Sometimes I take my life in my hands and go thrift store shopping…

There I was, clutching my recent purchase, valiantly defending my right to place it in my car with nothing but my logic to defend myself against the machinations of an evil, haggardly, pissed-off fellow shopper. Even the brave words and police threats of a courageous passerby wouldn’t stop the troll-like woman from behaving like a complete and utter witch. I had few choices left to me: The low road was enticing with its vindication and spoils of war…but the hidden glories of the high road always find a way to damn my anger and keep me from becoming what I fight against. I made my choice and stepped forward…

15 MINUTES EARLIER

I love thrifting. Whether it is the thrill of the hunt or the sensibility of the bargain, I can’t seem to tear myself away from second hand stores. When I have nothing to do on my lunch break, I am literally fifteen minutes away from three different thrift stores and often find myself wandering the musty aisles in search of a killer deal. As was the case today. Though today I went with a purpose: I am moving in the next few days and my closet right now–full to the brim with thrift store finds–is probably three to four times the size of my soon to be closet. I needed a clothing rack. And low and behold, if you seek you shall find! I found a great one! Sturdy, expandable, and only five dollars! What a steal! So, with clothing rack in tow, I wandered the store for another twenty minutes–bumping into furniture, store racks, and other customers–before I pulled the rack up to the register. Looking back on the situation, I wish I had not wandered for quite so long, or picked the cashier that took forever to ring up the lady in front of me. Or maybe if I had emptied out the back of my car yesterday so that I could have gotten the thing in more easily I wouldn’t be blogging this story today. But fate has a way of picking fights with me…

As with many a find at the thrift store, you need the proper hauling equipment to get said item home. I am currently driving a Pontiac Grand Am. Not suitable for hauling clothing racks. So I started taking the rack apart, throwing pieces in the back seat, as I went. The bottom piece proved problematic because it was bolted together. So there I was with my steal of a deal, trying to figure out how to get the thing in the back of an already packed back seat–because earlier in the week I went to a different thrift store looking for props for a movie I’m making and found a giant cradle, duh–all the while lamenting the loss of my trusty old truck, when out of no where, a large trollish woman came flying up at me yelling “Is that a laundry rack?”

“Well, no,” I replied quite friendly-like, “it’s actually a clothing rack!”

“Yeah, that you extend and hang clothes on?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, that’s mine. I bought it.”

Excuse me?

“Excuse me? No it’s mine, I bought it just barely.”

“No, I bought it, it’s mine!”

“Uh, I have a receipt. Do you have a receipt?”

“It’s mine I bought it!”

At this point she began yanking the rack out of my hands. I in turn pulled it back. She then leans into my car and begin pulling out the poles that I had already put in there. I grabbed them from her and tried to put them back. She yanked on them and in the process hit me in the head. I gained the upper hand on the poles and she turned back to the bottom piece yanking on that which I then wrapped my legs through and held firm to the ground. My one regret in all of this is not stopping to take a picture of my stance. I imagine it was quite epic. Maybe some rays of sun breaking through the clouds and the wind whipping the hair flowing across my face. But I digress…

She proceeds to explain to me that she had purchased the rack earlier and that they were supposed to hold it for her but did not. And by explain, what I mean is she berated me, the store, the employees, and frankly the rack, yelling and screaming and lamenting her about horrible misfortune. Wanting to settle this I told her I would go in and talk to the manager with her if she would stop yelling and me and let me get my receipt out of the car. While I did this, another woman came to help me. She was awesome. She told the lady to be civil to which the lady only spewed unkind words. She also told her she would call the cops if she didn’t settle down which the beastly lady scoffed at. She then told her “I saw you hit her in the head with those things. I will call the police if I have to.” I repeat: She was awesome. My hero!!! My other regret in all of this was not being able to thank the lady in the blue shirt properly. What a girl stud. If you guys see a lady in a blue shirt, give her a high five for me!

So once back in the store the very apologetic manager was very clear that it was my choice whether I wanted to return the rack or not. Curse my high road falooting morals because I told them I had no problem returning the rack. IT WAS ONLY FIVE BUCKS AFTER ALL. As I left the store, the manager walked me out and offered some kind of mystery discount if ever I should return to the store. I told him everything that went down in the parking lot and could tell he was incredibly upset by the whole thing. Then I got in my car and drove off.

As I drove back to work I tried to process the whole thing: Who are these people that think that the only way to solve problems in life is to start fights? So you loose the rack due to a mistake by the store employee. The store will reimburse you. So someone else bought it. You don’t go start a physical fight with that person to prove you were wronged. Be civil. Be understanding. Be a human being.

The more I thought about it, the more and more upset I became that in essence, she had won. I would have returned the rack either way–not for her benefit but for mine. I don’t want to be the person that cares more about things than people. But she got what she wanted. And she will never understand that her actions were way out of line in relation to the value of the rack. I played the incident over and over in my head, wishing there was something I could have done that was both decent AND vindictive but could find nothing. I thought about the poles that had been in my car and wished half-heartedly that I had accidentally kept one but knew I hadn’t. And then I remembered something…remember when I said logic was my best weapon? Well the whole time I walked around the store, the rack kept coming apart; the pieces that you place on the extendable poles that holds them in place wasn’t securely attached to the bottom pole–something that is easily secured once clothes are on the rack. When I had pulled the rack apart to put it in my car, my logical brain remembered that they were loose. I specifically took those pieces and threw them in the giant cradle for logical safe keeping!!!! Without them, the rack is nothing more than a bunch of three foot poles!!!! LOGIC PEOPLE!!!!!!!!! Rational, decent, human thought functions WON!!!!! I literally laughed out loud when I remembered that I had done that. I had vindication!!!

Now, the decent thing to do would be to take them back to the store and return them to the manager so that when the angry troll woman comes flying back he can give them to their rightful owner……………….maybe I’m not as decent as I claim to be…….

Sometimes I get in Church fights…..

To put this in perspective right off the bat, I am not a physically strong person. I have never in my life been able to do a single pull-up. I work out sporadically. My eleven-year-old niece can beat me in arm wrestling. She is part Samoan and I am all English/Danish, so there’s that. But still…

So anyway, there I was walking into church, sitting down in the chapel, ready to get the main event started when I noticed that the conversation happening in the row behind me sounded off. From what I could tell, the guy either had no idea how to flirt or was seriously unpersonable. He kept saying things like, “you’re poor and I’m a millionaire,” “that dress is awful,” and “your whole family is probably poor too.” You know, ridiculous things that villains in eighties movies would say. By the time I realized the conversation was volatile and not a poor attempt to be funny, he had stormed off. I turned around to get a better look at the girl that could inspire such heated dialogue and found a meek, young, trembling, waif of a thing. Not especially pretty but not unattractive. Definitely not rich, or privileged, or overly noticeable. Definitely not the kind of girl a self-titled “millionaire” would seek out. Or be pissed about being rejected by.

After he sat in a back pew, the girl and I were encouraged to move to the center since our congregation was so small. I ended up sitting next to her. The woman she was sitting next to had seen the whole thing and was very consoling and I thought that’d be the end of it. Then the jerk came back and started yelling–yes, yelling–at her. In the chapel. In a church. Classy. And what did he have to say? More of the same “I’m rich, you’re poor” crap only much louder and much more demeaning. Remember how I’m not physically strong? Well, what I lack in biceps I more than make up for in tenacity. I jumped up and turned on the guy, yelling right back at him. I was yelling such catch phrases as “Dude, what’s your problem?” “Back off!” and “Leave her alone!” If he’s going to resort to eighties villainry, I would resort to eighties tough guy talk. Actually, it really didn’t matter what I said. As with most conventions of the eighties, my words were useless against his sheer bad-guyness. He completely ignored me until he had finished his rant, then turned to me and said “What are you looking at?”—yet another endearing axiom from three decades ago—then left to sit on the back pew again. So many swear words filled my mouth and were stopped from escaping only by the fact that we were in a chapel. And as much as I wanted to rip him a new one, I also knew I was no match for him physically and sadly, I had no doubt that he was the kind of guy that would hit a girl, chapel or not.

The girl started to cry and rightfully so. I sat down next to her fuming and rightfully so. I was pissed that this guy had the audacity to disrespect everyone around him–people who were just there for a little spiritual uplifting. I was pissed that he thought it was completely within his realm of privilege to degrade someone he thought he was better than. I was pissed that he might actually be a millionaire and that he represented the kind of people who were rewarded monetarily for simply existing. But mostly, I was pissed that I was THE ONLY PERSON TO STAND UP FOR THIS GIRL. Again, and I don’t know how many times I have to say it, I’m not physically strong. And as sexist as it sounds, I’M A FREAKING GIRL. I’m all for equality and women’s rights and stuff, but is chivalry seriously the sacrifice women pay for it? After I sat down, I glanced angrily around the room. Most eyes were on either myself, the girl, or the creep in the back. And there were more than a few sets of men’s eyes staring in my direction. Most of them had a commiserating look that said “well that was awkward. What a tool.” Yeah, because that helps. Shaking your head in derision is not a proactive means of helping someone in distress. Meanwhile, two girls have to contemplate how vigorously they can defend themselves before their faces get messed up. AND THEN the guy started up again, yelling from the back of the chapel. He was berating those who were looking at him. He was taunting those that patted the shoulders of the distraught girl. He was being a general and overall ass. Finally, at that point, one of the men got up and escorted him out of the building. Finally. Finally.

For the rest of the time I could stand sitting there, I thought about all the men in my life that I knew would have stood up to him. My brothers, my friends–people that would have tried to diffuse the situation, people that would have punched the guy in the face, people that would have done more than just sit there. How is it possible that in an entire congregation of people, not one of them felt the fiery indignation that spurred me to stand? It’s not like my yelling disrupted the meeting any more than assface already had. Where were the brave? The courageous? Was I seriously the best this group had to offer?

I stayed in the meeting stewing for another twenty minutes before I decided I would do more good for myself and those around me by not being there. I left quietly and went straight home to my punching bag. I punched and cried and swore and punched and bloodied my knuckles and strained my wrist and totally ruined my nice church-going makeup.

Now…I’m the type of person that likes to find meaning in the events that happen in my life. I feel like I’m here on earth to learn about being a human and if I pass up opportunities to learn, what’s the point of being here? There were things I could learn about myself and others through this experience. After my muscles and knuckles could punch no more, I sat at the base of my bag and tried to distinguish the teachings from the anger. I found that most of my frustration was not aimed at the guy, the congregation, or even the girl who could not stand up for herself…but at me. I was mad that I didn’t punch him in the face. I was mad that I held back the hateful words I could have scarred him with–if I have one ace in my armory, it’s that I know how to weaponize words. I was mad that I didn’t do more. After all, I’ve been in this situation before…

My story resembles this one in tone and basic structure and has all the same elements: horrible guy at church finds a girl with a weakness, tries to manipulate, control, or otherwise bully her, then attacks her weakness when she tries to stand up for herself. I was that waif of a girl. I’ve been through this and theoretically, should have been prepared to handle it this time. I was mad at myself because I knew that I hadn’t held back out of fear of a physical confrontation alone, but also because I was afraid to go there again. That scary, vulnerable place. These horrible guys are predators, preying on our weaknesses, seeking out the girls they think they can break. I knew this guy’s attacks were stupid because they weren’t tailored to my insecurities. The only reason this millionaire of a man sought out this run-of-the-mill girl was because he found a girl he thought he could control, manipulate, and prey upon. She had a weakness that he could pinpoint. If I had done more–yelled more, attacked him with words or my vapid biceps, whatever–I would have put myself directly in his line of fire and I was afraid to go there. He found her weakness…what if he could find mine too? Like the other creep had…

I thought about the girl again. The dress she was wearing was pretty, made from delicate fabric, but the hem rolled up slightly causing a bubble when she sat down–a tell-tale sign that the dress was not factory, but hand-made. A relatively skilled hand had made it, but it was hand-made nonetheless. She was simple but doing the best she could. She was trying to be content with who she was but was insecure about it. And that is what this monster saw in her. Had my monster called me poor I would have laughed in his face–poverty is not something that I feel insecure about. But my monster could see my insecurities. He could see what I hated about me and he hit me where it hurt–just as her monster had. I wondered what this would do to her, knowing what my monster had done to me. I thought of how long it had taken me to find my feet again. I knew the road this girl would have to travel. And it sucked big time. And more than anything, I was mad that I couldn’t stop her from having to travel it. And then, I learned something…

For all the scraps and scars and trauma I went through, I had become stronger. I had become strong enough to stand up when others didn’t, even though I would never have been able to physically defeat him. I was not yet the warrior I wanted to be, but I was no longer the waif I once was. Maybe he didn’t attack me because he could see that. Maybe I had gotten to a place where even though I knew I was still weak, I didn’t appear that way to those around me. Maybe I was strong enough to fend him off–regardless of my physical capabilities. And maybe he knew that. And even though I didn’t feel like I did enough, maybe all she needed was one person to stand up. Maybe all I could give was all that was necessary. If one person had stood up for me when my monster attacked, my road to normalcy would not have been so long. Maybe I couldn’t stop her from having to travel the road, but I could at least offer her some good shoes for the journey. Two weeks have passed and my blood still boils when I think of this situation. But my knuckles have healed. And that’s something at least.

Sometimes I loose my two cents….

Ok, let me first say that I get it. Pennies are pretty much worthless. They cost more to make than they are actually worth. But they are still worth something in our monetary system. I generally pick up every penny I find–unless they’re super gross or it would impede myself or others to do so–and from this habit, I have collected a sizeable amount of money; nothing to retire on, but let’s just say I could eat comfortably from the dollar menu for a couple of days. And speaking of dollar menus…

So there I was at a fast food drive through window for a chain which shall remain nameless but which has a redheaded, child-friendly mascot (surprisingly, there are more than one of these). I ordered my dollar menu items and proceeded to the window to pay for said items. The total was something like 1.78. I gave the cashier 1.80 and, even though it was only two cents, I waited for my change thinking I would get the chance to say something posh like “keep the change.” He went about his work for a moment then noticed I was still at the window and said, “You’re good”……..I’m good? I then proceeded to tell him that the total was 1.78, to which he replied, “Yeah, you’re good, you gave me that.”…Yes…I did give you that…along with two other cents that you are either ignoring or holding captive. By this point it became a principle thing as opposed to an ignorant robbery thing, so of course I made sure he knew that I gave him extra change but that it was ok because I had decided I didn’t care about two cents because who cares about two cents? To which he replied, “Yeah, you got it.” Yes, I did get it. Making a big deal about two cents is not worth the energy it takes to even come up with the idea to do so. But, “you’re good?” You’re not even going to ask if I want MY two cents? You’re not even going to give me the opportunity to be gracious? YOU determined that I was “good” enough without these two cents and that I should move on to the next window without a second thought? The outrage subsided as soon as I dug into my chicken nuggets and I wrote it off as an isolated incident, fueled by the idiosyncrasies of humans being human. And then it happened again.

I was at another fast food establishment that utilizes a redheaded, child-friendly mascot, and almost the EXACT SAME THING happened. Again, my total bill was something like 1.28 for which I handed over 1.30 in change, and again, the two cents due me were never returned. What is the deal? I mean, I know that fast food jobs are not glamorous and generally don’t require many skills to obtain them, but BASIC MATH is one of those skills, isn’t it? Don’t little red logic flags go off in your brain when you are dropping change in a drawer for a bill of 1.28 and you only have silver coins in your hand? Is there some kind of new incentive program going around where you get to keep any extra money from your till at the end of the day? Is this a nation-wide conspiracy to engender anger against the penny, the lowliest of coins? Is the government employing fast food chains to help eliminate the penny by refusing to give them back to the public? These are the questions the people want answered! This second guy didn’t even have the decency to acknowledge that I was waiting for my change. And this time, I didn’t have the blood-sugar levels to maintain my indignation long enough to make a proper stand. Alas, those two pennies were left to whatever machinations fate had in store for them. So I rolled my eyes, begrudgingly picked up my food, and came to this conclusion: I eat out way too effing much.

Ode to a sometimes blogger…

It’s not that I don’t like writing, I do. I write all the time. I like writing so much that sometimes I transcribe conversations in my head while I’m having them; correcting grammar, editing punctuation, and being an overall conversational fascist. It’s not that I don’t like technology, I do. I come from a family of computer geniuses so by default, if you swim around in that gene pool long enough, some of it is bound to stick. It’s not that I don’t like reading blogs, I do. I think blogs are a fascinating way to learn about human nature while your brain thinks you’re surfing the web.

I think the main reason I never really, truly, whole-heartedly blogged before is because I never really thought of myself as a blogger. To me a blogger is someone who either: a) has a specialized interest and/or talent in a marketable area (i.e. a cooking blog) so as to hook readers with similar interests and/or talents; b) has a lot of time and money to go out and experience things most people don’t get to (i.e. a travel blog) so as to captivate readers that have neither the funds nor time to experience such adventures on their own; c) came up with a particularly witty parody that I kick myself for not thinking of first (i.e. you know who you are you clever minxes you); or d) do all of the above.

Because I didn’t feel that I fit any of the above criteria, I never really tried to blog. I have a lot of interests—and they’re all super cool, trust me—but any time I would try to start a specialized blog I found that I never enjoyed blogging about just one of my hobbies as much as I enjoyed doing them. I do travel and love it, but not hardly enough to sustain travel-hungry readers in their pursuit of experiencing the world via youtube and instagram. And lastly, I can be witty, but every clever concept I come up with automatically gets filtered to the screenplay writing part of my brain. And once it’s there, there’s no hope for escape…

And that’s usually where I end it when having this conversation with myself about what I could blog about. Until one day it dawned on me…Who ever said I had to limit myself to one topic/interest/genre? No one hands a box of crayons to a child and says “you can only use one color.” In the crayon box of life, I like using all 54 colors! Sometimes I break them, sometimes I create masterpieces, some I use more than others, and some I haven’t really figured out how to use, but I dabble with them all! And I like it that way! Call it fear of commitment, ADHD, or complete and total boredom, but I like to live a varied life. I like to change. I change on purpose. I change my hair color, my clothes, my hobbies, my job, my apartment, my car, my eating habits, my sleeping habits, my everything. Why shouldn’t I have a blog that reflects that? And so sometimes I dance and I will write about that. Sometimes I cook and I’ll write about that. Sometimes I have good days, sometimes bad. Sometimes I go to London, have car accidents, important birthdays, failed relationships, successful relationships, happy days, sad days, try new foods, find cool antiques, have clever thoughts, read clever thoughts, and have sassy nieces and I will write about them all! Without realizing it, I’ve lived a lifetime of bloggable events. And now I will set about sending them out into the blogging world. Because sometimes, I’m a blogger.