Ramble On...

Lately I feel like I am living in "The Sims". I attribute this to the near-constant feeling that I am being watched. And I attribute this to working at a mall where I AM watched by high-powered cameras about 9 hours a day.

Literally, per instructions from management: "If you have to scratch or are having a wardrobe malfunction, go in the fitting rooms. Otherwise, we will be watching." For the first few days, especially, I was more than a little paranoid. If I had to do so much as straighten my nametag, I went in the back. Not anymore. Yesterday, I decided that since I had a captive audience, I was going to dance along with my favorite Muzak selections. (I already have most of the 8 hour playlist completely memorized).

But back to The Sims-I feel like someone is clicking on me and selecting different options- "fold" "organize" "smile" "do dances to entertain loss prevention". One of these days I am going to go up to the home store, take off my shoes, and take a nap in the "Ralph Lauren Premium Hotel Edition" bed. They will really be amused by that one.

As a sidenote, I have never been able to play "The Sims" quote unquote "correctly". My playing "The Sims" consisted of using cheat codes (ie 'Rosebud' which distracted me for all of "Citizen Kane" and made it impossible for me to concentrate) Anyway, I was never able to develop Chuck Klosterman-esque disillusion with "The Sims" because I never really exited build mode. I just used the cheat codes to get lots of money and build ginormous houses. These things were verifable masterpieces of modern art, if I do say so myself. I probably had several days worth of work in those babies. But I digress...what I was really getting to was that...

Yesterday, a gaggle of teenage clientele entered my department only to promptly remind me of one of my worst pet peeves that usually begins to make its appearance this time of the year: the plastic strap bra. Ladies, clear plastic does not equal invisible. (See also: bar sluts in saran wrap dresses) Perhaps this look was cool for about one week back in 1999. Actually, no, it was never cool.

One of my other pet peeves: when you go to eat shrimp and they still have the legs on them. I do not like my shrimp au natural, thank you. I like them slippery and ready for cocktail sauce. This issue comes up because I was attempting to live dangerously and eat some cajun food. Dem dirrty cajuns like dem dirrty shrimps wit legs. For some reason, I can make myself believe that a shrimp is artifically produced and comes from a lab when it has no legs. This allows me to separate it from its fishy friends, most of which I am afraid of (except for tilapia and tuna, those are the friendly fish).

I cannot put enough emphasis on this point: I am deathly afraid of dead fish. (Not in the grocery store, the ones that wash up on the beach.) Dead fish are truly frightening and are one of the biggest problems facing the world today. They can turn an innocent walk on the beach into a night of horror. Therefore, when my pet fish Moxie and Roxie died last week, I wasn't even able to give them a proper flush-off. I had to go hide in the other room while Brad netted them out of the drink (Brad is also good at opening feisty jar lids.) These two abilities combined are the most redeeming qualities of the male species.

I am also terrified of going bald; however that is beyond the perview of this increasingly random exercise.

In other news, my parents are in town. I have been trying to goad them by wearing mass amounts of black (my mother: "Black is the devil's color and you're not allowed to wear it.") Never mind the fact that it is my work uniform.

My father: "I have a client who's really into wine. Do you know where I can get some for him?"
Me: "Yeah sure, what are you looking for?"
My father: "Something pinot...wait, I have it written on a business card."
Me: "Ahh, he wants pinot noir. Not my personal choice, but I can get him a nice bottle of Willamette Valley 2002 for about $50"
My father: "How do you know that?"
Me: "I have connections. I have my very own wine distributor."
My father: "How did you do that?"
Me: "You get special discounts if you drink more than 10 bottles a week."
My father: "Really? You drink that much?"
Me: (Rolling eyes) "What do you think?"

My poor parents. I don't think they get my sense of humor.

Someone needs to stop me now. From meandering blog posts. And also from screaming "Rubie Rubie Rubie Rubbbbbbbbaaaa......Do ya do ya do ya dig it?" (Yes yes I knowwww, that's why I need to be stopped). And also from drinking directly from the carton, but that's beside the point.