’m just wondering how it got in there when the pits get too rough with it and—schloop—it squeezes between the slats of the deck rail. Buffy, naturally, vaults the gate and gives chase. I call her back, and she comes. After spending years with dogs who have selective deafness, I do not understand this. But I appreciate the crap out of it.
After dark, the dogs notice a dude walking by the house and SOUND THE ALARM. All of them. My foster dog is not a mute.
Day 4
Redford gets so excited about the treat that Buffy is about to receive for getting in her crate that he crawls into it first. But she too is motivated to get the treat, so she wiggles her way in there. For a moment, there’s 137 pounds of pit bull in a kennel made to hold 60.
On our neighborhood walk, Buffy poops! While on the leash! In the grass by the side of the road! But she doesn’t get it all quite out and hops in circles with a turd halfway out her butt. I put a bag over my hand and grab it, but she gets poop on her butt cheeks and legs. She gets a sponge bath when we get home.
I post on CCB‘s foster parents’ page:
Unlike my dogs, Buffy plays real-live Fetch. Like, she brings the ball back to you and drops it, instead of trotting around the yard with it or shredding it to pieces. Totally potty-trained now. Still snuggly as all-get-out. She’s a wonder-dog really.
Day 5
Not totally potty-trained. Dammit.
Day 6
Buffy chews through her collar while I’m at work. It looks like maybe it got caught on the crate and she pulled away until she could get at it. I buy a new one, size Medium. Fifty to 55 pounds is Medium, right? Nope. My medium-sized dog has a large-sized neck.
Day 7
When I return from the gym, there’s resistance against the door and a sound I don’t understand. I push the door open further to find shattered glass and a half-dozen rawhide sticks all over the kitchen floor, drops of blood on some of the shards, and Buffy standing there looking antsy. I check her paws and mouth. Just one drop of blood on her snout. Can’t find the source. I put her outside with the other dogs and try to figure out what happened.
Her crate is overturned, but the doors are still locked. One of the latches is open, and the top of the door bent. The best I can guess is she opened the latch and squeezed out through the top of the door.
It’s clear that once she executed her escape, she went to the kitchen, knocked the cookie jar off the counter, and ate more than half a jar of biscuits and rawhides.
I know she’ll have a belly ache from all the snacks, but mainly I’m concerned that she’s swallowed shards of glass. I put her in her crate and commence fretting.
On My Honor, I Will Try
For some godforsaken reason, I ordered seven boxes of Girl Scout cookies this year. And that simple act blew New Year’s Resolution #5 all to shit. What is it about those damn things? I know people say, “It’s ’cause they’re only available once a year.”
Bullshit.
The kinds I like are
Well, guess what the Keebler elves make and provide to my local Kroger year-round?
And guess how much they taste like their Girl Scouty counterparts?
Exactly. They taste exactly like Girl Scout cookies.
So why was I eating five Caramel Delites every afternoon on the way to the gym? And then a half-sleeve of Thin Mints after. Seriously, like I couldn’t have them any day of the damn year.
I don’t know, but I took every last cookie to school yesterday and gave them away to my students. I feel so much better.
Protected: Happy Valentine’s Day, Everyone
The Foster Chronicles: Buffy, Week 2
Day 1
My friend invites me on a road-trip to Atlanta. I must find weekend lodging for three dogs. I email three friends, asking them to take one dog each. Two accept; one is out of the country and offline.
Day 2
I go on a 4-mile walk with my sister, Wa, and her two older children (7 and 9). Though my foster is a little timid, all-sized humans think Buffy’s adorable. We coach Little Dude to use a quieter, lower voice and not make sudden movements. We have only moderate success.
The subject is brought up, not by me, of their adopting her. I do nothing to discourage this discussion. I suggest that, as my sister is a runner, a pit bull might be a more effective deterrent to a would-be assailant than a can of pepper spray. And more fun to cuddle with at night.
Day 3
In the medium-dark of the house, I mistake Violet, who is sitting on the living room floor, for Buffy, who I believe to be peeing on the living room floor, and terrify them both nearly to incontinence by clapping and “Ep”-ing.
Day 4
I remember that both Violet and Redford learned to ask to go outside by ringing a bell hanging from the doorknob. I rig up a cat toy bell-ball with a hair ribbon to the back door. I ring it each time we go out.
Still unable to get ahold of my third friend, I email my sister, a currently catless cat person:
I know you’re tremendously busy right now, and even if you weren’t, know that it’s absolutely, positively OK for you to say no to this. I’ve found slumber parties for Redford and Violet for this weekend, as I’m hoping to head to Hotlanta. However, I was hoping Erika could keep Buffy, but Erika’s in the Carribean, and I’m not sure when she’s coming back.
Buffy can absolutely go to the kennel—no worries—if you don’t have the time/space/energy to keep her.
Also, in no way is this a ploy to make you see how adorable and sweet she is so you’ll keep her, unless you fall in love with and adopt her, at which time I will say I planned it all along.
Love you!
ame
Wa agrees. Yay!
Day 5
Buffy pees on the floor first thing in the morning. I stop her mid-stream, ring the bell, and take her outside.
Day 6
During the dog-sitting tutorial for my small relatives, we throw a tennis ball around my sister’s yard. Buffy races after it, sprints back, drops it at our feet. We throw it again; she delivers it again. Repeat 50 times. Unlike her foster brother and sister, who know only to race after it (unless it stops before they get to it, at which point they meander in another direction because what’s the fun of chasing something if it’s not moving?), Buffy plays real-live Fetch.
Day 7
I distribute pit bulls all over Durham. At the last deposit point, whilst I’m telling my friend, “Redford gets confused by carpet. Sometimes he p—“, he pees on her carpet.
I head to Atlanta with my girlfriends, and commence fretting.