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2001-06-28 / 6:27 p.m. ~Oh, a wise guy! Why, I oughta.....!!! Or: I love my SiteMeter~
Home. Home past the artificial strawberry room freshener of the apartment downstairs, it fills the whole stairwell, upstairs, and the dark skinned man, is he her husband, or just the father of her kids, or neither (?), was standing, watching, but he's inside, left the door wide open, and I don't look, don't want to look, don't want to talk, don't want him not to look or talk, don't want to know that he hates white people, key in lock, fried chicken is wafting towards me, the smell of it, the strawberries and the fried chicken, and let's make this fucking stereotype complete and have some picks in afros, some watermelon-eating babies, or something, and I'm inside and I can be me, I can feel infinitely better. Everything is okay, once I'm inside. I am a closeted hermit misanthrope. Let me out! Let me be the curmudgeon I so long to be.... So, I love Sitemeter.com, truly. What an amazing site, what an amazing service, and it's FREE. I love free stuff. Someone went to Google.com and did a little search: nude + photos + joleen, and got to my diary. Tee hee. Isn't that funny? Was this person serious? Was this merely a ruse for my benefit, knowing I could see it later? I don't know. But I thought it was funny, very. Good job, nicely done. You want nude photos? Ask me. I got to see that someone visited my diary from Automouse's guestbook. Automouse himself? Doesn't matter, I guess, but I think he needs to be writing professionally, something about his diary, the way he strings words together, just sort of makes me gasp, or sigh, in places. Wow, I think, this guy is really good, he can really "write", this is not just blather. Nope. I don't do the fan mail thing though, at least I try not to - last time I did that it was an embarassing disaster. Wrote to some schmoe out in California who finally told me that he doesn't "date people from the internet". Okay. So, I should take the ring back to the store? Hey, I just wanted to write to the guy. Whatever. Besides, I'm old, an old hag, all washed up, a working recluse, a hermit in training. Never mind me, no. I go away eventually, you'll see anyway. I just appreciate good writing on the web. When I find it I latch on to it, tell people about it, bookmark it, go back again and again, want to know the person, say Hey, you are GOOD, you know? Off the chain good. (Ebonics, see, I am hip after all). Customer Service story: a caller told me to fuck myself today, shortly before the end of the day. I spent the next 45 minutes diverting calls, cycling them back into the automated system. I was wrecked. It was anger, man, it was INTENSE ANGER, and I couldn't let it out. I said, "Jesus Christ!", rather spontaneously, after I hung up, but no one said, "Hey, Joleen, what happened?", nope. I said, "He used the F word.....", and no one said anything. Okay, so he calls, this person, with a funny accent - Hispanic? Arab? Sorry, but the Arab men are the worst. They hate women, they totally disrespect their women, cut off their clits, sew shut their vaginas, it's horrible. Women are less than dirt, to them. They suck on the phone, really. But where was this guy from? Dunno. He says, "Yeah, I just got a call from a _(name of company which shall remain nameless) Supervisor, she didn't leave her number, I don't know how to reach her.", "Okay", say I, "What city and state was she calling from?", thinking I will find this guy an HR number and he can go away. He says, "I don't know", I say, "You don't know what city and state?", aghast and disbelieving, thinking this is gonna be a shit call, and he says, "NO!", he goes on: "She called and I have her number", and I am thinking huh? I say, "Okay, what can I do for you?"....underline "I". Put it in caps, put it in the boldest bold print, no, shout it from the rooftop, what can IIIIIIIIII do for youuuuuuuuuu? Huh? Huh? Why are you bothering me, man, I wanna sit here and read Pot Stories for the Soul, and I wanna go home and lie down, and goddammit, I want a full body massage, I want my toes sucked, and I want to get laid so bad it's starting to hurt. I don't want to be dealing with your sordid bullshit, not now, you dig? He's talking in circles anyway, really hard to describe, but he makes no sense at all, I say, "Look, I can't get you in touch with this person, we're not said company, we're outsourcing, you understand, we're "not" "even" "the" "company" in question, you get it, do you? I can not help you", making signs with my hands, spelling it out instinctively in sign language, I know he can't see, but maybe it will help someone, maybe me. He asks for the number for this person, no name, this person, this person from this huge multinational corporation, this Fortune 500 megalopoly, or whatever, this sucky company that contracted our shitty company to do their dirty work for them. Like I give a fuck. "No, I don't have a number to give you", and I am polite, but they hate it, hate, hate, hate it when you say "no", really, don't do it. Know what he says? "You do too have it, you have to, aw Fuck you, Fuck you!", and I'm astonished, truly. This is not necessary, this is the lowest blow, for a rep on the phone, to hear the word "fuck". It's such a potent word, such a fantastic word, there's a whole book on this word, it's called The F Word, go find it and buy it and read it. But don't use it on the phone with a rep, no, that's worse than me saying "no". And especially......okay, this is really important, don't say "Fuck you". Nope, this is so not good, I'm not kidding. This was my day. I felt sick all day, like run over by a truck sick, like omigodI'mcomingdownwithsomethingandmybodyistryingtofightitoff sick. All day. Like my white blood cells were fighting with my red blood cells, and I'm thinking it's cancer, it's those damned moles on my back, I've got to get them removed, but it's too late, isn't it? It's entered my bloodstream, it's gone to my head, it's in my brain, I have this headache, it's meningitis, that's what it is (and here's a funny story: once, while working at this current hell of a job I had a bad headache and was achy and feverish, hey, just like today (!), and I made the huge mistake of telling my co-worker, the site receptionist, for whom I was filling in occasionally, that I thought it was spinal meningitis, and omigod, what if it was?! Well, she told her supervisor, who told my manager, and the HR manager and my manager soon had me in my manager's office, and said, "Hey, Joleen, how ya feelin' huh? Kinda headachy? Kinda spinal meningitisy? Um, we have women folk here, women with little kids, and they sure wouldn't want to come into contact with your spinal meningitis and give it to their kids and have them die and have it all be on YOUR shoulders, ya know? Do us all a favor, will ya, and go see a doctor." I said, "Huh? You do know I'm a self-medicating doctor-detesting sarcastic hypochondriac, right? You gonna pay for me to go to this doctor, 'cause I can't afford your fucking health insurance coverage, you know?" And I called the Emergency room, then I realized I'd have to get a spinal tap, and it would hurt, and it would cost a lot of money, and if I just upped my echinacea and Vitamin C dosage I could fight off the cold virus entering my system.) Where was I? Right, so I felt like that today. I took extra echinacea at lunch, and I feel better just because I'm home, and the "Fuck you" guy is probably gonna have a car wreck later this week, or his girlfriend is going to deny him sex or something. Karmic retribution, I so totally believe in it. Cost of the War in Iraq
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