the chicago dispLAcement ®

Certain things make me nervous. Like seeing eighty-year-olds behind the wheel. Or watching the Blackhawks when Corey Crawford’s in the net. Running out of coffee creamer is enough to spike my blood pressure, but by far the worst is making a call to customer service.

For one, they have the power. As much as we would like to think that threatening to cancel our service would make them tremble with fear and guilt… They don’t care. I know this to be true because I’ve worked in customer service, or rather I’ve worked in places with customers. Most stores emphasize that you should consider the customer king, but at the end of the day, we all know the deal. No one person is going to single-handedly take down Target or Bed Bath & Beyond.

I once worked in a clothing boutique, and for the record, twenty-something women are the worst customers ever. Every week, I would get some chick trying to return a dress that not only looked worn, but also reeked of smoke and alcohol. Apparently you don’t go clubbing in the same outfit twice. So I would refuse the return. And she would pout. And I would just stare at her with a smile. And eventually she would angrily stuff that disgusting dress back into her bag and stomp out of the store. Why? Because I had the power.

Secondly, I hate when customer service representatives bombard you with countless “offers.” It’s like walking into Trader Joe’s for a loaf of bread and being pummeled with apples, eggs and jars of salsa as you’re trying to check out. Doesn’t feel good. The pseudo enthusiasm in a customer service rep’s voice as he informs me with rapid-fire speech about the great price I can get for bundling my bills is both commendable and slightly confusing. Is basic cable really that exciting? Then I burst his bubble and tell him no anyway.

So… I had to call customer service the other day. My internet bill had increased by 20% in the last two months, and I wanted to passive-aggressively express my disapproval. The first guy I got on the line was your classic CC rep. Way too excited about his job and way too eager to sell me services that I didn’t want. After a series of polite yet firm refusals, I finally got him to explain what was going on with my bill. To my surprise, he then told me that I could decrease my bill by getting rid of an unnecessary feature. Before I knew it, he was transferring me to another department to make the change and thanking me for my business.

However, my conversation with the new rep started off a little rocky. She went through the same spiel as the first guy and again I responded with “no,” “no” and “no.” Was this some kind of bait and switch situation? I knew it was too good to be true. Yet before I could hang up, she asked that I hold while she consulted her supervisor… A few minutes later, she got back on the line and informed me that they could reduce my bill to less than half of its current price!

Needless to say, I was highly suspicious. I hadn’t threatened to cancel my service once, so why was she being so nice to me? That’s when she asked what I did for a living, and we got to talking. I found out that she lived in Orange County. I mentioned that I had attended grad school there. Then we started chatting about how bizarre the entertainment industry can be. She told me about a trip she took with her daughter to see all the fancy shops on Rodeo Drive, but unfortunately it was cold and rainy that weekend… That’s when it dawned on me that this woman wasn’t just a customer service rep. She was a real person. This was merely her job, and as it is for many of us, it didn’t define who she was.

We ended up having a perfectly lovely conversation. Also, I’ll now be saving over $300 a year on my internet service. Thanks, AT&T!

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I was just lookin’ for a little sympathy. It had been a rough workweek, and I wanted to vent. Sometimes friends just don’t cut it, though. Sure, they may understand, but only too well because usually they’re going through the exact same thing. Complaining to friends about work is like complaining to a Jenny Craig client that you’re dying for some cake. Plus, there was only one person that I wanted to invite to my pity party, and that was my dear old dad. I knew he could make me feel better. Yet the second he picked up the line, I lost it. I could feel the hot tears welling up in my eyes. “Hello? Hello?” Instead of answering him, I could only articulate a high-pitched screech that sounded something like a DJ scratching records while accompanied by the vocal stylings of an injured bird. He recognized the cry for help. “Anna? I can’t understand you. What’s wrong?”

I took a deep breath and willed myself to calm down. I then bombarded my dad with a long and detailed explanation as to why my life was so unfair. By the time I concluded my rant, my father had only one question: “So why are you so upset?” Hello?! Had he not been listening to anything I said? Is it time for the hearing aids, Dad?

“Because… I’m frustrated.”

“Well, I’d rather see you get mad than sad.”

Okay, good point. I suppose the only thing my tears would produce is a trashcan of wadded up tissues and a pair of bloodshot eyes.

“Lemme tell you a story…” That’s when my dad launched into his own work tale, and I was once again reminded of where I get my affinity for talking… So here’s something that will blow your mind: my father worked at the same company for his entire career. That’s over forty years of office meetings and cafeteria lunches at the same place. Moreover, he loved work so much that he would many times come in during the weekends. Just because. Anyway, he proceeded to tell me that at some point over his four plus decades of employeedom, a few work friends informed him that a position in another department had opened up, and they wanted him to apply. Given that he was perfectly happy where he was, my father refused. These friends of his would not let up, though. (My dad made sure to emphasize this part of the story several times. “They kept coming at me and coming at me to apply for that job.” I get it, Dad. You were popular at work.) Finally caving to their repeated appeals, my father threw his hat into the ring. Shortly thereafter, a few of the higher-ups approached him and indicated that they had someone else in mind for the job. Needless to say, my dad wasn’t heartbroken, but apparently these executives were concerned that he just might be and gave him a raise. A raise. Just because.

The end.

Okay. Wasn’t quite sure how this little anecdote was supposed to help me. Was I missing some kind of life lesson here? Though I could appreciate the good fortune my father had experienced, it seemed, well, totally and completely unrelated to my own situation.

“Awesome, Dad. I’m so glad that happened to you.”

“Right? I didn’t even want the job.” That’s when I lost it again… and started laughing. I still had no clue why he thought this story would cheer me up, but maybe my dad was more perceptive than I had realized. Twenty minutes earlier, I was dramatically wallowing in the depths of my own despair. Now I had a sappy smile plastered across my face and couldn’t stop giggling.

My father might be a genius.

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LA ladies sometimes get a bad rap. A stereotype has been perpetuated, thanks in large part to The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and its prequel The Hills, that we’re vapid, shallow and insincere. If we’re not shopping or botoxing, it’s only because we’re spray-tanning or gold-digging. Oh, and we have no real friends and consider every other female competition instead of a companion.

Sadly, those women are out there, but they’re everywhere: New York (less blonde), Miami (less clothed) or even Chicago (less vegetarian). No city has a monopoly on lame people. Lucky for me, I don’t often come across these self-involved souls and only hear about them second-hand from a friend who saw Paris Hilton stumbling out of The Standard last weekend.

Yet on any given night you will find an altogether different kind of woman out on the town. Though instead of scanning the crowd for her next sugar daddy or admiring the new DDs in the nearest reflective surface, this woman is too busy enjoying the company of her ten or more best friends. These girls come in all shapes, sizes and colors, but can easily be identified by the tight circle they form by the bar or more often on the dance floor. In other words, you are witnessing what is commonly called a ladies’ night.

I have participated in one or two ladies’ nights in my time, but perhaps not as often as you would think. Though LA women can rarely use bad weather as an excuse to stay home, you’d be surprised by how much time can go by between seeing friends in this town. Anyone in the entertainment industry usually puts in a ten to twelve hour day; needless to say, that kills most social engagements during the week. Should you reside west of La Cienega but all your friends live east of Highland, then you might as well resign yourself to seeing them at the next Thanksgiving potluck or perhaps your birthday party if they really like you. However, when the planets finally do align for the elusive ladies’ night, ‘tis a wonderful time.

Yet hitting the club isn’t a requirement for a BFF bash; in fact, my favorite ladies’ night is that of the at-home variety when you don’t have to worry about being groped from behind while getting your groove on or spilling your $14 cocktail on your dry clean only dress. Plus, without the deafening house music you can actually hear your friends and don’t sound like you smoked a carton of Marlboros the next morning because you had to scream every word for three hours straight the night before. Though regardless of any audio obstacles, we ladies get the gold star for our ability to chat long past any male’s oral breaking point. We can have discussions of epic proportions because one of the many things we’re great at is showing how we care through verbal communication, and should one be privy to a ladies’ night powwow, you will overhear at least one of the following conversation starters at some point in the evening:

1. “You look amazing!” The fairer sex dominates when it comes to supporting our sisters, and we’re not afraid to say it either. Yes, those chicks exist who cannot utter one kind word to another woman because of their own insecurities, but you will not find them at ladies’ night because they’ve made their bed and have no real female friends. Minus the Debbie Downers, the rest of us are free to gush about each other’s glowing skin, super cute new haircut or overall fabulousness.

2. “I love your outfit.” This may sound an awful like conversation #1, but don’t let the semantics fool you. #1 can refer to a number of awesome qualities that one’s friend may have, while #2 specifically highlights her keenly cultivated fashion sense. Totally different in girl world. Almost guaranteed to follow this statement is “Where did you get it?” I once had a weird junior high stalker situation when a girl in my class bought every last one of the short-alls I had purchased at Contempo Casuals – CC, I tip my forty to your memory – and had already worn to school. Subsequently, I was forced to retire them to the back of my closet for fear we would wear the same thing on the same day: a fate worse than death when you’re thirteen years old. Happily, Single White Female is a distant memory, so if someone likes what I’m wearing, I immediately tell her where I bought it. Who am I to deny Target yet another satisfied customer?

3. “Know any cute, single guys?” Yes, boys do eventually work their way into the conversation at some point. However, I must stress that those of the XY persuasion take up a relatively small portion of the night’s confab. Sorry to burst your bubble, gents. Though a main squeeze may momentarily surface in the conversation, more often than not any guy talk is regulated to gabbing about what single dudes we can hook up with our single friends.

4. “How’s work going?” What? You think our lives revolve around just shopping and men? On the contrary… The far majority of the awesome ladies I know are working women who do it not only for a paycheck, but because they are uber enthusiastic about their careers. More often than not, many minutes are devoted to discussing whatever new project/show/passion my girlfriends are working on.

5. “Please take that chip bowl/cookie platter/cheese tray away from me!” Okay, this isn’t so much a conversation as a command, but believe me, you will hear this uttered at least a dozen times before ladies’ night comes to a close. I can also guarantee that five to ten minutes later, you will then hear, “Can you grab me just one more cookie?” Gurrl, I’ll have one with you.

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When it comes to fight or flight, I fall decidedly in the middle. I neither put up my dukes nor run like the wind; rather I just stand there like a chump and wait to see what comes next. This is exactly what happened the last time LA had a decent earthquake. I was at work and knew immediately that something was going down… like the building in which I was standing. Fascinated, I watched as the walls oscillated before my very eyes. Briefly looking to the exit, I considered if I should get the hell out of Dodge. Nah. I returned to my wall watching and was almost sad when that unsettling rolling motion beneath my feet came to an end.

So you have people like me, who are struck stupid during a disaster, and then you have those souls who immediately seize the opportunity to regale the rest of us with their impressive knowledge of all things catastrophic. Let’s get real, though. These individuals aren’t heroes. They don’t care about rescuing kittens from treetops or babies from burning buildings. They just want everyone to know that they saved Fluffy from impending doom. These are the same people who minus a crisis still force themselves into your perfectly safe and sound life whether you like it or not. It’s the grandma who comments on your choice of cereal while checking out at the grocery store. The strange man who critiques your reading material as you wait at the car wash. The weird dude who approaches an expectant mother to give pregnancy advice. I believe the official term for these people is “know-it-all.” Most times it’s also used in conjunction with the word “crazy.”

Such was the case last weekend when I was dropping off some papers for work. It was a Saturday, and although the office was technically closed, one coordinator was on hand to collect said paperwork. Though as I neared the entrance, I noticed a few people standing outside the door… A line? Great. Just great. Now I would have to wait before getting my Judy Greer triple-header on. (In order of awesomeness… 13 Going on 30, 27 Dresses and What Women Want.) It was only once I peered inside that my pity party came to a screeching halt. Lying on the floor was a young man. Eyes wide open and perfectly still, he stared at the ceiling and seemed to be unresponsive.

Someone was already on the line with 911, and shortly thereafter an ambulance and fire truck arrived. Impressive. Most impressive. I, on the other hand, was not. Because I have to make every situation about myself, I was mortified that numerous people – firemen, no less – were seeing me sans makeup. I had assumed this little drop-off would be just that and barely bothered brushing my hair before walking out the door. Now stranger after stranger were witness to my bare-naked face. Odd, they appeared to not notice; with a single focus they wheeled in the gurney and immediately got to work. The others and I looked on as they checked the man’s vital signs and asked for his name. He remained catatonic. That’s when some random chick decided to pipe up.

The paramedics had the situation under control; however, this woman decided that they could benefit from her medical expertise. Peering down at the young man, she began her diagnosis of the patient. “He’s breathing, but unresponsive.” Nice work, Dr. Grey. “I think he might be on drugs.” I agree that somebody was on drugs. “Or maybe someone did this to him.” Professor Plum with a candlestick in the library.

Seeing as the paramedics were unresponsive to her, she turned to the rest of us. “I don’t know, guys. There’s something wrong about this.” Obviously. “We don’t know who else is in this building. Maybe there’s somebody here who could hurt us.” I was convinced, but not that a homicidal maniac was about to end all of us; I wondered if perchance a straightjacket was in that ambulance. “I’m getting a bad feeling about this building. I think we should leave. We should all leave now.”

Inadvertently confirming her suspicions, the paramedics then prepared to exit the building. As efficient as they come, in a matter of minutes they wheeled out the patient and started toward the ambulance. The rest of us, a bit dazed and confused, followed them outside and watched as they left for the hospital. After checking his ID, turns out the poor guy was the coordinator with whom we were supposed to meet. That kind of put a damper on things.

Yet with the patient gone and no one left in the building, our self-appointed Sarah Connor would not stop spewing her unsolicited assertions. “You know, I always felt something was wrong here. Something’s not right about that building.” The last time I yelled at someone to shut up I was probably ten years old and my older sister was certainly saying something to deserve it. I could feel myself regressing once again. However, the half-dozen other individuals and I simply walked away from crazy know-it-all mid-sentence. Undeterred, she turned her attention to the approaching security guard on duty. I should have warned him, but as luck would have it, my flight instinct just happened to kick in at that very moment.

Epilogue: I inquired about the young man a few days later. He spent about six hours in the hospital and was later released into the care of his wife. They still don’t know what exactly happened. Nervous breakdown? Or perhaps he was forced into a catatonic state after becoming the victim of random chick’s ranting? My bet’s on the latter.

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I was a bit of a nerd in school, so one of my favorite things is cultivating that nerdiness in others. I especially love getting kids to love learning. Plus, sometimes these children look up to me, which – I’m not gonna lie – feels amazing. Being seen as the ultimate authority on similes, homographs and dangling modifiers is such a rush.

Apparently I’m not the only adult with an imperative need to impress the twelve and under crowd. The library is constantly packed with people spewing their knowledge to those diminutive souls counting down the minutes until mom and dad rescue them.

Such was the case once again this particular afternoon. Trying to find an empty table, I circled the joint multiple times to no avail and finally decided that someone would have to begrudgingly share their claimed territory. That’s when I saw this little pipsqueak of a child. She was so small that her head barely cleared the back of her chair. Not to mention, multiple stacks of books covered the tabletop, hiding her tiny frame. I slowly approached and gently asked her, “May we share this table with you?” From the look on her face, I wasn’t sure if she understood the question. I was also pretty certain she was terrified of me. She slowly nodded her head. At that very moment, a gentleman walked up to our table. They didn’t look related, but he asked if she was okay. I then asked him the same question. Kindly, he also approved and so began my tutoring session.

Yet out of the corner of my eye, I kept watching this little girl fly through book after book. Given that she couldn’t be more than three years old – four tops – I assumed she was simply amusing herself with the pictures while a parent was surfing the nearby computers. About fifteen minutes later, she jumped down from her chair and proceeded to walk around to where I was sitting. She then patiently waited for me to finish whatever I was in the middle of saying. I paused and looked at her. That’s when she calmly asked, “What does ‘particular’ mean?”

I was shocked. I couldn’t believe this child was actually reading the book in her hands. I peered at the page to which she was referring; it was talking about a river. I tried to explain, “Well, particular means specific.” That didn’t help much. “Or it can be a way of saying that something is special. There’s nothing else like it.” From the way she was looking at me, I could tell she thought I too was special. Just not in a good way.

“What’s so special about it? It’s a river. All rivers are the same.”

“Well, you and I both have two eyes and two ears and many things that are the same, but we’re still special. No one else is like you, and no one else is like me.”

I began to feel a thin layer of sweat forming over my body. She wasn’t buying it.

“Or it can mean that they’re talking about only this river. No other river. Just this one. Does that make sense?”

“Not really, but okay.”

As she returned to her seat, the man from earlier reappeared. I then realized that he worked at the library. I must have looked completely dumbfounded because minus any prompting he informed me, “She can read at a third grade level. She’s read nearly all the books in the children’s section.” Oh… She’s one of those kids.

I tried not to feel like a total jackass and continued with my lesson. However, I was suddenly aware of this little girl listening to me. Whereas before I thought she was just another bored kid biding her time until her mom finally wanted to leave, I now knew that she was most definitely smarter than me and most likely judging me as I tried to explain proper semicolon usage to my student. I could hear the trepidation and self-doubt in my every word.

A few minutes later, she got up again and headed toward me. Please no…

“But I still don’t get it. It’s just a river. It’s not special.” Ugh. She was really stuck on this special thing.

“Special doesn’t always mean better than something else. It can also mean different. Not better or worse, just not the same.”

This answer seemed to somewhat pacify her. Encouraged that I might not be a total idiot, she then grabbed another book and promptly flipped to the page in question.

“I don’t get this. They misspelled ‘arithmetic.’”

I took a look. It read: “Why don’t mosquitoes teach math? Because they don’t know ar-itch-metic!”

“They didn’t misspell it, honey. It’s a joke. Get it? Because mosquitoes make you itch.” I then gave a hearty laugh to emphasize my point.

Realizing that she had mistakenly given me more credit than warranted, she silently headed back to her seat and buried her head in yet another book. I, on the other hand, decided it was time to look for another table.

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During this time of year, one might feel obligated to attend his or her company holiday party. If you are anything like me, this may be your response: “Why in the world would I want to spend any more time with these people than I already do? Plus I always get shafted during the white elephant exchange.”

Understood. Your reasons are completely valid. My advice? Don’t skip the festivities. Don’t deny yourself the opportunity to enjoy some free food, bad karaoke and (hopefully) an open bar. Just make sure that the office party you attend isn’t for your office; it’s much more fun that way.

Rewind to my first job in LA… I still remember how giddy I felt as I walked out of that fateful interview. Immediately I called my dad and exclaimed, “That’s where I want to work!” It was love at first sight. A few weeks later, I was sitting at my new desk and desperately trying to remember everyone’s name. I instantly bonded with my fellow coworkers; yet as the weeks and years went by, I realized as most adults do that my job had its highs and lows. What exactly was my job? Hmm… How to put this delicately? In a nutshell, I was the meanie. I was the one who yelled at you if you lost your parking pass. I was the one who told you that you didn’t have enough vacation days left for that trip home over Christmas. That kind of thing. As you might have guessed, I was super popular.

Also as you might have guessed, I like to write and that just wasn’t happening while I had this job. Of course 99.9% of people in Los Angeles have a “day job” while they work toward their dream of being an actor/director/big shot. It’s a hard line to walk. So eventually I decided that it was time for me to move on and tearfully said goodbye to my work family.

But whaddya know, they liked me! They really liked me! I had my doubts, but hugs never lie, and nothing beats showing up at the holiday party of a company you’ve quit and getting inundated with dozens of hugs.

And of course there’s the gossip.

This is the real reason why you should adopt a strict “only if I don’t work there anymore” policy when accepting an office party invitation. Even better is if you show up a few hours after the party has begun; by then most of your former coworkers have indulged in a drink or two or ten, and not only are so happy to see you, but also they almost immediately launch into all the good gossip. They know you, so they feel comfortable with you. Since you don’t work there anymore, you’re also a safe outlet. They don’t have to worry that come Monday morning you’ll tell all your coworkers that so-and-so did this-and-that with whats-his-face. It’s a win-win for everyone.

With one exception. If at the end of the evening you realize that you’re the only sober person left in the building, you have a choice to make. Either you silently slink out and say a quick prayer that your former coworkers get home safely despite their inebriated state, or you suck it up and offer them a ride. However, should you allow that holiday-induced “good will toward men” attitude to guide your actions, you just might end up with a half-dozen drunken holiday revelers stuffed into your compact backseat… and possibly someone in the trunk as well. Don’t ask me how I know this, but consider yourself warned.

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It’s time to face the sad truth that I’m not the new kid on the block anymore. There’s a whole generation of adults younger than me. I see them everywhere. They drive. They shop. They even have kids of their own. So be it. That’s the circle of life, right?

Sometimes it’s not a problem. I fully expect lifeguards, camp counselors and the manager at Forever 21 to be younger than me. Likewise, I expect doctors, judges and the president to be older than me. Whenever those roles are reversed, I get confused and mildly agitated. Like when you see someone who looks like a celebrity, but you can’t quite figure out why you recognize him. Maybe he was on an episode of Law & Order: SVU? So you just stare. Or you look, look away, look again, look away again and continue with that pattern until you finally ID him.

So I was at the doctor’s office last week. Not to fret, I’m as healthy as a horse. Just a routine checkup. However, they had to take a blood sample and my nurse was fourteen years old, sixteen tops.

I knew she couldn’t possibly be that young, yet I searched her face for traces of acne. The theme song to Doogie Howser began to play in my head. I bet she didn’t know who that was. Was this chick old enough to drink? Or even vote?

I tried to relax, but my life was on the line. I eyed her like a hawk. For the record, I don’t enjoy getting stuck with a needle under any circumstances, but this was especially frightening. Sure, she must have graduated from nursing school, but when? That morning? What if she screwed up and injected an air bubble into my vein and I died? Or she twitched and somehow broke off the end of the needle into my arm? Though I never watch these procedures, I did this time. Just in case.

As it turns out, I’m still alive. No air bubble. No broken needle. She didn’t even have to stick me more than once. It was then that I realized I might be prejudiced against these young people.

Not children. They’re a different story altogether. Have you talked to a kid lately? They’re crazy smart. Just the other day, I was going over a hypothetical situation with one of my tutees. We were discussing a story wherein a little boy, Marvin, bicycled everyday after school to the nursing home where his grandmother was recently sent to live. Surprise, surprise, she wasn’t taking well to her new environment. I asked Sam what the grandson was hoping would happen to his grandma. His response?

“He’s hoping she’ll forget.”

Okay, I might have snorted. As it was, I definitely had a stream of tears running down my face I was laughing so hard. He was absolutely right. Well, not really… The story was trying to stress that the little boy wanted his grandmother to make friends, but let’s take another look at this scenario. Wouldn’t it be a whole lot easier on everyone – Marvin, his family, the nursing home staff, even Grammy herself – if she simply lapsed into dementia and didn’t know where she was anymore?

So children are great. In fact, I hope no one under the age of ten is reading this because another sad truth is that I’m glad I’m not you. Growing up, I had John Hughes and Cabbage Patch Kids. What have these kids had over the past decade? Osama Bin Laden and the Great Recession. Talk about getting the short end of the stick.

But I do fully discriminate against anyone who grew up on Boy Meets World and Beanie Babies. Can’t really fault me for that.

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When I was little, I had difficulty discerning the library from church. Both institutions required its patrons to speak in hushed voices. Both housed books that you were told to respect; they weren’t toys or meant to function merely as a hard surface so you could doodle on the bulletin. Also, when visiting either place I knew instinctively that I was to be on my best behavior. Especially at the library.

No matter where I roamed among the endless racks of books, I could feel the bifocaled surveillance of the resident librarian. Without fail, this person was female, smelled vaguely of Chanel No. 5 and mothballs and seemed to have nothing better to do than shush any and all noises. Even rogue squeaky sneakers against a tiled floor were not exempt from the librarian’s scourge. Though sitting at what was called a help desk, she was never particularly helpful. Instead, I sensed that she took pleasure in charging me a late fee whenever I kept Ramona the Brave or Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle a day too long.

Apparently things haven’t changed much.

Last week I was at my local library and needed a space where I would be able to talk (in a hushed voice of course). Not wanting to disturb the other patrons, I headed to the help desk for some input as to where I should sit. Should have known better. I was still a good twenty feet away when I felt the icy glare from behind her horn-rimmed visage.

Me (super chipper): “Hi! I’m here to do some tutoring for a few hours. Where would be the best place to do that without disturbing anyone else?”

Her (annoyed): “At home.”

Me (nervous laugh): “Well, that’s not an option.”

Her (more annoyed): “We don’t have private rooms. If you can find an open table, I suggest you take it.”

Okay, seriously… Why are librarians so damn crabby all the time? Do they surround themselves with inanimate objects because they hate living, breathing people that much? Or perhaps having so little human contact has permanently stunted their social skills? Because I am totally confused as to why these chicks are so mean to everyone.

What could be better than working at a library? You can read anything you want, from Tolstoy’s War and Peace to Polizzi’s A Shore Thing – Snooki to you uncultured creatures who don’t keep up with The New York Times Best Seller list – and claim it as “research.” Or don’t pick up a book at all. Just surf US Weekly online and say you’re trying to help patrons navigate the world wide web. Plus, the library is quiet. Warm and cozy. And they have drinking fountains! (Have you noticed how quickly they’re disappearing from the American landscape?)

The only thing that could make the library better is if they gave away free stuff… Wait a minute! That’s right. You can check out whatever you want – books, CDs, DVDs – and you don’t have to pay for any of it! I bet librarians are exempt even from their own late fees.

Yet they always seem to be in a foul mood. So what am I missing? I realize that libraries aren’t exactly a top priority in terms of fund allocation, so it’s likely that most librarians are paid very little. Maybe some of them work only on a volunteer basis. In that case, I get it. However, their bummer attitude makes me reluctant to engage them or visit as often as I would like… So maybe that’s it. Maybe their Machiavellian plan is to discourage people from coming to the library so they can have all those wonderful books to themselves.

Genius.

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While waiting in the checkout line at the grocery store the other day, I noticed a very unhappy woman walking through the sliding glass doors with a ripped bag. Utilizing my snap judgment skills, I thought she might be homeless; snap judging again from the way she began to irrationally berate the nearest cashier for said ripped bag, I wasn’t so sure anymore. Could be anyone in LA. For his part, the cashier was extremely gracious and said she could take as many bags as she liked, but this only added fuel to her fire. She then proceeded to whine that she didn’t want multiple bags; she wanted just one decent bag to hold all her stuff. Listening to her tirade, I had to admit that the woman had a point. It’s annoying when those bags rip. Yet moments later as I was unloading my own many double-bagged groceries into the car, I wondered, “Is this where we’re at as a society?” Forget the unemployment rate, rising gas prices and the government almost shutting down. We’re also complaining about grocery bags now?

I know, I know… It’s human nature to complain. We hate our job. Our boyfriend. Our neighbors. We want a vacation. A new car. Six pack abs.

Yet many of us won’t ever have a good enough job or boyfriend or body, so we complain about it. We vent to our friends and family for minutes… err, hours on end. Then we sigh dramatically and say, “But I guess I shouldn’t complain. I have a roof over my head. I have food in the fridge. It’s not like I’m some starving kid in Africa.” And then our friends say, “No, it’s okay. Besides, you can’t compare yourself to that kid in Africa. It’s all relative.”

Is it, though? Why shouldn’t we compare ourselves to that kid in Africa? I’ve used the “all relative” line a dozen or more times myself, but I’m not entirely sure it’s warranted. Why again that logic? Just so I have permission to complain about annoying salespeople who won’t leave me alone or the annoying dryer that never dries my sheets all the way? Because it’s always something that’s “so annoying.” Know what else is annoying? Not having a roof over your head. Or food to eat even if you had a fridge to put it in. Or being torn away from your family at eight to become a child soldier. That’s annoying.

Okay, maybe the kid in Africa isn’t comparable. Apples and oranges you say. But what about that pseudo homeless lady in Ralph’s? Or the panhandlers who magically appear every time I’m at a red light? Poor me. I’m the unlucky schmuck who just missed the left turn signal, and now I have to wait that eternal two minutes while this dude walks up and down the center median with a dirty disposable cup and outstretched hand. So what do I do? I pretend not to see him. I try to find *something* in my purse. Or I change the channel on the radio. Or I just stare ahead at the light as he periodically peeks in my window to see if I have some change to spare.

Every time this happens to me, and it happens a lot, a chill goes down my spine. Somehow his tragedy is my catalyst for complaining because the entire time I’m thinking, “What if that’s me someday?”

I’ve had this conversation with friends as well. What if I become homeless? Of course they smirk and say, “That would never happen.” End of story. But it could happen. Easily. I live in LA, and it’s not cheap here. Gas has been above four bucks for well over a month now. If you want to live in a neighborhood (relatively) free from break-ins and shootings, be prepared to pay for it. Also be prepared for some stiff competition for any and all jobs. Should you not secure that dream gig as Spielberg’s heir apparent, don’t assume the barista position at Starbucks is wide open. I promise that you’ll be up against a few thousand other auteur wannabes.

What’s my point? I dunno. I know that most of the time our whining stems from some deeper need or desire. You hate your boyfriend because you just want someone who listens to you. You hate your job because issuing parking passes wasn’t your intended goal in life. I get it. And sometimes the complaining is just a way to blow off steam. Though in the grand scheme of things, most of the people I know are okay. In fact, we’re the lucky ones. Gas prices might continue to soar, but at least we still have our cars. They weren’t washed away in a tsunami. We might get frustrated with our reps in Washington, but I’m pretty sure we’ll never see tanks rolling down Sunset Boulevard as rebel forces try to take over Los Angeles. Though it would be nice if my landlord finally ponied up and bought a new dryer. I hate damp sheets.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

“I’m fine, thanks.”

Translation? Leave me alone. This is my mantra when shopping. Given that I’ve worked retail many times in the past, you’d think I would be more sensitive to the pressure put upon sales associates. I’m not. Yes, I know they’re forced to offer their help. Yes, I know they’re encouraged to upsell whenever possible. I still don’t care. It’s annoying when they won’t leave you alone.

I’m like Rosie the Riveter of shoppers. I can do it by myself. Rarely do I shop without an agenda, yet when asked, “Were you looking for anything in particular?” I always lie and say, “Nope. Just looking.” Of course lying is wrong, but what’s more wrong is how they harass you should you let your guard down. I don’t need anyone’s help picking out body lotion or underwear. I already know what smells I like and what size I am. And when I am just browsing, please don’t offer me a courtesy shopping bag “just in case.” (I’m looking at you, Victoria’s Secret.)

I get it, though. A job’s a job; that’s why I always smile and politely nod when the salesperson first addresses me. I will give her my undivided attention as she tells me about the half-off sale on jeans and that all earrings are buy one, get one free. I’ll even thank her for that information before making my way toward the sweaters. (Wasn’t shopping for jeans or earrings anyway.) But usually these are the same people who come back two minutes later to see if I’m “still doing okay.” Yeah, I think I can handle the tank tops on my own.

Once my family and I were actually driven out of a store because of the incessant badgering. We had walked into Lush, a hipper version of The Body Shop, when we quickly realized the associates outnumbered us four to one. Within ninety seconds, we had been asked no less than a half-dozen times if we needed help. I imagined this is what it’s like to be mobbed by the paparazzi, but instead of camera flashes, we were swarmed by overly eager apron-wearing soap enthusiasts. Every time I attempted to sniff a Vanilla in the Mist or Pineapple Grunt bath sample, immediately two associates were flanking me and praising the life-changing qualities of each soap. We got out of there real fast.

Though the super attentive salesperson is no cup of tea, she still can’t compare to the “let’s be besties” sales associate. Ugh. Can’t stand those fakers. You think I can’t see your insincerity from a mile away? I don’t know if dudes have to endure this kind of indignation, but the epidemic has become rampant among women’s clothing stores. It’s redonkulous the way these chicks pretend to be your BFF as soon as you walk in the door.

First they lure you in by complimenting something you’re already wearing. Don’t believe it. Then they congratulate you on picking out what they think is the most fabulous dress in the store. Duh. They work there. You think they’re going to tell you that frock is a flimsy piece of trash? Once you get inside a dressing room, then they sweetly tell you that should you need anything – anything­ – just let them know. Great. Thanks. Should you make the grave mistake of checking out the goods in the three-way mirror strategically placed in their hallway, be prepared for an inundation of praise. “I love it! You look amazing! So hot!” Okay, maybe you do look decent in that dress, but not even Nobel Prize winners receive as much adulation.

Adding insult to injury is that as I’m getting older, these salespeople seem to be (or are) getting younger. The only thing worse than fake flattery is fake flattery from a sixteen-year-old who’s trying to make a commission off your gullible ass. Thank goodness for the interwebs. Hello, online shopping.

Image: maple / FreeDigitalPhotos.net