The other day I was walking over to the Capitol to take pictures of a bill hearing. I do this quite frequently during the week and as I've posted before (**apparently I haven't! Ok, well I will**), there's always something new to look at or people to watch.
This day was no exception.
As I approached the Capitol, I noticed an older man walking his bike, our eyes met and I politely smiled as we crossed paths.
No sooner had I taken two paces past him, he calls out to me, "C'mere a minute!"
I, thinking he's lost or needs help, stop and turn to the man.
He walks up to me and, well beyond the social norm of personal space, gets thisclose to my face and squints into my eyes.
"How old are you?" He interrogates.
"26" I say with an obvious question mark at the end of the statement.
He bolts back from my face and exclaims "You look like a baby! You're just a baby!"
"I thought you were one ah them kindey-gartners here on a school trip! I was gonna call security and have them find yer mommy cuz you're just a baby!"
"Nope, I'm a grown up. I'm here for my job! Ok, see you later!" (God, I hope not..)
He takes up his bike again and continues on his way muttering loudly and dotting his sentences with "she's a baby!"
First this and now this?
What am I, fly paper for crazy old people?
Classic. Timeless. Perfect With Pearls
Showing posts with label WTH. Show all posts
Showing posts with label WTH. Show all posts
Friday, March 25, 2011
What the Tub Threw Up
**This post is a week late…deal with it**
Last Monday was the day that just Would.Not.Die.
Long story short, it was the horrible, awful, no good, very bad day that got better (!) before it turned black, ugly and smelly.
The bright spot of the day was when I learned Mommy Dearest was in town shopping with Monster. After a particularly rotten day at work, Husband and I decided I needed a hug and some sympathy from MD .
We met up with them at Sam's before heading to Wal-Mart before MD decided to treat us to dinner at Red Robin (where we surprised her by having the wait staff sing Happy Birthday to her 4 days early…she was totally out of the loop and it was HY-sterical!)
I’m getting to the ugly part, don’t you start thinking I’m a drama queen….
Husband dropped me off at home around 9 before driving Monster back to her apartment. I decided to treat myself to a nice warm bath to relax before heading to bed but, when I started to drain the tub, I heard a bubbling, gurgling noise coming from our second bathroom down the hall. Wrapped in a towel I sprinted down the hall and found this in the second bathtub:
Well that can’t be good.
You can’t tell in the pictures but there were leaves, bark and what appeared to be seaweed in the muck. Last time I checked I wasn’t bathing trees in that tub and I certainly wasn’t using the second bathroom as a makeshift sushi bar so this was all really quite interesting to me.
And it smelled like dirt, mixed with standing water mixed with poo-filled pond. It was like the thing from the black lagoon had a tummy ache and exploded in my bathtub.
Being the smart girl that I am, I grabbed the plunger and got to work (yes, still in a towel with my hair in a turbie-twist. I looked like a white Aunt Jemima churning black, stinky butter, not my best look).
When 10 minutes of plunging did squat, I got myself presentable and waited for Husband to come home, I’m sure he was really sorry to miss the Aunt Jemima Butter Churning show.
Another 15 minutes of plunging had reaped no reward so we called our afterhours emergency maintenance team to come give it a shot.
Grumpy McDouchey (not his real name, obviously) showed up about 20 minutes after we called and explained the problem and that 20 minutes of plunging the crap out of our bathtub had done nada and what does he do? Gets a plunger and starts going to town on our bathtub.
Right. Cuz we hadn’t tried that.
-30 minutes later- Estimated time 10:30
“It seems to be clogged.”
Oh, really?
“We’ll have to call a plumber in the morning, because plunging doesn’t seem to be working.”
Yeah! We Know! That’s why we called you! And no, we can’t wait until morning because we have jobs.
No, for real. We. Have. JOBS.
“We have to work in the morning and I really don’t feel comfortable sleeping with this just standing in my bathtubs (by this point the sludge had begun to come up in our master bathtub..you know, the one I shower in?) it's a health hazard so I’d appreciate it if you’d call a 24-hour plumber or else I’ll go to a hotel and see that the apartment manager reimburses us for the expense.”
“I can’t do that, it’s not my authority and if you’ll have to take it up with the manager. What time can the plumber be here in the morning?”
“Well, like I said, we have to go to work so can he be here by 6?”
“Oh that’s not going to happen. He can be here between 11-2."
It was at this point that Husband stepped in because I was quite literally about to lose my shit on this guy.
Husband was able to sweet-talk Grumpy McDouche into getting his manager to come investigate the problem.
CrabApple McJerkface (also probably not his real name) knocked on our door with a vaccumy tool at around 11 and began trying to suck out whatever was clogging our drain. Thirty minutes go by and:
“It’s not working; we’ll have to have a plumber come by in the morning.”
He basically has a repeat of the conversation I had just had with Grumpy McDouche, with Husband.
Now Husband is about to read these guys the riot act (notice his version of losing his temper is a lot more dignified than my ‘losing of the shit’??) When Grumpy McDouche dawdles out of the hall bathroom and says “It’s stuck (referring to their vaccumy tool) we’ll have to call a plumber.”
FREAKING FINALLY!
The plumber is called and CrabApple McJerkface informs us that he will be arriving by 2 a.m., at this point it is midnight and we have spent 3 hours fighting to get them to call a plumber so we agree.
Husband brews a pot of coffee, I settle in with a book, Grumpy McDouche goes home (presumably) and CrabApple McJerkface leaves and tells us to call him when the plumber arrives and he’ll come back to sign the work order.
At 1:30 the plumber arrives with a bigger vaccumy thingamajig, followed closely by CrabApple McJerkface who is giving a recap of the issue heavy on the emphasis that we refused to wait until morning thus the reason why his dinky tool is stuck in our tub drain.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER(!!)
I hear the drain sucking and slurping down the muck that the bathtub threw up. The plumber emerges from the secondary bathroom holding the biggest dreadlock I’ve ever seen like the winning trout in a fishing competition.
“That’s not mine!” were the first words out of my mouth.
The plumber explained the hair was probably built up over years and because our two tubs share a drain pipe, the blockage got lodged in the pipe between the two bathtubs and thus caused the black muck to back up into both bathtubs.
“It was a quick fix! You guys shouldn’t have any problems.”
!!!!! - yeah, we were ticked. We had just spent 4 hours fighting with the circus troupe our apartment complex calls a maintenance team for what a plumber called a quick fix.
As the plumber left, CrabApple McJerkface practically had his tail between his legs as he followed the plumber out of our apartment mumbling something about being right back.
He returned 10 minutes later…armed with some 409 and a sponge.
And that is how I got my bathtubs cleaned for free by my apartment maintenance manager.
And yes, I might have been doing a little victory dance while whispering “Scrub my tub, sucka” in the living room while he cleaned out the bathtubs. That’s just how I roll…
**P.S. He did a really crappy job so it technically wasn’t a victory, but still, you gotta take what you can get**
Last Monday was the day that just Would.Not.Die.
Long story short, it was the horrible, awful, no good, very bad day that got better (!) before it turned black, ugly and smelly.
The bright spot of the day was when I learned Mommy Dearest was in town shopping with Monster. After a particularly rotten day at work, Husband and I decided I needed a hug and some sympathy from MD .
We met up with them at Sam's before heading to Wal-Mart before MD decided to treat us to dinner at Red Robin (where we surprised her by having the wait staff sing Happy Birthday to her 4 days early…she was totally out of the loop and it was HY-sterical!)
I’m getting to the ugly part, don’t you start thinking I’m a drama queen….
Husband dropped me off at home around 9 before driving Monster back to her apartment. I decided to treat myself to a nice warm bath to relax before heading to bed but, when I started to drain the tub, I heard a bubbling, gurgling noise coming from our second bathroom down the hall. Wrapped in a towel I sprinted down the hall and found this in the second bathtub:
Well that can’t be good.
You can’t tell in the pictures but there were leaves, bark and what appeared to be seaweed in the muck. Last time I checked I wasn’t bathing trees in that tub and I certainly wasn’t using the second bathroom as a makeshift sushi bar so this was all really quite interesting to me.
And it smelled like dirt, mixed with standing water mixed with poo-filled pond. It was like the thing from the black lagoon had a tummy ache and exploded in my bathtub.
Being the smart girl that I am, I grabbed the plunger and got to work (yes, still in a towel with my hair in a turbie-twist. I looked like a white Aunt Jemima churning black, stinky butter, not my best look).
When 10 minutes of plunging did squat, I got myself presentable and waited for Husband to come home, I’m sure he was really sorry to miss the Aunt Jemima Butter Churning show.
Another 15 minutes of plunging had reaped no reward so we called our afterhours emergency maintenance team to come give it a shot.
Grumpy McDouchey (not his real name, obviously) showed up about 20 minutes after we called and explained the problem and that 20 minutes of plunging the crap out of our bathtub had done nada and what does he do? Gets a plunger and starts going to town on our bathtub.
Right. Cuz we hadn’t tried that.
-30 minutes later- Estimated time 10:30
“It seems to be clogged.”
Oh, really?
“We’ll have to call a plumber in the morning, because plunging doesn’t seem to be working.”
Yeah! We Know! That’s why we called you! And no, we can’t wait until morning because we have jobs.
No, for real. We. Have. JOBS.
“We have to work in the morning and I really don’t feel comfortable sleeping with this just standing in my bathtubs (by this point the sludge had begun to come up in our master bathtub..you know, the one I shower in?) it's a health hazard so I’d appreciate it if you’d call a 24-hour plumber or else I’ll go to a hotel and see that the apartment manager reimburses us for the expense.”
“I can’t do that, it’s not my authority and if you’ll have to take it up with the manager. What time can the plumber be here in the morning?”
“Well, like I said, we have to go to work so can he be here by 6?”
“Oh that’s not going to happen. He can be here between 11-2."
It was at this point that Husband stepped in because I was quite literally about to lose my shit on this guy.
Husband was able to sweet-talk Grumpy McDouche into getting his manager to come investigate the problem.
CrabApple McJerkface (also probably not his real name) knocked on our door with a vaccumy tool at around 11 and began trying to suck out whatever was clogging our drain. Thirty minutes go by and:
“It’s not working; we’ll have to have a plumber come by in the morning.”
He basically has a repeat of the conversation I had just had with Grumpy McDouche, with Husband.
Now Husband is about to read these guys the riot act (notice his version of losing his temper is a lot more dignified than my ‘losing of the shit’??) When Grumpy McDouche dawdles out of the hall bathroom and says “It’s stuck (referring to their vaccumy tool) we’ll have to call a plumber.”
FREAKING FINALLY!
The plumber is called and CrabApple McJerkface informs us that he will be arriving by 2 a.m., at this point it is midnight and we have spent 3 hours fighting to get them to call a plumber so we agree.
Husband brews a pot of coffee, I settle in with a book, Grumpy McDouche goes home (presumably) and CrabApple McJerkface leaves and tells us to call him when the plumber arrives and he’ll come back to sign the work order.
At 1:30 the plumber arrives with a bigger vaccumy thingamajig, followed closely by CrabApple McJerkface who is giving a recap of the issue heavy on the emphasis that we refused to wait until morning thus the reason why his dinky tool is stuck in our tub drain.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER(!!)
I hear the drain sucking and slurping down the muck that the bathtub threw up. The plumber emerges from the secondary bathroom holding the biggest dreadlock I’ve ever seen like the winning trout in a fishing competition.
“That’s not mine!” were the first words out of my mouth.
The plumber explained the hair was probably built up over years and because our two tubs share a drain pipe, the blockage got lodged in the pipe between the two bathtubs and thus caused the black muck to back up into both bathtubs.
“It was a quick fix! You guys shouldn’t have any problems.”
!!!!! - yeah, we were ticked. We had just spent 4 hours fighting with the circus troupe our apartment complex calls a maintenance team for what a plumber called a quick fix.
As the plumber left, CrabApple McJerkface practically had his tail between his legs as he followed the plumber out of our apartment mumbling something about being right back.
He returned 10 minutes later…armed with some 409 and a sponge.
And that is how I got my bathtubs cleaned for free by my apartment maintenance manager.
And yes, I might have been doing a little victory dance while whispering “Scrub my tub, sucka” in the living room while he cleaned out the bathtubs. That’s just how I roll…
**P.S. He did a really crappy job so it technically wasn’t a victory, but still, you gotta take what you can get**
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Like Taking Candy From a Baby...
Last week I was asked to photograph a lunch function for work. A bigwig was in town and lots of people were coming to our offfice to have lunch and hear him speak.
On the day of the event, a few people had canceled and, to make the room appear full, I was asked to sit in on one of the tables and partake in the free, catered lunch.
I know. Major Imposition, right? I lead a hard life, indeed.
I sat at a table next to an older lady who immediately congratulated me on having a job after college (yay!), and on being smart enough to take pictures (double yay!?).
Judging by her age, I can only assume that to have your photograph taken when she was young meant holding the same pose for an hour. Regardless, I was polite and made small talk while I nibbled on my salad.
When the caterers brought out our real lunch, I was only a few bites in when the bigwig took the stage and the part I was supposed to be photographing started.
Although I was still hungry, I politely excused myself, jumped up and started snapping away.
About halfway through the hour-long presentation, I noticed the caterers were serving dessert; a little sampler plate of tiny cookies, a brownie bite covered in ganache, a creme brulee fruit tart and some strawberries drizzled with chocolate. How could you not notice, right? YUM!
Still hungry, I glanced at the clock and saw that I could blow this popsicle stand in 10 minutes and cozy up to my dessert plate. Who NEEDS lunch?
As I walked back by the table, the little old lady grabbed my arm and thrust her glass into my hand, "be a dear and get me some iced tea, would you?" Slightly confused, I smiled and said sure. Maybe she forgot that I was not, in fact, one of the catering staff, but an attendee of the luncheon who was *just* sitting and having a conversation with her and who happens to take photos. Whatever, Alzheimers is a bitch, right?
I returned with her glass of tea and positioned myself near her side of the table to take a few more pictures as the presentation was beginning to wind down.
As I walked behind the lady again to cross to the other side of the room, she once again grabbed my arm and asked if I might bring her a paper napkin. Again, trying to be nice I agreed and quickly returned with the napkin before rushing off to snap my last photos of the event that was rapidly coming to a halt.
I was waiting for the perfect shot when, out of the corner of my eye I saw the little old lady slide my dessert plate over to her, now empty, plate and watched as she began to delicately arrange my dessert into the napkin I had just delivered to her.
I noticed the caterers were beginning to clear plates and my first thought was 'aww, how nice! she wanted to make sure I at least got to enjoy my dessert!' The little old lady caught me watching her and I gave her a smile to thank her for her thoughtfulness. She returned my smile and then promptly placed the napkin of goodies inside her purse, stood from the table and shuffled towards the door.
Me, still smiling like an idiot as she left the conference room, took a few seconds before it dawned on me, "Hey! That bitch stole my cookies!"
On the day of the event, a few people had canceled and, to make the room appear full, I was asked to sit in on one of the tables and partake in the free, catered lunch.
I know. Major Imposition, right? I lead a hard life, indeed.
I sat at a table next to an older lady who immediately congratulated me on having a job after college (yay!), and on being smart enough to take pictures (double yay!?).
Judging by her age, I can only assume that to have your photograph taken when she was young meant holding the same pose for an hour. Regardless, I was polite and made small talk while I nibbled on my salad.
When the caterers brought out our real lunch, I was only a few bites in when the bigwig took the stage and the part I was supposed to be photographing started.
Although I was still hungry, I politely excused myself, jumped up and started snapping away.
About halfway through the hour-long presentation, I noticed the caterers were serving dessert; a little sampler plate of tiny cookies, a brownie bite covered in ganache, a creme brulee fruit tart and some strawberries drizzled with chocolate. How could you not notice, right? YUM!
Still hungry, I glanced at the clock and saw that I could blow this popsicle stand in 10 minutes and cozy up to my dessert plate. Who NEEDS lunch?
As I walked back by the table, the little old lady grabbed my arm and thrust her glass into my hand, "be a dear and get me some iced tea, would you?" Slightly confused, I smiled and said sure. Maybe she forgot that I was not, in fact, one of the catering staff, but an attendee of the luncheon who was *just* sitting and having a conversation with her and who happens to take photos. Whatever, Alzheimers is a bitch, right?
I returned with her glass of tea and positioned myself near her side of the table to take a few more pictures as the presentation was beginning to wind down.
As I walked behind the lady again to cross to the other side of the room, she once again grabbed my arm and asked if I might bring her a paper napkin. Again, trying to be nice I agreed and quickly returned with the napkin before rushing off to snap my last photos of the event that was rapidly coming to a halt.
I was waiting for the perfect shot when, out of the corner of my eye I saw the little old lady slide my dessert plate over to her, now empty, plate and watched as she began to delicately arrange my dessert into the napkin I had just delivered to her.
I noticed the caterers were beginning to clear plates and my first thought was 'aww, how nice! she wanted to make sure I at least got to enjoy my dessert!' The little old lady caught me watching her and I gave her a smile to thank her for her thoughtfulness. She returned my smile and then promptly placed the napkin of goodies inside her purse, stood from the table and shuffled towards the door.
Me, still smiling like an idiot as she left the conference room, took a few seconds before it dawned on me, "Hey! That bitch stole my cookies!"
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Lions and Tigers and Bears….Oh, MY!
Last week husband and I were having a conversation about….something, and in typical fashion one topic bled into another, which then inspired a tangent that somehow re-routed us to childhood toys and whether or not they were given names.
I recalled one Christmas in particular I was given a stuffed bear that I named Ophelia and used to love to pretend it was my baby because it was filled with pellets that gave it a comforting heft to hold and sleep with.
In trying to further explain the wonder that was my stuffed bear, Husband was puzzled by a teddy bear having “heft” and being “dressed to look kind of like people.” I explained that the bears were really popular and were quite expensive, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember the brand name, suffice to say they were essentially a “designer” teddy bear.
This conversation, that I can assure you dear Husband has forgotten about, has had me cross referencing my brain and memory bank in attempt to recall the name of those elusive bears that have since lost popularity outside a small niche of people.
For the last week, in my few moments of down time at work I’ve conducted a series of Bear-centric Google searches in an attempt to exhaust my own resources before using one of my lifelines.
I stuck with Google Image searches because I knew I’d recognize the bears themselves immediately.
My results were nothing short of colorful.
Of course, searching for any combination of the words ‘designer,’ ‘bear,’ ‘American,’ and ‘teddy bear,’ will bring up photos of all types of teddy bears, people dressed as bears, a teddy bear dressed in a Chanel tweed suit and thousands of pictures of the Grizzly, Panda, Polar and Black Bear variety. But not the beloved toy I was hoping to find.
The search that followed included some permutation of the words “heavy,” “stuffed,” “bear” and “doll” in a combination I won’t soon repeat, as what was retrieved was a collection of images that quickly educated me on the homosexual subculture of Bears.
If you’re curious, I’ll spare you the humiliating task of performing a Google search which subsequently requires catlike reflexes to close the hundreds of X-rated pop ups that follow: Bears are essentially tall, heavy set, hairy gay men that inspire the waif-like gay men or just gay men, period, to cuddle.
Let's leave it at that shall we? Wikipedia it (yes, I used that as a verb) if you're that interested...
I quickly minimized the page and had a brief premonition of me being escorted out of the building, signing termination papers for looking at Gay Porn during work hours and trying to reasonably explain myself to future employers. My co-workers would have been SO confused!
Embarrassed for myself (isn't that the worst kind?!) and still none the wiser on the name of that damn bear company, I surrendered and texted my mom.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Wait, What??
My mom is aware of the gay subculture that is BEARS?? What in God's great world are my parents doing in that big empty house of theirs? And furthermore, in what world should a person EXPECT to find porn when Googling bears.
How you know you're in the sexual slow lane: When your mother knows more about gay subcultures than you do.
(***Edited to add: Mom didn't actually know about Gay Bears, she just figured the porn industry will tag just about anything so it'll pop up in Google searches and Dad assumed it was for those with lower IQs who would spell bare as bear when looking for porn. Wahoo! I'm back to traveling with the flow of traffic on the sexual super highway***)
I recalled one Christmas in particular I was given a stuffed bear that I named Ophelia and used to love to pretend it was my baby because it was filled with pellets that gave it a comforting heft to hold and sleep with.
In trying to further explain the wonder that was my stuffed bear, Husband was puzzled by a teddy bear having “heft” and being “dressed to look kind of like people.” I explained that the bears were really popular and were quite expensive, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember the brand name, suffice to say they were essentially a “designer” teddy bear.
This conversation, that I can assure you dear Husband has forgotten about, has had me cross referencing my brain and memory bank in attempt to recall the name of those elusive bears that have since lost popularity outside a small niche of people.
For the last week, in my few moments of down time at work I’ve conducted a series of Bear-centric Google searches in an attempt to exhaust my own resources before using one of my lifelines.
I stuck with Google Image searches because I knew I’d recognize the bears themselves immediately.
My results were nothing short of colorful.
Of course, searching for any combination of the words ‘designer,’ ‘bear,’ ‘American,’ and ‘teddy bear,’ will bring up photos of all types of teddy bears, people dressed as bears, a teddy bear dressed in a Chanel tweed suit and thousands of pictures of the Grizzly, Panda, Polar and Black Bear variety. But not the beloved toy I was hoping to find.
The search that followed included some permutation of the words “heavy,” “stuffed,” “bear” and “doll” in a combination I won’t soon repeat, as what was retrieved was a collection of images that quickly educated me on the homosexual subculture of Bears.
If you’re curious, I’ll spare you the humiliating task of performing a Google search which subsequently requires catlike reflexes to close the hundreds of X-rated pop ups that follow: Bears are essentially tall, heavy set, hairy gay men that inspire the waif-like gay men or just gay men, period, to cuddle.
Let's leave it at that shall we? Wikipedia it (yes, I used that as a verb) if you're that interested...
I quickly minimized the page and had a brief premonition of me being escorted out of the building, signing termination papers for looking at Gay Porn during work hours and trying to reasonably explain myself to future employers. My co-workers would have been SO confused!
Embarrassed for myself (isn't that the worst kind?!) and still none the wiser on the name of that damn bear company, I surrendered and texted my mom.
Me: Question: remember those expensive teddy bears you bought
us for Christmas one year?? What were they called??
us for Christmas one year?? What were they called??
Mom: Boyd's Bears
Me: Yes! It's been driving me crazy for a week!
Mom: And why are we thinking about these bears?
Me: I don't know! You should see my google history though: teddy bears,
designer bears, American bears, bear dolls (which had some porn!?!)
designer bears, American bears, bear dolls (which had some porn!?!)
Mom: That figures
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Wait, What??
My mom is aware of the gay subculture that is BEARS?? What in God's great world are my parents doing in that big empty house of theirs? And furthermore, in what world should a person EXPECT to find porn when Googling bears.
How you know you're in the sexual slow lane: When your mother knows more about gay subcultures than you do.
(***Edited to add: Mom didn't actually know about Gay Bears, she just figured the porn industry will tag just about anything so it'll pop up in Google searches and Dad assumed it was for those with lower IQs who would spell bare as bear when looking for porn. Wahoo! I'm back to traveling with the flow of traffic on the sexual super highway***)
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
I’m a registered text offender...
My apologies to anyone who’s texted me in the last month and has been utterly confused, confounded or downright offended by my written communication.
But you see I have a completely logical and reasonable explanation; I have an iPhone. And that iPhone has Auto Correct which is simultaneously my saving grace and the bane of my existence.
For the most part, Auto Correct is the perfect angel; capitalizing proper nouns because I’m too darn lazy, adding apostrophes in the correct places thus narrowly avoiding a homonym fail (see: their, there and they’re) or keeping me healthy or ironically trendy (see: I’ll vs. Ill).
But more often than not, Auto Correct loves nothing more than to make an ass of me at the most inopportune times.
Please allow this post to act as a PSA to those who regularly engage in text conversations with me:
And the best part about Auto Correct? As soon as you realize you’ve made the initial mistake and are in a rush to correct it in a subsequent text, Auto Correct wants to continue to correct you with it’s recommended verbiage. A text conversation will often look like this:
And yes, I have tried turning Auto Correct off and either my thumbs are disproportionately huge to the iPhone keyboard, or typing on the damn thing is meant to be impossible so that in order to get anything resembling a cohesive thought across you'd have to use Auto Correct.
Me: Oo
And don’t think Steve Jobs isn’t enjoying every last second of these shenanigans... anyone else see the resemblance??
But you see I have a completely logical and reasonable explanation; I have an iPhone. And that iPhone has Auto Correct which is simultaneously my saving grace and the bane of my existence.
For the most part, Auto Correct is the perfect angel; capitalizing proper nouns because I’m too darn lazy, adding apostrophes in the correct places thus narrowly avoiding a homonym fail (see: their, there and they’re) or keeping me healthy or ironically trendy (see: I’ll vs. Ill).
But more often than not, Auto Correct loves nothing more than to make an ass of me at the most inopportune times.
Please allow this post to act as a PSA to those who regularly engage in text conversations with me:
• Please know that I mean books when I ask to borrow your boobs. I’ve got a pair of my own, 4 would be overkill.
• When I tell you I’m about to poop in the shower, I mean pop. And by all means, I’m sitting in the car not….well, you get it.
• I didn’t mean to call you a prick, honest. That was supposed to say pick.
• And please, spare me the Revolutionary War tales when my text reads Whigs. I meant to say ‘which.’
And the best part about Auto Correct? As soon as you realize you’ve made the initial mistake and are in a rush to correct it in a subsequent text, Auto Correct wants to continue to correct you with it’s recommended verbiage. A text conversation will often look like this:
Big Sister: Maybe instead of scones with tea on Sunday we can have Dutch Babies
Me: Oooh yes, Duty babies
Me: **DUTY
Me: Dangit! **dutiful
Me: aah! Dots
Me: Duty
Me: Duty
Me: D U T C H….damn iPhone
Big Sister: I totally LOL’d. I was about to confirm we weren’t actually making duty babies.
Me: Come to think of it, we should totally make duty babies….they get S#!@ done!
And yes, I have tried turning Auto Correct off and either my thumbs are disproportionately huge to the iPhone keyboard, or typing on the damn thing is meant to be impossible so that in order to get anything resembling a cohesive thought across you'd have to use Auto Correct.
Husband: Be there soon
Me: Oo
Me: **Oo
Husband: Wait, what?
Me: *OK
Me: Damn iPhone
Husband: It might be operator error this time babe
And don’t think Steve Jobs isn’t enjoying every last second of these shenanigans... anyone else see the resemblance??
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