Dumber than a bag of hammers

Technology is making me stupid.

I was at my place of worship this morning and I was next in line at the check-out.

That's right.  I was at Target.

I was picking up a few groceries for my parents and paying with my secret card! when I realized the stylus for the electronic screen wasn't working.

I stared at my helpful Target employee with a blank, pitiful look.

"Oh, the pen's not working," she reported.

I continued staring.  I wasn't sure what to do.  I started to hand her my card because I thought she would have to put the numbers in manually.

After a few more beats of silence, she looked back at me and offered, "You could try using your finger."

Touche.

I punched in my info on the screen, muttered something about common sense and then excused myself as quickly as possible.

Now, I could be wrong about this... but I'm pretty sure I used to be smart.  I mean, not like 4.0 GPA, advanced calculus, defending my dissertation smart, but at least I was "don't touch the bright orange thingy in the oven because it might be hot" smart.

Technology has taken that from me.

Does this mean that I'll take a sabbatical from the internet or boycott my cell phone?

Well, no.

But I might do some long division or read a little Keats before I send my next text.

So, perhaps starting with, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty..."

And followed up with, "She is such a whore.  Tell her to kindly eat my poo."

Yes, I think Keats would be proud.

Going postal

Today, I'm asking something of all of you.

I need you to search your thought-sicles, squeeze your mind grapes and tell me one of the dumbest things you've ever done.

Don't worry, I'll go first.

One of the pieces of my heart lives in Hong Kong and her name is Sonya Rae.  I wanted to send her a Christmas present (shut up, I know it's January), so I gathered some things I know she likes but can't get over there.

In an effort to be cost efficient, I went to the post office and got one of those Priority flat-rate boxes, thinking I was so damn smart.

Given that I have sent boxes to Hong Kong and other foreign countries before, I had a vague idea of how much it would cost.  So, in my infinite wisdom, I didn't even check.

I got to the post office, went through all the paper work of sending a box overseas and even congratulated myself on my maturity.

Then, I glanced at the little window telling me how much it cost.

$43.45???

I just stared at the screen in disbelief.  How on earth could it be so expensive?  I have never paid that much to send her a package.

Then, I remembered two very important things:

1. Priority means 6-10 days, and I usually just ask for whatever is cheapest, but more importantly...

2.   ...I SENT IT PRIORITY!!!

By this time, I'd filled out all the paperwork and my helpful P.O. employee had already slapped the postage on the box.  It was too late to change my mind.

I was absolutely livid.

Somehow, I managed to get back in my car before screaming at the top of my lungs so loud and long that I actually got a little dizzy.

When I do things like this, I get so angry with myself that I can barely see straight.  It just makes me feel young and stupid.

Now, I do boneheaded things quite a bit, but normally they're not this expensive.  Walking into a glass door is embarrassing and it'll drop your cool factor down exponentially, but at least it's free.

Anyway, I am requesting some validation.

Do me a solid and share a story involving a giant brain fart, a space cadet moment or an act of straight up, undiluted moronitude.

In fact, my favorite story might even win a little prize, depending on the caliber of what I receive.

This is not the time to keep it classy.

Is there a learning curve?

Recently, I discovered some new reading material.

Christina at Too Pretty For This posed a question to her readers and then to me individually:

What stories have shaped you?

I recommend reading her story first because it'll make more sense and, well, it's a good story.

Here's mine:

I was blessed/cursed with very thick, straight hair, and a butt-load of it. So, naturally I wished for curly hair.

When I was about 10, I started asking my mom to let me get a perm.

My poor mother (bless her heart) tried very hard to explain to me that if I got a perm, my hair wouldn't look like the other girls' due to the sheer mass of it. But, I would have none of it.

I begged, whined and pleaded (which rarely went over well in my family). I believe my mother decided that I just needed to learn this one for myself. So, she let me do it.

Oh, the humanity.

I'd love to tell you that, similar to Ron Burgundy, I immediately regretted that decision. I did not.

In fact, after it grew out and a few more years passed, I DID IT AGAIN.

This horrific tale depicts a few of my characteristics better than any other-

1. You can't tell me. I have to do it myself.
2. I don't always learn the first time. In fact, I often have to hose myself several times before I get it.
3. If you tell me not to do something, not only will I do it, but I'll do it with a smile on my face and a song in my heart... even if it means looking like this...
   

...TWICE.

Wait, isn't North like... up?

I like to drive. Unfortunately, I have no sense of direction. When I travel to other states/cities/neighborhoods/rooms in my house, I tend to get lost.

This is an example of a cell phone conversation I might have with my dad whilst driving in a circle (otherwise known as I-465 around Indianapolis):

Sara: Dad?
Dad: Yeah?
Sara: Where am I??
Dad: Uhhh, I don't know. What road are you on?
Sara: I-465?
Dad: Are you East or West bound?
Sara: You know I don't know those words!!
Dad: Well, honey, I don't really know how to help you.
Sara: But- but- but- there's a McDonald's and a K-Mart on the right. So, that's got to be close, right?
Dad: Close to what?
Sara: The Interstate!
Dad: I thought you were already on I-465...
Sara: I am!!
Dad: Then if you're on the interstate, why are you looking for the interstate?
Sara: Because I need to get home!
Dad: Look, honey, if you can't tell me where you are, then, well, I don't know where you are!
Sara: Okay, well, I think I just passed Lebanon... wait, there's a tree...
Dad: South or North bound?
Sara: We have talked about this! I don't know what those words mean!
Dad: (Near the end of his rope) Well, honey, then I can't help you.
Sara: Oh wait, I found it. Thanks, bye!

Some days hurt more than others

Cara: I've started taking dance again.
Sara: Oh, that's great! With Arthur Miller?
Cara: Um, yeah... with Arthur Murray, you mean?
Sara: ... (cricket cricket) ...yeah, that's what I meant.

Some people shouldn't talk.

I'm being bombarded with stupid today.

There are days when you are a moron and there are the other days where everyone else is a moron. Today would be the latter.

And it's not just stupidity. It's rude stupidity. I have little to no patience for either.

You get a lot of both when you work in a customer service position.

Some people are really good at taking a customer's/client's crap (whether it is deserved or not), smiling through the whole thing and then saying, "I'll get right on that. Thank you!" I, however, am not one of these people.

Like anyone, I have a tolerance level. It is relatively high for children (who don't know better), older (confused) folks, woodland creatures and anyone who is going through a rough spot. For everyone else, I will only take so many passive aggressive comments, back-handed compliments and generally snide remarks until I whip out the 2-liter.

And why is it that this tends to accumulate in one single, specific day?

I remember a day when I was still living in the Netherlands and it seemed like the country was conspiring against me. My breaking point was when I went to the bike shop to get a new key for my lock (which I had lost that morning, of course)...

Me: Hi. I'm sorry, I don't speak Dutch. Do you speak English?
Dutch Bike Twit: Yeah [eye roll].
Me: Oh, great, thanks. Well, I need a new key for my bike lock.
DBT: Do you have the papers?
Me: What papers?
DBT: The papers. Do you have them?
Me: I don't know which papers you mean.
DBT: [heavy sigh and exaggerated eye roll] Go across the street.
Me: What?
DBT: We don't do that here.
Me: I can't get a key for my bike lock here?
DBT: Go to the shoe store.
Me: What?
DBT: Go across the street to the shoe store.
Me: Why?
DBT: [even bigger sigh and eye roll] To get a key. We don't do that here.
Me: Oh, um, okay. Thanks.
DBT: And you came in the wrong door. Go out that door.

I'm pretty sure I had a nonstop stream of profanity coming out of my mouth from the shoe store all the way back to the house. The whole day was like that. I was cursing tulips, cheese and clogs for the rest of the day. (It turns out, you can get keys copied at the shoe repair store. Silly American!)

Don't get me wrong, the Dutch as a whole are a lovely people (although they get really uppity about exact change), but that day was not one of Holland's finest.

In conclusion, don't be rude to waiters, receptionists or nurses. It's not nice and it will come back to haunt you.

Winter Pet Peeve #67

Look, I drive a Honda Accord.

While it is dependable, reliable and somewhat nondescript, it wasn't exactly made for snow. So, when the roads are less than perfect due to rain, sleet, snow, ice or a wintry mix (it sounds cute, but it isn't), I drive a little slower so I don't off myself or those around me.

What I do not appreciate is a big, fat, gas-guzzling truck or SUV with large, over-compensating tires, tailgating me because I won't go 15mph over the limit. I hate tailgating in any season, but in winter, it makes me so angry that I can't help but reduce my speed by 10 mph (insert spiteful laughter).

I refuse to drive like a twit when the integrity of the roads have been compromised. I will drive like a twit when the roads are clear, thank you very much!