on e-manners and general douchebaggery

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When did it become commonplace to be an punk ass jerk for no reason? I count my lucky stars that I do not have to go into a workplace everyday (because let me tell you, my temperament couldn't take it) and that I work from home. I usually don't have to make a lot of phone calls for my business and mostly communicate via email, thus making my dealings with people rather nice.

Last week I had to call someone about ordering something and things got unpleasant. I'm an amateur graphic designer and I don't profess to be a graphics genius, but Mr. Jerkface got all "I know more than you" before he even knew I was the designer of the artwork I was having screen printed. Sure, insult my graphic designer who happens to be me — go ahead. And while you're at it take the "you're a woman and can't possibly understand the computer terms I'm using" attitude with me as well. Well, he didn't know he was dealing with She Who Will Not Be Messed With and I went all I KNOW YOU DIDN'T on him. Trust me, I can go from America's Sweetheart to Bitch faster than Whitney Houston can say "oh, hell to the no." When I talked to him this week his douchebag attitude had changed. Gee, wonder why.

This morning I emailed a shop about getting a pricey item at a discount in exchange for promoting her shop. I was practically Splenda-sweet in my email and didn't ask for anything for free. Not only did she send me a full-on bitch reply, she scolded me for not reading her site policy, which she stated was on her home page (it wasn't, it was on her policy page). If I felt like it, I would send a reply to her reply, telling her where things are located on her website, but I think I'll let her go ahead and feel like an awesome person. I also have designed a few websites, so I know a little something on how to find something on the web. Anysite, she lost a customer.

I don't understand the non-hesitation to be asinine. Is it that we no longer have face-to-face dealings with actual human beings anymore? Does the anonymity of hiding behind a phone or computer give one the right to be a douchebag to anyone who has the nerve to contact you? In both of the communications I'm writing about I was attempting to purchase something from shops that are open for business. Being an ass is a good way to lose business. As a business owner, I realize that and I don't understand why others fail to grasp that concept. 

Yesterday I received an email from someone who was angry about receiving an email newsletter to which she had subscribed. I didn't understand that one. 

I wonder if manners have gone the way of the typewriter and are no longer relevant. I hope not. 

Thank you for reading and please come back tomorrow for something else. 

 

Love,

Kerry

 

P.S.  Please and Thank You are still nice to hear, aren't they?

so, this is just wrong

Let's examine this:

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I took a partial screencap of the Lane Bryant site this afternoon.  Note this section of Pants & Jeans is called "leggings and jeggings."  

JEGGINGS!  

J E G G I N G S.  

Not only are they selling control top capri leggings, they're also offering knit skirts with ATTACHED leggings. One is a DENIM KNIT skirt with attached leggings (jeggings?).  

Obviously this is another sign of the Apocalypse.  

open letter to Victoria’s Secret

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Dear Vicki's Secrets,

For the love of unmentionables, just stop with the "fashion show" already.  

Sincerely,

Kerry B. Faler

 

P.S.  Those shoes with Holly Hobby Angel's outfit? Really.

Christmas shopping idea #1

I'm in pain from my wisdom teeth, so I'm playing on the interwebs and thought I'd start my ideas for your holiday shopping.  

Idea #1. Doggie Hamster Wheel

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GoPet Dog Exercise Wheel

 

"Dog powered cantilever design tread wheel 40"w by 12" deep. Good for dogs up to 14 inches in shoulder height and up to 25 pounds. Includes training door. Free shipping in the USA. (Does not include the dog)"

 

YES, it really does say "does not include the dog."

I'll give you a moment.

 

I was going to order this for myself until I read "does not include the dog," because I really wanted a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel.  

search terms of endearment

Once in a while I remember to check my blog stats.  

I thought I'd share the most recent search terms people have Googled to find my blog.

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If you ever wonder if there are wierdos in the world, just look at blog stats.  

I don't even know what "girl in bed boobs socks sleeping hello kitty HEADPHONES" means.  

"'stout lady' girdle" — that's just bizarre.  And they're called Spanx, no one says "girdle" anymore.  Pfft.

"the window of a gyno office videos" — I'm scared.

"nicknames for kerry" — um, that would be "Kerry."  Or "Ree-Ree."  Darla's the only person who calls me "Ker," so I'm not counting that one.

"dr branton gyno" — I have never been, nor will ever be a gynecologist, so this person got the wrong blog.

"kerry faler" — that would be me.

"lsu self portrait kitten" — now that's just a string of random words.  I know it is.

this is not what he meant by “stimulation package”

America, this is why the terrorists hate us.  

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The Obamarator.  Tagline: your personal stimulation package.  

Oh, yes, they did.

As a friend said, "they shouldn't make vibrators out of political figures."  I said, "I agree.  Unless McDreamy becomes a political figure."  

seriously?

So, now the Great Insurance Debate of 2010 has started over the accident I was in earlier this month.  

I was on the phone with my insurance adjuster for 28 minutes yesterday afternoon.  As a friend said, those are 28 minutes I'll never get back.  The adjuster interviewed me and told me it was being recorded, I told the story of what happened.  I don't think the adjuster was supposed to laugh during the interview.  He said he's never heard of an accident like the one I was in.  For those of you who missed that post, here's the basic story – I hit a trailer that had come unattached from an RV. It had been towing a golf cart. An 18-wheeler hit it first, then an SUV hit the golf cart, then I sideswiped the trailer which was standing vertically in my lane.  You know, that old story.

This morning I received a call from the insurance company of the RV.  They wanted my account of the accident and that adjuster laughed as well.  I'm apparently a comedian.

This all has me doing my impression of R. Kelly in this scene from the hiphopera Trapped in the Closet.

Rkelly

I mean seriously.  

 

mr. t knows best

If you've been reading the Kerry Blog for awhile, you know I love the Mr. T.  I love the Mr. T even more when he appears on television shows you would NEVER expect him to be a guest on.  For instance, "Taking Stock" on the Bloomburg channel.  Yes, it's a show about stocks and investments, so naturally, they would have Mr. T on for a segment on gold.  

Oh, yes the did.


 

I will now be using Gold Promise for my retirement plan.  

never leaving the house again: part 2

This is Part 2.  Part 1 is below this post.  It's already been nominated for the Pulitzer Prize for Blogging.  

 

My Saturday in the hometown started nicely with a great visit with Darla, her twins, and hubs.  Good times.  I had planned to meet my dad, grandmother, and his fiancé and called him after leaving Darla's.  He told me that my aunt, her boyfriend, and his fiancé's sons would be meeting us — because it was a good time for me to meet them.  Of course it was!  

I sat between my dad and my grandmother, showed pictures on my iPhone of the kids, asked about my other aunts — the usual.  It was going well.  The fiancé was late, as were her two sons.  I have a thing for punctuality, but I let it go because I was in one of my favorite restaurants and my grandmother was unintentionally cracking me up.  I should have known things would turn crazy.

When our food arrived, my dad held out his hands to me and my aunt and asked me to say a blessing.  Now, this would not surprise me if it were my grandfather, but this was my dad.  

The extent of my spiritual conversations with my dad goes something like this: once I was home from college for Thanksgiving or Christmas and was watching Oprah in my parent's living room, half-way paying attention to the show and reading a magazine.  Deepak Chopra was on talking about what he viewed the afterlife to be. At a commercial break, my father says, "you know, I do believe we go somewhere when we die."  THAT'S IT. THE END.  I grew up going to a protestant church with my grandparents, volunteered every year as a teen at VBS, was active in a college Christian organization — the whole nine yards.  My parents were not church-goers and besides the nightly blessing over dinner, God was not a big topic of conversation.  We never prayed in restaurants.  

And so, I said a blessing.  I'm accustomed to praying aloud — just not with this side of the family.  Not ten seconds after I said "amen," my aunt's boyfriend voiced his opinion that prayers should be silent as to each individual's personal preference.  I had offended him.  Great.  Later, my grandmother corners me in the restroom and tells me the fiancé is Jewish.  So, I guess it was a good thing I held back on my prayer and didn't mention the blood of Christ washing away our sins to pave the way for our eternal salvation.  You know, I wouldn't want to offend anyone else.  

After lunch I drove for a bit to process the day so far.  

That night I had a perfectly nice dinner and visit with a friend and afterward was going westbound on I-20 when what seemed like a nightmare began to unravel.  I hit something metal that was standing straight up in the left lane.  After I hit it, I looked in my rear-view mirror in time to see the car behind me hit whatever "it" was and start spinning.  I didn't know what to do, so I drove over the overpass that was before me and pulled over safely, put on my hazards and checked out the damage.  It didn't look that bad, I wasn't injured, but I was hysterical.  I called Triple A and they called the state troopers for me, told me to sit tight and wait, so I did. There were several emergency vehicles on the other side of the interstate by this time, crossing the median to get to the scene.  All I could see were their lights behind me glowing and there were no cars passing me at all. I tried calling the hubs, no answer.  I called my friend Will.  I cried.  I was okay.  I told myself to breathe.  I called the hubs again, this time he answered.  I told him I didn't know what I hit, but I wasn't the only car involved and moments later a deputy appeared at my door.

The deputy escorted me back to the wreck site and told me that it was a six car accident, but one car left the scene. I hit a trailer that had come unattached from an RV. It had been towing a golf cart. An 18-wheeler hit it first, then an SUV hit part of it, then I sideswiped the trailer. My car was the only one that was drivable.  It was terrifying and I was told that if I would have been in the right lane I'd be dead.  None of the vehicles involved had lights on.

I barely remember driving back to my hotel.  

Sunday morning I got up, cried, cried some more, and got ready to check out.  I went by my grandfather's house and told my mom what had happened, had coffee, and told her I'd call when I made it back home.  I had breakfast with Molly and her two boys, then left for my five-hour trip home.  I drove like a grandma.  

The damage to the car is not impressive.  I'm not sure about the damage to my emotional state.  I'm not eager to get behind the wheel again.  The hubs went to the grocery store today because I couldn't do it.  We were planning on making the trip up for Thanksgiving, but now I'm not so sure. I may be making the cornbread dressing and sweet potato pie myself (if someone gets me the ingredients).  

So, Universe, you win.  

I'm not leaving the house again.  It's okay, really.  It will give me time to organize my closet and maybe learn to knit or quilt or clean.  It's a good thing, right?  

never leaving the house again: part 1

I am never leaving my house again.  

I mean it.  I plan to become a hermit.  I see only a few drawbacks to my plan.  I'll need to learn to make sushi and if I don't leave the house my chances of meeting Andrew McCarthy will be virtually nonexistent.  

When I leave home things happen.  I know things happen to everyone, but as you know, I'm special.  Because I'm special, crazy ass things happen to me.  I would pull out the KBF Crazy Ass Archive and reminisce, but there are new stories to tell.  And so, here's most of the story — because I don't care anymore.

October 10th was supposed to be the date of my dad's wedding.  A couple of months ago the wedding was postponed because my aunt was diagnosed with ALS and the ex-husband of my father's fiancé died suddenly. It was understandable that they would choose to postpone the wedding with all the family drama, but I still planned on making the trip to the hometown to visit family and friends because it was a good weekend for me.  

The drive up was fine.  Lunch with Hillary in Baton Rouge — had a great coconut and lemongrass soup, laughed a lot, spilled some sauce on the boob shelf which is my chest — whatever.  It was good.  On the way, I noticed that all but one mile of all three interstates I travelled on were being mowed.  It was at this time I realized that when I switched purses, I hadn't put my inhaler in the bigger raspberry satchel.  Don't worry, I ended up not needing it anyway.  

When I got to the hometown, I went to my grandfather's house, said my hellos and went to dinner with my mom who told me she hates my Facebook profile picture.  Hates.  No reason for the hatred given.  That's okay, there is plenty of hatred to go around, I suppose.  We went back to my grandfather's, watched tv, then I left to check into my hotel.  Of course their computers were down at the hotel and it was 30 minutes before I could check in.  The front desk lady apologized several times and I thought "what would I expect – this is me, this is what happens when I leave home."  On my hotel room door was a wet paint sign.  Still, I'm not surprised.  No, I'm jaded and know the universe fucks with me to see just how far I can be pushed before I hit my head against the freshly-painted door repeatedly and the men in white coats come to take me away.  

The next morning I ripped the coffee packet thingie open and coffee went everywhere.  I said "I give up" out loud and went on about my day despite not having coffee.  I put on my new cute gray mary janes and dared the universe to beat me.  Ha.  My plan was to go the Red River Revel arts festival to see my friend Will perform. The Revel did not want me to go.  I drove around for at least 20 minutes looking for a place to park.  I accidentally drove over the Texas Street bridge because I was in the wrong lane at one point.  So, I'm not good with the parking, fine.  I parked in a casino parking garage, noted that I was on the second level, and walked approximately 42 blocks to the festival.  It was at this point I remembered that the last time I'd worn new shoes on a day I would be doing a lot of walking I'd said that was the LAST time I'd do that.  Obviously, I'm not good with the learnin' either.  But the Revel was great.  Will's wife Molly, their son, and I walked to the parking garage afterward, said our "see ya laters" and I began to look for my car.  It was not on the second level.  I could see my car below and walked down the ramp, cursing my mary janes and my bleeding ankles.  

I was downtown at a red light when there was a knock at my passenger's side window.  A heavily-tattooed ZZ Top reject on a motorcycle was making the international sign for "roll down your window" despite the fact that no one has the rolly things anymore and we push buttons now.  I figured it was daylight and he might not kill me, so I put the window down.  He said "yer back tire's going flat."  I said "thanks" and put up the window and got on the interstate headed toward my grandfather's house.  My grandfather put air in my tire and told me to go to a tire/tune-up place he goes to, so I did.  At the tire place, Mr. Tire Man told me it would be two hours before they could get to my car because one of his guys was on vacation and one was out sick.  I didn't have much of a choice, so I waited.  And waited.  In the big waiting room there were two tvs.  One was playing CMT, the other (by the coffee machine) was playing Gangland.  I sat by the coffee machine.  The show told the story of a gang member named OMG.  I decided I was changing my name to STFU.  After Gangland, Mr. Tire Man switched the channel to the Andy Griffith Show.  It was the episode where Andy opens the first coin-operated laundry in Mayberry.  Yippee.  Then Good Times came on.  It was dyno-mite.  Then The Jeffersons.  We were movin' on up.  Mr. Tire Man told me my car was ready and I was "all good."  I asked him how much it would be.  He said I was "all good" again.  I asked what that meant.  He told me they changed the inner liner and it was no charge.  I wondered how they make any money and left.

That night my mom and I took my grandfather to dinner for his birthday.  It was nice.  Afterward, my grandfather wanted me to drive by his church to show me the new building, so we did.  After that he asked if I'd like to go by my grandmother's grave.  Well, sure, because that's the way I like to end my evening and no meal is complete without stopping by the cemetery.  

 

End of Part 1.  Part 2 will be up soon.  I need a margarita.