This just hasn't been my week
When we last examined the saga of Yael's life, she was trapped high on a mountain of steaming horseshit by a pack of rabid copyright software modules determined to take her down and savage her for the whole world to see. Well, she got out of that by dint of three other online self-publishing services, but once again she has been set upon by the perversity of the university, this time in the form of a Blonde.*
The Office Depot Blonde, that is.
On the first of this month I finally purchased an ergonomic MS keyboard with soft padding for the wrists -- I got very, very tired of road rash on my wrists and the meat of my palms, and decided to give myself some comfort. If I'd used my head, which I finally did several days later, I could have done that for free by cutting off the fingers of a pair of old cloth gardening gloves that had seen far better days, so I could wear them while using the keyboard and avoid cybernetic road rash episodes. Instead, I bought a $49.99 keyboard and a $5.99 warranty to go with, and then, when I installed it last night, discovered that a) it was too big for my desk, b) my only comfortable office chair, the only one I can afford, isn't high enough for using it no matter what I do, and c) I couldn't get the hang of typing on it for bupkis.
So this morning I tried taking it back to Office Depot. There was a tape on one end of the box, which I did not break or cut, that said if I returned it within 14 days, it would be without penalty. So, today being the 6th, I take it down the hill to the Office Depot where I bought it, which is less than a block away and which I've almost always had satisfaction from. Well, this Blonde organism-thing at the cash register, whose aura simply screamed DITZ!!! from a mile away, assumes a cheery, 2,00-kW smile so bright it almost burns out by retinas, and tells me, in her sprightly voice, that I can't return it to the store, but rather must call the head offices of Office Depot, who, supposedly, will make it very, very easy to return it by mail.
Yeah, right. By that point, just walking down that hill, my feet and thighs were on fire, and I was in so much pain I was about to collapse -- and I had errands to run all day long. I was very, very tired, as well, because my insomnia had relentlessly kicked in at around 7 a.m. and wouldn't let me go back to sleep. So, not thinking straight, instead of asking to speak to the manager, like an idiot I went back up the hill and set about calling the head offices of Office Depot.
Only to be told by one of the organisms who worked there that no, I was supposed to take the thing back to the damn store where I bought it.
Oh, great. In a fury I hung up on him, then called the store, and this time got a nice lady who listened sympathetically to my story and told me (sigh), "Bring it in today or tomorrow and we will refund the full price." -- Sympathetically, because I mentioned the Blonde Thing with which I'd had the run-in earlier in the day, and she knew exactly whom/what I was referring to. I thanked her, and added, "Would you please tell her to dye her hair brunette?" Which got wry laughter. But anyway.
So this evening I took the keyboard back and got the full price refunded. End of problem.
Except for the Blonde Organism. May I never, ever encounter her again -- I really don't need Aggravated Assault and Attempted Homicide all over my record . . .
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
*Okay, I realize that most blonds and blondes are at least as intelligent as anyone else, kind, and honest. I'm not talking about the 99+ % of them. I'm talking about the < 1% of them that somehow I keep running afoul of, to descriptions of which the horrible godawful Blonde jokes are utterly appropriate. So all of you readers of this blog who are blond(e), I'm not tlking about you. It's the others, okay?
The Office Depot Blonde, that is.
On the first of this month I finally purchased an ergonomic MS keyboard with soft padding for the wrists -- I got very, very tired of road rash on my wrists and the meat of my palms, and decided to give myself some comfort. If I'd used my head, which I finally did several days later, I could have done that for free by cutting off the fingers of a pair of old cloth gardening gloves that had seen far better days, so I could wear them while using the keyboard and avoid cybernetic road rash episodes. Instead, I bought a $49.99 keyboard and a $5.99 warranty to go with, and then, when I installed it last night, discovered that a) it was too big for my desk, b) my only comfortable office chair, the only one I can afford, isn't high enough for using it no matter what I do, and c) I couldn't get the hang of typing on it for bupkis.
So this morning I tried taking it back to Office Depot. There was a tape on one end of the box, which I did not break or cut, that said if I returned it within 14 days, it would be without penalty. So, today being the 6th, I take it down the hill to the Office Depot where I bought it, which is less than a block away and which I've almost always had satisfaction from. Well, this Blonde organism-thing at the cash register, whose aura simply screamed DITZ!!! from a mile away, assumes a cheery, 2,00-kW smile so bright it almost burns out by retinas, and tells me, in her sprightly voice, that I can't return it to the store, but rather must call the head offices of Office Depot, who, supposedly, will make it very, very easy to return it by mail.
Yeah, right. By that point, just walking down that hill, my feet and thighs were on fire, and I was in so much pain I was about to collapse -- and I had errands to run all day long. I was very, very tired, as well, because my insomnia had relentlessly kicked in at around 7 a.m. and wouldn't let me go back to sleep. So, not thinking straight, instead of asking to speak to the manager, like an idiot I went back up the hill and set about calling the head offices of Office Depot.
Only to be told by one of the organisms who worked there that no, I was supposed to take the thing back to the damn store where I bought it.
Oh, great. In a fury I hung up on him, then called the store, and this time got a nice lady who listened sympathetically to my story and told me (sigh), "Bring it in today or tomorrow and we will refund the full price." -- Sympathetically, because I mentioned the Blonde Thing with which I'd had the run-in earlier in the day, and she knew exactly whom/what I was referring to. I thanked her, and added, "Would you please tell her to dye her hair brunette?" Which got wry laughter. But anyway.
So this evening I took the keyboard back and got the full price refunded. End of problem.
Except for the Blonde Organism. May I never, ever encounter her again -- I really don't need Aggravated Assault and Attempted Homicide all over my record . . .
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
*Okay, I realize that most blonds and blondes are at least as intelligent as anyone else, kind, and honest. I'm not talking about the 99+ % of them. I'm talking about the < 1% of them that somehow I keep running afoul of, to descriptions of which the horrible godawful Blonde jokes are utterly appropriate. So all of you readers of this blog who are blond(e), I'm not tlking about you. It's the others, okay?