Wishing Google would adapt its creative ad content to my annoyance levels. Yes, I appreciate shoving pictures of stuff I once searched for online into my every open browser window, but there must be some kind of way to turn them off once I actually buy the thing! Especially if I use Google Checkout, so it KNOWS I bought it! Seriously, big brother. Use your head.
Just looked at the plastic bag that came with a cute top I bought in a small boutique in Brooklyn. It says on it, "Big size shoes for woman". Nothing else. Clearly, this is going to be the funnest thing to happen today, so why not dedicate a post to it.
The incessant barking and squealing that drowns out every other sound (including the two-train station we have near us) as soon as you crack open a window is beginning to get old. The seals in the aquarium across the street never stop mating. Much like people, come to think of it, but with a grander soundtrack.
Just sharing a little something my husband told me he had heard while sitting in the car shop with my stepfather, after the latter had walked into their building's locked basement garage to find all four wheels missing from his new car.
It seems the good folk of valet parking has lately acquired some business by relaying the information located in the "Go Home" entry of the GPS systems of the cars they park, to local thugs. Knowing the car owner is at a restaurant, they open the garage (very often the car has a button programmed to do that) and clean out the house, then return the car before the party is over. Or, if there is no way to get into the house from the garage, they copy the address and wait for you when you come home.
Wouldn't it be nice... Oh, wouldn't it just be wonderful, if someone out there ran a business that people like me could depend on - a business for all the shy, tongue-tied little Virgo types out there, who can't, for the life of them, think of a witty repartee until it's been three days after they've been insulted? Wouldn't it just be a dream - to turn to a business like that and, for a reasonable fee, have the smacker smacked right back while the pain is still fresh and the wound hasn't had a chance to fester and ooze out half your naturally brewed disappointment?
With my company outsourcing its IS department and the amount of panic this little endeavor is stirring, leadership is trying to do what it can to calm things down and not have crazy techies turn on their neighbors like zombies on a starry night. A part of this effort is free classes that talk to you about managing your career, should it, heavens forbid, suddenly come to a grinding halt where it's been for the last umpteen years. Today, I get an e-mail from the Bitch. Otherwise known as my counterpart. "Dearest," it says. "I am simply writing, in a friendly and affable manner, to ensure that you've reserved your seat in the "Managing Your Loser Life" class. God knows after you're kicked out of here, you're going to spend many a night filled with regret about not sitting in a room and listening to the instructor talk down to you - kind of like I am now." Well, maybe it wasn't witty or grammatically ideal like mine, but the gist remains.
I have generally chosen to remain silent when receiving something like this from her in the past, thinking I was the smarter one, not stooping down to a level that is naturally beneath me. Let me tell you - remaining silent gets OLD really FAST.
And this is where I came up with the idea of a business that would help me hit the Reply button and say, "Die in hell, fuckwit" - but in a clever manner that will have her think twice about ever clipping the word "ma'am" from her missives to me.
Wouldn't it just be lovely to have a business like that?
Слушаю новости на московском радио. Речь идет о пожаре на какой-то военной базе в России - инциденте, привлекшем внимание президента. - Если еще че-нить такое загорится, ответят все, - сказал по радио президент. С одной стороны я не понимаю, куда он смотрит ваще все последнее время. И чем дышит, тоже. С другой стороны - как не любить простого русского парня?