Are you shittin' me?

That’s what I asked my Mother in Law as we left the Homegoods today.

Yes, I know it’s rude to announce “ARE YOU SHITTIN’ ME” in the middle of the Homegoods. But it needed to be said.

In the check out line before us, stood a woman, some item in her hand, red sticker to indicate that it was half off stuck upon it, demanding her money back.

That’s not at all rude. One should ask for a refund when one is unhappy with ones purchase.

However, according to the Poor Dude Behind the Register, the SKU indicated that the particular item she was trying to return was purchased in May, 2009.

Because there’s some bullshit tradition about the customer always being right, this Poor Dude Behind the Register was able to offer her half off from the half off she paid for it during the last decade. That’s pretty generous, considering this item had probably been regifted (red sticker in tact) about half a dozen times, and eventually banished to a plastic bag from another store, where it sat in the trunk of this woman’s 2010 leased Mercedes S Class, since December 2010.

Bitch wasn’t happy. She asked if she could get the full refund if she came back with a receipt, to which I declared “ARE YOU SHITTIN’ ME??”

She’s got to be shitting someone. She can’t be real. I had to rub my eyes and make for sure I was looking at an actual woman. Because it took a seriously jumbo size pair of nads for ANYONE to walk into a store and demand a full refund on some shit they bought two years ago.

This chick has never heard of Ebay? Or Craigslist? Or Goodwill? Because times are tough. Someone else could really benefit from the $5.00 refund she was going get back to use at the Starbucks across the lot. (Where she'd demand a Sanka, I'm sure.)

I could have used it for a tank and a half of gas. Or better yet, to buy some poster board and glitter markers so I could have made a giant sign that said "ARE YOU SHITTIN’ ME" and protested against "Absurd Refunds" outside of the store.

Because...are you shittin’ me? If you’re going to nut up so hard core you need to demand a refund like that, at least do it gracefully, and humbly. Say please, thank you, so sorry for the trouble, and tell a white lie like “I don’t know where the time went.”

“I’m coming back with the receipt.” Why didn’t she come in with the receipt in the first place? As if that’s her trump card. She’s getting that $5.00 at any cost!! You know bitches mean business when they bust out a tore up, faded receipt that probably once served as a plate for the chewed, flavor drained gum from her pool boy.

The bees say “She’s not shittin’ you. Now stop swearing in public, you resolution buster.”

Holyshitballs,

Bootsy

I'm all old and shizz today.

No seriously. It's the last year of my 30's.

There's some rumor going around that 40 is the new 30, and hopefully that crap is true. I don't feel 39. I feel like my head is up my ass like I did at 29, just not as deep. There's some light at the end of the butt-tunnel, unlike ten years ago, when all there was nothing but shit for as far as the eye could see.

I don't know where ten years went. I mean, I KNOW where they went, but I cannot believe they went the way they did. A two year hospital "stay," a two year trip to the e-wilds of internets, two marriages, a new family, two homes, three jobs, a layoff, a relapse here-n-there, and an odd revolving door of people.

Though I haven't been posting as much as I want to, the ideas have been piling up. I have this giant, metropolis sized pile of post its that house my so called creativity, scribbled in shorthand during red light stops or in line at the drive thru D&D. I just add that stuff to the endless note book of shit that lists what I'm supposed to be doing around the house so I can answer people with a straight face when they ask "what do you do?"

"Nothing."

And then they stare at me. They don't ask why. They just say "must be nice."

Sometimes it is. Sometimes it's hell because I spend all my time organizing how I'll spend my time. It's a futile battle, because by doing that, time is totally wasted. I asked for pills to help me push through, but the powers that be said that they're worried I'll stay awake for a month straight, stop eating, and drop to a size 4 like that last time.

As if it was such a bad thing. They're just jealous. Haters! I was productive and skinny, just like society deems all people to be.

But annnyyywhooreee...

Am I any closer to being the person I ever thought I'd become? Thankfully, no. But I'm starting to like myself more, and it only took me 30 some years to begin to be able to do that.

I'm glad to say that my biggest dramas these days is that my sick cat peed on the wall and then tried to dry hump my other sick cat. I'm not sure when the cat got freaky, but I do know there's now a water bottle with his name on it. Dry humping is one thing. Golden showers is a big Bozo No-No. My home is not one of ill-repute. Dirty lil' pussy cat.

Annnyyywhoooreee...Yup. 39.

Life begins at 40, which is the new 30. Which means I have an extra 10 years to pull my head completely out of my ass, and for that, I am forever grateful.

Cheers,

Bootsy