the chicago dispLAcement ®

A few weeks ago I discussed my disdain for being approached by strangers. I forgot to mention that I don’t like talking to anyone else either. Specifically, I hate cashier conversations.

Now before you label me a snob, allow me to impress you with my employment past. I have been once, twice, thrice, quice – that’s my word for four times – a cashier gal. Actually… five times if you count my one-day stint working at a deli. Once I realized how motherf*cking hard it is to work in food service, though, I threw in my hairnet and called it a day. But aside from my short-lived career making cappuccinos and paninis, I have spent many an hour behind the cash register. And I’m not just talking cutesy boutiques where you get one customer every two hours. (Though I have had that job.) I’ve put in time at Target and Bed Bath & Beyond, y’all. I know the deal.

And here it is… They say that multitasking gets twice as much done in the same amount of time. I also say that multitasking gets twice as much done – as long as you don’t mind it getting done half as well as if you just focused on one thing at a time. Which is my point.

Whenever a cashier strikes up a conversation with me, he double swipes at least one thing I’m buying. Without fail. As a matter of fact, it’s even happened to me twice in the same week. So this isn’t a superiority complex thing. This is a cold hard cash thing.

The first time was at Target. Of course. I’m there all the time, but I made the grave mistake of wearing a provocative shirt. Nothing sexy, mind you. On the contrary, I had on a huge, very un-sexy T-shirt that happened to have my alma mater’s name emblazoned across it. Without so much as saying, “hello,” my cashier instead blurted out, “I used to live in Chicago.” Great.

Some people may call me cheap. I prefer thrifty. While looking up alternatives for the word thrifty, I found parsimonious. I like that one, too. Anyway. My thrifty ways likely come from my Dutch blood, but I’m cool with it. Yes, I add up every item as I put it into my cart. I also watch the price display like a hawk when I check out. But because I can’t multitask, if the cashier starts talking to me, there’s no way I can keep track of the register’s beeps. And neither can he.

The cashier then tells me that he loved Chicago but left because “the winters are so cold.” Yeah, I’ve never heard that before. Finally, we wrap up our convo, and I walk away, intensely scanning the receipt for mistakes. And there it was… a double charge for exactly 97 cents.

I know what you’re thinking and I don’t care. That’s 97 cents that I could use for ChapStick.  So you bet I went over to customer service and made them refund it to my credit card. Ain’t no shame in my game.

The next afternoon, I was at the grocery store. Why I didn’t just use the self-checkout, I’ll never understand, but I was immediately punished for my laziness once the cashier started ringing me up. For one, the dude had to pause every three items to cover his mouth and cough. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, he was also having a conversation with the next cashier over about the best home remedies for a cold. Apparently the other guy is a big believer in wonton soup. So not only is my cashier hacking all over the groceries I will soon be eating, but also he’s not paying any attention to ringing me up. In fact, I saw the double charge as it happened, but he was so engrossed in his conversation that I couldn’t get his attention to stop him.

With lips pursed, both from annoyance at my bad luck and fear of catching his germs, I swiped my card and waited for my receipt. Once in hand, my eyes immediately found the double charge – it’s like my superpower – and I pointed it out to the cashier.

He was totally nice about it, but because he was also so totally out of it, he proceeded to refund me for three boxes of cereal instead of one. Dammit. Now what? Though I’d love to have that extra $5.36 in my pocket – not to mention, I felt like the grocery store did owe me for my future cold expenses – I knew it would be wrong. So I informed the cashier of his second charge error. I truly hope I was his last customer of the day because it took about three tries before he understood what I was saying.

No wonder why Amazon is worth 90 billion dollars.

Image courtesy of farconville / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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!

Image: digitalart / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Sunday night. Laundry night.

Anyone who has ever lived in a complex with shared washers and dryers knows that it’s all about strategery. Nothing is more frustrating than dragging that basket of dirty clothing to the laundry room only to find that every single machine has been taken… and you have exactly zero pairs of clean underwear left. What’s worse is that I happen to live in a complex with only two washers and one dryer. One working dryer. Hence, I do my laundry super late at night even though the landlord declared no washing after ten o’clock. I have a system, too. Sure, I always make sure to separate my whites from darks, but I also line up my cleaning products on the table in the order in which they’ll be used. I also group my quarters together so that I can grab exactly how many I need each time I make that trip downstairs.

I might have OCD but it works for me.

Anyway. On this particular Sunday night I finished washing my first load but had purposely grouped those items together because they needed to be air-dried. I then removed said items and put in my second load. I then checked the clock to make sure I would be back in twenty-five minutes to throw everything into the dryer.

Twenty-five minutes later… I entered the laundry room only to find that during that short interlude, somebody else had swiped the dryer. What the what? It was almost midnight. Who does that? They must have heard my washer in progress. Plus, who uses the dryer without first using the washer? Plus plus, they definitely knew that they were taking the good dryer.

I was furious.

Stomping back to my apartment, I assumed they would also be leaving their stuff in the dryer all night since it was so late. Jerks. I then jumped in the shower and tried to calm down; maybe their stuff would be gone by the time I was done. Though as I was sudsing my hair, it suddenly occurred to me that I had already loaded that dryer with quarters for my own laundry.

OMG! They had stolen my quarters!

Okay, perhaps it was a bit nearsighted of me to have loaded those quarters before actually needing the dryer, but it was late and I had done it numerous times before with no problem. So now not only was I irate that my neighbors had taken the good dryer, but also I was enraged that they had misappropriated my quarters for their laundry. In fact I was so angry that I was thisclose to jumping out of the shower, shampoo still in hair, just to run downstairs and throw their stuff out of my dryer. Instead I proceeded to rinse while determining a more rational course of action.

Here it was: I would return to the laundry room and one of two things was going to happen. Either their stuff would be gone and I would have to come to terms with the injustice of this situation, or their stuff would still be there and I could attempt to shame them into giving back those quarters. I wrote them a note:

“Hello! Four quarters were on this dryer before you used them for your own load. If you would like to reimburse me those quarters, you can drop them off at Apt. 7. Thanks!”

I didn’t really expect them to pay me back the money, but at the very least I wanted them to think about what they had done and hopefully feel bad about it. Throwing on my pjs, I then made a beeline for the laundry room. The dryer was silent. I opened it to see if their items were still in there. Empty. And that’s when it happened… You know those flashback moments when someone suddenly recalls a traumatic childhood memory or war experience? Now I get it because I had one, too. Nothing traumatic, though, just pathetic. As I stood there, staring into that black hole, it all of a sudden dawned on me… I had started that dryer.

After years of honing my laundry routine into a science, I now go through the motions without even thinking about it. So rarely do I not use the dryer for freshly washed clothing that I automatically loaded it with quarters anyway and pushed the start button; I only had forgotten that I did until that very moment. So basically I wasted a dollar on nothing. And I got angry with some thoughtless neighbor who didn’t exist. And I raised my blood pressure for a good hour. And I felt like a total idiot.

The end.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The Heartland. America’s Breadbasket… The Flyover Zone.

Many a time have these nicknames been used to describe the land where I was born and raised. Yet since moving to Los Angeles, it’s the last (and somewhat insulting) one that I’ve heard most often, sometimes substituted with the less catchy, “The Midwest? Why would anyone wanna live there?”

Okay, I get it. The winters are horrible. The landscape is flat and uninspiring. We don’t have Broadway or the Walk of Fame, and we’re still behind the eight ball when it comes to twenty-four hour Starbucks or not staring at interracial couples. However, I take issue with the oft-expressed notion that Midwesterners are slothful and stupid in comparison to our coastal cousins. Say what you will about the wild weather fluctuations or miles upon miles of painfully boring cornfields, but please don’t hate on us Middle Americans!

Midwesterners are fat and lazy. I’ll concede that a glance around any Midwestern mall will quickly confirm that its patrons could stand to lose a pound or two or twenty. Here’s the deal, though. When it’s ten below zero and shards of ice are tearing through your exposed cheeks at thirty miles per hour, that Zumba class can wait another day. Moreover, just like seals and walruses need their blubber during the winter, so do Midwesterners. You simply cannot survive otherwise. Second, why waste all that time working out when you can spend it with your friends and family? That’s the real reason why Midwesterners are overweight. Life is short, and we understand that instead of sweating that precious time away in a gym, you should spend it with those you love. And what’s the best way to pass the time with those you love? By eating, of course. Eating deep-dish pizza. Eating Italian beef sandwiches. Eating Chicago style hot dogs. Mmm… Is it dinnertime yet?

Midwesterners are dumb. First of all, it would be dumb not to partake in some of the most delicious foods that Middle America has to offer: Giordano’s, Portillo’s, Eli’s. Plus, have you ever experienced food coma before? Exactly. So cut us some slack. You try debating whether Bashar al-Assad should step down after finishing off a Lou Malnati’s pizza. Second, Midwesterners really are just as educated as anyone living on either coast.* The difference is that we don’t have to prove how smart we are to anyone within earshot. No need to drop into every conversation our Harvard MBA or Yale PhD to ensure that everyone is aware of our superior IQs. Plus, let’s get real… Quasiparticles? Keynesianism? Phenomenology?  Bor-ring. Instead, what about that last episode of The Bachelorette! Can you believe Ashley still isn’t over Bentley? What a fool!

Midwesterners are boring. Everyone touts NYC, DC, LA or San Fran** as the American hubs of culture and entertainment. Fair enough. The coasts do indeed have their many hot spots and exciting diversions. At what price, though? Sure, I do mean this quite literally as one can easily throw down hundreds of dollars on a Tony award-winning musical or meal at some hoighty toighty restaurant. But does that translate into a more enjoyable evening with friends and family? Midwesterners don’t think so. White Castle will do quite nicely, thank you very much, because it’s not the fine dining or entertainment that matter; it’s the company. Famous and fancy are fun, but not necessary to have quality time with loved ones. Even if we did somehow finagle a table at Masa, I guarantee that once the shock of the exorbitantly priced menu wore off, the conversation would then turn to, “So how’s your mom?” And quite frankly, that conversation can be had at Benihana for a fraction of the cost.

Midwesterners are really nice. Okay, this one is 100% true. No one can beat Midwesterners when it comes to politeness. During my travels home a few weeks ago, I heard more pleases and thank yous than I had in years, not to mention doors being opened for me almost everywhere I went and frequent smiles from those passed on the street. Multiple conversations were had with perfect strangers. Unexpired parking passes were handed off by those leaving their spots early. I was almost even forced into using some lady’s Rite Aid discount card on a purchase already under five dollars. That’s just how Midwesterners roll.

So the next time you visit America’s Heartland, please see beyond the stereotypes. If anything, think about it this way… There’s more of us to love! And while you subtly mention how you rubbed elbows with Kanye at some Hollywood club last week, we’ll be nodding politely while heading over to Dairy Queen for a blizzard… Our treat.

* Should you actually want to see the statistics proving my point, please send a written request postmarked no later than June 23^rd, 2011, and I will get back to you within six to eight weeks, schedule permitting.

** I’m too lazy to write out these cities’ names because, well, I’m a Midwesterner.

Image: Idea go / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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

We all know those people. The ones that are super comfortable with letting it all just hang out. You want to show me how real your fake boobs look by jumping up and down? Okay, fine. You’re only forty and already wearing adult diapers? My condolences. But it’s cool. I can handle random public nakedness and unexpected bodily functions. What I don’t understand is why some people will flash the girls or divulge their bathroom behavior without even knowing my first name. Oh, did I forget to mention that? Yeah, I didn’t know either of those individuals. First example? Happened in a restaurant bathroom. Second example? In a clothing store. Those folks were both perfect strangers to me. Or more importantly, I was a perfect stranger to them.

And that’s my point. When did it all of a sudden become acceptable to assault others with your most personal odds and ends?* Because I see and hear it all around me. Thing is, it’s happening so much nowadays that not only are strangers totally at ease with telling every little detail of their lives to random passersby, but also peeps are now asking completely invasive questions without realizing that it’s none of their damn business.

Allow me to elaborate.

The bank. I had just one quick transaction to make, but upon entering the lobby saw that at least ten people were already waiting in line. Defeated, I slowly walked over and added myself to their miserable company. But then an unexpected angel came to my aid – none other than second-generation actor Scott Caan! Or maybe it was just Scott’s doppelganger. Either way, he said that he could take care of my request at his desk.

Within sixty seconds I was all set. A satisfied customer, I flashed my biggest smile and thanked him for his speedy assistance. As I was about to get up, however, he asked if I had a safety deposit box. Why no, Scott Caan. I did not. He then informed me that I could be eligible for a free one at the bank. Believe it or not, this intrigued me. I have no valuable baubles at home. No deeds or bonds. Nothing that would make it onto “Antiques Roadshow,” but I’ve always had this weird fear of my apartment burning down. Mind you, I live across the street from a fire station and already have a fireproof safe in my home. Regardless, Scott drew me in with his lure of yet another means to protect my social security card and Star Wars PEZ figurines.

I was hooked, and he knew it. Scott then segued into, “So how do you pay your bills?” Umm… All right, I guess it was okay to tell him. He did work at a bank after all. The next words out of his mouth: “Why don’t we take a look at your accounts?” That’s when I began to get nervous. It was like I was getting an impromptu physical and didn’t put on the good underwear that morning.

All of a sudden we were looking at my checking account activity. “So what do you do for a living?” And my savings account. “Do you have any plans for buying a home?” And my car loan. “You had your car for fifteen years? Why?” It was a nightmare. No offense, Scott Caan, but the shiny little placard on your desk that reads “Personal Banker” does not entitle you to ask anything you want about my life. The worst part was that we were within plain sight – and earshot – of everyone in the bank. Scott hadn’t yet received that sweet promotion with the corner office and personal parking space. He didn’t even have cubicle walls. We were sitting exactly two feet from a dozen strangers who now knew how I had financed my car and that my greatest wish in life is to touch others through my writing.

But Scott Caan was on a roll. He wanted to show me how to set up automatic payments through the bank’s online system and asked to whom I owed money every month. He might as well have asked if I’ve ever peed my pants in public. I was in hell. The situation was totally spiraling out of control. And now the sweating began. I wanted to just get out of there, but knew that would entail having to shake Scott’s hand. Not only was I folding under the pressure of his humiliating inquisition, but also was stressing over having to offer up my dripping palm to thank him for it.

Then suddenly I was rescued from my rescuer: Scott’s cell phone started to ring. He glanced first at the phone and then back to me, uncertain of whether he would take the call. I gladly made that decision for him. “Oh, don’t want you to miss that! Thanks for your help!” Leaping up, I quickly slapped his outstretched hand and promptly booked it towards the door. I was eager to make my escape, but nevertheless slowed down and turned around. I headed back towards his desk. Sigh… I knew it. “Will you please log out of my account?” All my financial bits and pieces were still on the screen for everyone to see. Scott Caan, stick to acting.

* I am well aware of my hypocrisy, dear readers. No one’s perfect.

Image: Chris Sharp / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

As a teen, my all-time favorite activity was going to the mall. I used to make bank babysitting back in those days and would promptly blow my wad on clothes. Had I known then that one day I would be in Los Angeles, I could have invested that cash and now be living the impossible LA dream as a homeowner. I blame you, Dad. Thanks for giving me “independence” and letting me “make my own choices.” Anyway… My friends and I would spend every free moment shopping at Oakbrook or Yorktown until we literally dropped. The pinnacle of this obsession would be those uber-special occasions when my dad would drop us off (pre my driving days) at Woodfield Mall for an entire Saturday. For those of you who aren’t familiar, Woodfield Mall was the bomb back in the early nineties. Once the biggest mall in America, it had everything. You could walk around all day long and not pass the same store twice.

The sights, the scents, the sounds were intoxicating to me. The Gap, Express, Banana Republic… Do any of you remember when Banana Republic was a safari gear store? I still miss those fabulous t-shirts with the lions and/or leopards and/or rhinos and/or maps of Africa on them. If I remember correctly, Woodfield’s BR even had a Jeep sitting outside its entrance. What happened to that store anyway? It used to be fun and cool. Now it’s a slightly hotter version of Brooks Brothers.

But I digress. My point is that I used to love the mall.

As I’ve gotten older, however, my preferences are changing. Case in point – I hate The Grove. For those of you who aren’t familiar, The Grove is hell on earth. An outdoor mall with a so-so animated fountain and completely unnecessary trolley system, it somehow draws in half of LA every single day. The sights, the scents, the sounds are nauseating to me. I don’t even know why I go there.* Okay, sidenote: Who watches TMZ? Okay, full disclosure: I watch it every Sunday night. And every Sunday night, every other clip they show is of some B list celebrity at The Grove. This is partly why I loathe this place. Everyone there either wants to see or be seen. The stores are just a front for the main attraction: people watching.

Don’t get me wrong, though – I love to people watch. I will show up at the airport a good hour or two earlier than necessary just to take a seat and stare down all the very odd people that somehow made it past security and may be sitting next to me at thirty-five thousand feet for the next four hours. I also love watching people in their cars. Why does no one realize that they’re not magically invisible inside their Ford Focuses? I can see you picking your nose, sir! Anyway, I get the whole people watching thing, but The Grove somehow sucks all the fun out of it. For one, everyone struts around like they’re too cool for school. Second, they strut in slow motion. OMG! Move, people! I’m sure that mochaccino is delicious, but can you walk at the same time? Apparently not.

Honestly, though, no one really needs to shop at The Grove. All the big name stores – Barnes & Noble, Victoria’s Secret, Crate & Barrel, um… I don’t even know what the hell else is there – all these stores are just mere minutes away at The Beverly Center or 3^rd Street Promenade or The Americana or the eighty-seven other malls in and around Los Angeles. After all, LA is just a city of malls conveniently connected by streets continuously congested by would-be consumers trying to get to the Pottery Barn before it closes. So again, the only reason people go to The Grove is to shamelessly stare down would-be celebrities walking around with their annoying Cockerpoos or Maltipoos or Yorkiepoos or whatever “poo” variety of dog is the new, hot, trendy thing. Get a life, people. Do what I do. Save the gas money and get your celebrity fix on TV.

* I do love The Cheesecake Factory. They make “real” cherry Cokes with grenadine. They somehow lessen the pain of knowing that I just wasted a few more precious hours of my life aimlessly walking around like a zombie with only a new blouse and an empty soul to show for it.

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

So in my last post I mentioned that I spend a fair amount of time at Target. However, I wasn’t being totally honest…

I’m there 24/7.

Why? Because I love Target. I looveee it. Off the top of my head, I could name you eight different Target locations within both Orange County and the greater Los Angeles area that not only have I visited, but also have on occasion cross-checked with each other just to see what differs from store to store. So far, the one in Glendale has the rest beat by a mile – three whole floors! When I found this out I had what some people would call an out-of-body experience. Hands down, Target is the Best Store In The World. Where else could you buy toilet paper, birthday cards, a new vacuum cleaner, M&Ms and three (or four) new blouses all in the same place? And for a very reasonable price I might add.

Now for any of you out there snickering at me with your highfalutin, “I’m better than Target” attitude, lemme tell you something – you’re all a bunch of posers! The main reason why I even decided to write this post is because over the last month or so, I suddenly realized that pretty much every friend I have is also a Target devotee. We gush about the cute dresses. We marvel at the plethora of holiday décor. We squeal over the ample selection of affordable wines. Yes, Virginia, there is wine at Target. Thus my decision to take this somewhat embarrassing love into the light that no one may ever again do the walk of shame out of that store as they push an overflowing cartful of those easily recognizable bullseye bags.

The second reason for this post is because I saw a rare sight the other day in Target – a group of tourists. I don’t want to use tired stereotypes in describing this lot, but they all had either a fanny pack or passport purse on their body and cameras in hand. I kid you not. There was no mistaking these foreigners.

At first, the jaded city dweller in me thought, “Seriously? A tour of Target? Dude, these poor people got ripped off.” But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that introducing those around the world to the beauty and wonder of Target was totally dead-on. Whether you like it or not, the store is completely representative of America as a whole. The clothing section has the latest fashion styles streamlined for the masses. The media section has both the most popular books and movies on sale for your reading and/or viewing pleasure. And the food section says it all – you have your choice of either prepackaged processed foods ready to eat or prepackaged frozen foods ready to warm up. No fresh fruits or veggies anywhere to be seen. Is that not the average American’s diet or what? (To be fair, though, I just noticed last week that a Target in the OC recently opened a produce section. Just furthers my belief that Target will one day be the salvation of us all.) By the time I left the store, I was wishing I could be one of those lucky tourists. I bet they got some kind of goodie bag. Bastards.

Like any great love, though, it’s not perfect. You know how when you have a huge crush on someone from afar and every little thing they do is just so adorable and cute? Yet when you finally start dating, you realize they have a bad case of dandruff and a really annoying way of trying to give you a back rub when you don’t need a back rub and in fact it actually kind of hurts and could you please not dig your fingers into my spinal cord? Well, anyway… That’s my relationship with Target. You see, once upon a time, in a land far, far away – the western suburbs of Chicago – I used to work at Target. One summer I was a cashier; that was pretty cool. Yet when I returned during my holiday break, they claimed all the cashier positions were filled and that I would have to work the dreaded food court. That lasted all of about three days. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say it involved a bird beaten to death with a broom in the storage area and one very freaked out Anna. Needless to say, I quit on the spot.

Alas, my fairytale romance with Target is a bit tarnished, but time really does heal all wounds. Now when I walk in and look at all the wonderful things that are about to dazzle me for the next several minutes… or hours… I simply smile, grab a cart and happily make my way down the aisle with a little extra pep in my step. Once again, all is right with the world.

DISCLAIMER: I swear I’m not getting paid a dime for the above adoration. Cross my heart and hope to die… in Target. Just hopefully not with a broom in the storage area.

Image: jscreationzs / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

When someone mentions the word “visit,” I typically am assigned the role of guest. This is the case for two reasons. One, I love to travel. You know those people who get kind of freaked out by flying on a plane? I am not one of those people. Even weirder, I love hanging out at airports. I dunno, it’s relaxing to me. But I digress…

Reason number two why I’m always the guest – having carted all my crap multiple times from apartment to apartment and from city to city, I have learned an invaluable lesson – it’s much easier to do when you have less crap. By the time I made it out to California, I could fit all that I owned into the trunk of my car. Then I learned a second invaluable lesson upon my move to SoCal – it’s freaking expensive as hell to live out here. Therefore, Anna slept on an air mattress her entire first year in California. That doesn’t exactly win you brownie points in the hospitality department. “You have your choice of sleeping accommodations tonight – either the comfy air mattress that somehow deflates completely by morning, or if you would just like to skip that song and dance, we have this lovely floor. It’s carpeted!” Somehow I have found myself nearly guestless during these past five years of living in California. Go figure.

Which brings me to the annual family reunion I have with two of my most favorite people in the entire world – my cousins. To protect their anonymity, I shall call them Jakayla and Haruko. Jakayla, Haruko and I spent countless hours together as kids – playing, laughing, singing, locking each other in closets. Sorry, Haruko. Yet now that we have all grown up, we’re spread out across the country. Our mini family reunion tradition thus began a few years back, but I have always left town to see my rad cousins. Not this year, though. This year we were gathering in LA.

Let the panic attacks begin.

Mind you, I knew this was going to happen since last year when we were saying our goodbyes. And let me throw out this little disclaimer for good measure – I was overjoyed as the prospect of finally earning the title of hostess. That said, I had been living like your stereotypical bachelor for the past few years; I had maybe two towels, a fork and a spoon, a few plates. However, I have always risen to the occasion like a rockstar when it comes to shopping of any kind, and I was up to this challenge as well. Yet it’s amazing how by making one small improvement to your home ten new projects suddenly demand your attention, time and money. A new couch? Then obviously you need new matching pillows and a few cozy throws to make it just right.

And it’s not even like Jakayla and Haruko would care. Those two would be perfectly happy sitting on the floor, eating ramen noodles while watching me reenact episodes of Sex and the City from inside a cardboard box. I knew this. It didn’t matter. I wanted everything to be just perfect for them.

Then there are the activities to plan… I’ve been living in LA for a few years now, but am ridiculously ignorant when it comes to knowing what’s going on around town. I am very much creature of habit (i.e. six nights out of seven, I’m chillaxing at home). Also, the more popular places around town – The Standard, Sidebar, Whiskey Blue – are just not my scene. (This is not me attempting to slam those joints; rather this is me freely admitting how uncool I am. Shocker.) Hanging out at Target is my idea of a rocking Friday night.

Lastly, there’s the constant driving when you have guests in town… It can kill you if you don’t kill first. I’ve already ranted about the LA peeps that can make your driving life a living hell, but aside from those lovely folks, the lay of the land is also an issue. I can’t even count how many times I have taken a wrong turn and am suddenly in completely unfamiliar territory. “Where in the hell am I?” has come out of my mouth more than once since moving to Los Angeles. Just the idea of being responsible for others while driving around this bloody mess of a city was enough to make me break out in the cold sweats.

So what is my longwinded point you ask? My point is that everything went… perfectly. My cousins were awesome, our days were awesome, the weather was awesome, even the driving was awesome. Well, except for Hollywood – you bastard. And now that my beloved cousins have departed and flown back home, I’m feeling a bit antsy for someone else to partake in the awesomeness that is Anna’s hosting abilities… Have I just referred to myself in the third person for the second time during this post? I have a feeling no one’s going to be visiting me again for a long, long time.

Image: graur razvan ionut / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I had what Oprah calls a “full circle” moment the other day. Don’t start clapping yet – it sounds more grandiose than it really was. I didn’t suddenly realize how much my parents had sacrificed for me. I didn’t have an epiphany that the love I give is so much better than love I get. Rather, I got hit up for money from my alma mater.

I knew it was coming… Sans guilt I freely admit that I screen my calls. That said, this unknown number with a familiar area code had called me two nights in a row but failed to leave a message. Naturally, I made a friend call the number to see who it was. Bingo. As soon as I heard the voice on the other end announce my former stomping grounds, I knew impending doom was on the horizon. Sure enough, that same night my phone promptly rang with attempt number three to divorce me from my hard earned Benjamins.

On the other end of the line was the young, awkward voice of what was obviously a freshman asking, “Hi, is this Anna?”

“Yes.”

(Crickets.)

“Hi, how are you tonight? Do you have a moment for a few questions?”

The kid didn’t even introduce himself or from where he was calling. Rookie. Must have been his first night on the job. You see – in another life, in another world – I too was a much-loved solicitor of donations. I would call my school’s alums and politely ask them to fork over at least $25 dollars or more, in addition to the thousands they already paid in tuition, to make some arbitrary goal for some meaningless pledge drive. The cruel irony is that I never ended up graduating from said school. What a colossal faux pas on my part, huh? In more ways than one, my friend, in more ways than one…

And apparently times have changed. Back in my day, we got right to the point. No dilly-dallying here. “Hi, I’m Anna calling from ____, and I was wondering if you would like to make a $25 pledge to the business school tonight?” However, this young lad – we’ll call him Seymour – he started getting all up in my grill about every little detail of my life. Where do I work? What is my position? How do I feel my degree helped me in landing said job? (A very clever tactic indeed to infer that my school was the reason I got the position. Well done, Seymour, well done.) Yet after a few minutes of this Spanish Inquisition, I began to get a wee bit nervous. Seymour was asking me so many questions. What if this really wasn’t my alma mater but instead some sick stalker to whom I had just revealed my daily schedule and location? Eh, whatever… I continued to humor Seymour for a while longer. He was so damn awkward and goofy-sounding that I figured it would be fun to have a stalker like him anyway.

Finally, he got to the point of this charade: “Well, the other reason I’m calling tonight is because we have this alumni fund we’re trying to raise money for…” Of course you do, sweetheart. I knew that a half-hour ago when I heard your prepubescent voice crack a “hello” over the phone.

One vital point that I have hitherto left out is that the degree for which I slaved (kinda) and spent thousands of dollars (really) is essentially worthless. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a real degree from a real university and all that. Just this summer, however, some fellow graduates kindly informed me that our beloved alma mater was no longer accepting students for our program. So I’m being asked to give money to a school that doesn’t care enough anymore to keep our super-cool Film Studies course going? Wow. Harsh.

Really, though, you have to laugh. I did anyway when he asked for the money. I gently let Seymour down. He understood, but his voice dripped with disappointment. He really thought he had worked his charm on me. I then gave him a quick pep talk: “You’re doing great! Keep up the good work!” Obviously not true, but that’s just what one says when one really wants to get the hell off the phone already. I hung up as Seymour was still saying goodbye.

So the lesson I learned from my “full circle” moment? Those phone calls are really annoying. (I never claimed it was an “Aha!” moment – totally different kind of moment, people.)

Image: Filomena Scalise / FreeDigitalPhotos.net