Monday, July 17, 2006


Home Depot: You are dead to me.

Even though it is 2006, I understand that being a woman does put me at a gender diadvantage in a few, holdout situations in this world: auto-mechanics, junk yards and home improvement stores. That being said, I imagine I have it a titch easier as a woman here than a women in a 'more-consonants-than-vowels' named country that is hot more than 90% of the calender year.

Having and enjoying the truly very last summer vacation of my life, the Betrothed said that I would not have to join the workforce for these precious 8 weeks. But, hey, would I mind maybe doing a little bit around the house to spruce it up a bit when selling-time comes around? The art major in me went nuts. There will be painting and bordering. A chair rail will be installed -- it's going to be a gloriously artsy summer.

Still and for all, seeing as how it is 2006, it shouldn't be that big of a shock when a woman wants to maybe, say, complete a home-improvement project without the help of her significant penis-endowed other. Apparently the gents at Home Depot feel otherwise. From the moment I employed one of those orange-aproned men to my task, it was clear they would have rather been helping "the penis" (and not theirs... well, maybe.. but, ew, that's gross.. so, no, not theirs..).

I was called "sweetheart" and "girlie". And round about the time the man (from whom I think I may have caught lung cancer by just breathing the air about him) had to explain to me how to use a hammer and nail to affix the chair rail to the wall, I think I hit my breaking point. Had my cart not already been filled by the 45 minutes of roaming the store that was CLEARLY not laid out and organized by a woman, I would have walked out right then. After collecting all my home-improvement supplies, the joy was simply sucked out of me. Even my new latex paint "Sweet Maple", which I had spent hours deciding on, staring at and finally realizing that it was just the most perfect color, wasn't so sweet anymore.

The Betrothed assures me that this certain sexism occurs only because they aren't used to DIY women like myself. Women in this area would rather pay to have it done than to sully their fancy manicures. Point taken.

Upon arriving home, I realized, sadly, that I had left my very own tape measure at Home Depot. Good thing I brought it, too. Orange-apron-chauvinist man didn't have one handy. And good thing I had elementary math and was able to convert inches to feet because he couldn't. I wouldn't be upset about any old tape-measure except that it fits this neat tool set that I got years ago in college -- when I was tired of scoping out boys on the hall who might have a cinder-block drill bit. It's a nice set, and I won't deny that I enjoyed lending tools to all the dudes who were very impressed by my collection. (Chicks with tools are hot?) However, it's incomplete without the little tape measure that goes with it.

I called the store. I was transferred back to nameless-dude. He put me on hold to look for it. I sat in my kitchen and rolled my eyes waiting.

And then he came back on and said, "Honey, now where did you get this little thing? In a cracker jack box?"

Me (aka: Honey): "Ha, yeah. No. So I guess that means you have it. Well, that's great. So why don't you just write all your funny jokes down about my tape measure and tape them to it so when I come to pick it up tomorrow I can read them and laugh and laugh."

Nameless-Dude: "Uh, sure. It'll be back behind the counter. Have a good night." *click*

Home Depot: 0 Me: 1

(Ahh, I just hope that man doesn't end up sick and maybe, oh, I don't know, in a hospital at any time.)

I am woman, hear my miter saw.

Friday, July 14, 2006


Pop Culture Confessional (subtitled: Bless me, Father, for I have sinned)

With much thanks to the Betrothed's employer, I was taken on a delightful visit to our Northern Neighbor of Canada last weekend. To celebrate the company's 7 1/2 anniversary, it seemed fitting that the whole corps of employees + guest (ie: me) spend 4 peaceful, team-building days eating our faces off, sleeping, gossiping like highschoolers and occasionally spotting whales (in the water; though eating our faces off, four days is hardly enough to make any of us water mammals).

While I was comfortably watching a nice version of Dateline:Canada, eating sour patch kids in bed while the Betrothed played his co-workers out of their hard earned cash in a poker game, I received a phone call from the BFF.

She was back in the States minding our fur babies. We talked, we joked. I told her I had probably eaten enough to feed a small family of four for a week. After the laughter faded she came clean about her true reason for calling.

She had a confession.

What - had the cats escaped? Did the house burn? Had she seen my extensive collection of romance novels?

No, no, nothing like that. Only, the thing was... she had made a recent iTunes purchase. And though she continued to gleen sinful enjoyment of said iTune, she sought Pop-Culture absoloution.

What could be that bad, I wondered? A slow jam? Chamillionarie's "Ridin'"? 4 Non-Blondes?
No, it was worse. Paris Hilton's "Stars Are Blind".

There was a pause. A moment of silence. Before total forgiveness, however, I had to confess that not only had I seen both videos of the song, that I neglected to turn it off when it came on the radio. I even sang along. But, making it clear, I didn't BUY it.

A few mumbled words, the wave of a hand, and we were both free of our Pop-Culture sins. Souls clean and clear. We'd turned over new leaves. On the straight and narrow. Living a new life -- Onward Pop-Culture Soliders.

For our penance we read 1 Star magazine, watched an episode of Big Brother 5 and were made to be unable to get "Even though the god are crazy, even if the stars are blind... maybe I'm perfect for you.." and it's catchy steel drum/calypso beat out of heads.

We have repented.

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