It's been a frustrating week for me. I've tried to blog on several occasions, but nothing was coming out except for angry political rants and inflammatory statements of partisanship. Part of it, frankly, comes with my dissatisfaction with my job. But really, this has not been a good week in the news; I'm continually depressed by the state of the world. Yeah, we got Zarqawi. That's good. But somehow I couldn't bring myself to smile too much about it. Not with the death toll in Iraq growing exponentially, the absolutely ridiculous debates going on in the Senate, recent national security cuts at the hands of “strong-on-security” Republicans, not to mention the latest in the fiasco that is the lamentably weak inquiry into Bush's blatant breaking of established law. Anyway, I'll spare you all the political opinions (talk to me if you really care to hear them) and just say that the only thing that made the week bearable was the Daily Show. Jon Stewart is my hero. Seriously, I think I'm in love with him.
But the height of my frustration manifested itself yesterday during lunch. When you are already in a bad mood, petty annoyances can really get you down. Since I don't feel I can rant about the things that are really bothering me on the blog, I will content myself with humorously complaining about unimportant inconvieniances. Just for you.
I drove down to the dealership where I got my new car (which I still love, by the way, even after making my first car payment) to ask if they had received my license plates yet. I had been told that I would be called the moment they arrived, but it's been almost a month and my temporary registration expires on Saturday. After a few moments of confusion, they found my plates in their files. They'd been there since the 19th of May.
(The following is a reenactment of the incident.)
“I can't figure out why you aren't in the book,” the old lady at the counter said, over and over, “We do have these college girls who come in during the afternoon. I bet one of them neglected to do it, since it couldn't possibly have been me.”
“Shirley,” said her boss, a serious woman in a business suit, “This is the third time this has happened this week. Why don't you go through the plates and make sure they are all on our records?”
“I don't see why I should have to do that,” said the lady to me, after her boss had gone, “It was the college girls, not me.”
“Of course it was,” I said, checking the time. I was on my lunch break and had a very short amount of time to get food and get back to work.
“I mean, its so easy to get distracted and not stay on task here if you don't know what you are doing. There's a lot going on.”
“I bet,” I replied, “Can I have my plates now?”
“Oh, no, no... I have to write you down in the book. You see, we're required by law to have a written record of every set of plates that....” She paused to answer the phone, then transferred the call, “.... that comes through our... Let's see, where was I? Oh, the college girls. Yes, you see, I come in every morning until two o'clock, but in the afternoon these young girls work here. I've seen them sitting around, chatting away with customers. It's quite disgraceful. I used to work full time, but a few months back I decided, well my husband and I decided that.... oh, wait. What were you here for again? Yes, your plates. We need to put you in the book. Where's my pen? Ah, here it is. Now. Would you like us to put them on your car for you?”
“No, thank you. I can manage.”
“Are you sure? It's not a bother...” She answered the phone again.
“No, it's not a problem,” I said, after she hung up, “I'm just kind of in a hurry. I'm on my lunch break.”
“Oh, are you? I'm sorry, let me hurry and finish up here then. Let's see, what am I doing? Right, I'm writing you down in the book. Name, please? Wait, hold on....” She answered the phone again. “Ok, sorry. Your name? Ok.... Would you like us to put the plates on for you? Oh! I already asked you that, didn't I? How silly of me... Now, lets see. The number on the plates is 6..... 3......7...... oh, hold on one moment.” She answered the phone AGAIN. “Alright, now let's see. Here we go. Writing you in the book. Ok, you're all done. Wait, wait..... no, I'm sorry, you're done. Thank you for your patience!”
But I was already out the door. Once back in my car, I let out a little scream of frustration.
On my way back to work I decided to swing through the drive-through at Arby's. I was really hungry, and also dying of thirst.
“Can I take your order, sir?” asked the box.
“Yes, I'd like a number 15, please.”
“Ok, thats a roast beef sub, curly fries, and a large drink. What drink would you like?”
“Make it a Root Beer please.”
“I'm sorry, sir, we can only serve Pepsi at the drive-through.”
“Oh ok.... wait, what? I can't have a Root Beer?” I really hate Pepsi.
“No, sir, only Pepsi in the drive-through.”
“Do you realize that this is a perfect example of the illusion of choice when there really is none that exists so abundantly in an advanced capitalism such as ours?” (Ok, I didn't actually say this part out loud, but I sure wish I had!) “Basically, I can have any drink I'd like, but only if its Pepsi???”
“That will be $5.45 at the window, sir. Please pull around.” she said, tartly.
At the window, I declined to pay for the Pepsi. I took my curly fries and sub and drove off in a huff. I returned to work (also known as: the concentration camp of the mind, the gulag of the soul) and felt sorry for myself for a long, long time.
I consider myself a very patient person. Usually, I'm more than forgiving in incidents such as these. And I was, in all honesty, completely polite and patient on the exterior yesterday. But inside I was a stewing pile of discontent. I think everybody encounters this frustration now and then. Most people have at least one moment in their life, I think, where they begin to suspect that all of creation has somehow conspired against them, as if their unhappiness and dissatisfaction were a vital part of the grand scheme of things. It's easier than facing the truth that the universe, by and large, is coldly uninterested in the affairs of one tiny person on one tiny planet. The frustration, at least, lets us feel that we are somehow important, relevant. In the end, its easier to accept cosmic emnity than cosmic apathy.
Which gives credence to the idea that every man has an inner psycho killer, just waiting for the balance of power to shift just so, so it can come out and run amok with a sledgehammer.
Fortunately, things didn't go that far.
But the height of my frustration manifested itself yesterday during lunch. When you are already in a bad mood, petty annoyances can really get you down. Since I don't feel I can rant about the things that are really bothering me on the blog, I will content myself with humorously complaining about unimportant inconvieniances. Just for you.
I drove down to the dealership where I got my new car (which I still love, by the way, even after making my first car payment) to ask if they had received my license plates yet. I had been told that I would be called the moment they arrived, but it's been almost a month and my temporary registration expires on Saturday. After a few moments of confusion, they found my plates in their files. They'd been there since the 19th of May.
(The following is a reenactment of the incident.)
“I can't figure out why you aren't in the book,” the old lady at the counter said, over and over, “We do have these college girls who come in during the afternoon. I bet one of them neglected to do it, since it couldn't possibly have been me.”
“Shirley,” said her boss, a serious woman in a business suit, “This is the third time this has happened this week. Why don't you go through the plates and make sure they are all on our records?”
“I don't see why I should have to do that,” said the lady to me, after her boss had gone, “It was the college girls, not me.”
“Of course it was,” I said, checking the time. I was on my lunch break and had a very short amount of time to get food and get back to work.
“I mean, its so easy to get distracted and not stay on task here if you don't know what you are doing. There's a lot going on.”
“I bet,” I replied, “Can I have my plates now?”
“Oh, no, no... I have to write you down in the book. You see, we're required by law to have a written record of every set of plates that....” She paused to answer the phone, then transferred the call, “.... that comes through our... Let's see, where was I? Oh, the college girls. Yes, you see, I come in every morning until two o'clock, but in the afternoon these young girls work here. I've seen them sitting around, chatting away with customers. It's quite disgraceful. I used to work full time, but a few months back I decided, well my husband and I decided that.... oh, wait. What were you here for again? Yes, your plates. We need to put you in the book. Where's my pen? Ah, here it is. Now. Would you like us to put them on your car for you?”
“No, thank you. I can manage.”
“Are you sure? It's not a bother...” She answered the phone again.
“No, it's not a problem,” I said, after she hung up, “I'm just kind of in a hurry. I'm on my lunch break.”
“Oh, are you? I'm sorry, let me hurry and finish up here then. Let's see, what am I doing? Right, I'm writing you down in the book. Name, please? Wait, hold on....” She answered the phone again. “Ok, sorry. Your name? Ok.... Would you like us to put the plates on for you? Oh! I already asked you that, didn't I? How silly of me... Now, lets see. The number on the plates is 6..... 3......7...... oh, hold on one moment.” She answered the phone AGAIN. “Alright, now let's see. Here we go. Writing you in the book. Ok, you're all done. Wait, wait..... no, I'm sorry, you're done. Thank you for your patience!”
But I was already out the door. Once back in my car, I let out a little scream of frustration.
On my way back to work I decided to swing through the drive-through at Arby's. I was really hungry, and also dying of thirst.
“Can I take your order, sir?” asked the box.
“Yes, I'd like a number 15, please.”
“Ok, thats a roast beef sub, curly fries, and a large drink. What drink would you like?”
“Make it a Root Beer please.”
“I'm sorry, sir, we can only serve Pepsi at the drive-through.”
“Oh ok.... wait, what? I can't have a Root Beer?” I really hate Pepsi.
“No, sir, only Pepsi in the drive-through.”
“Do you realize that this is a perfect example of the illusion of choice when there really is none that exists so abundantly in an advanced capitalism such as ours?” (Ok, I didn't actually say this part out loud, but I sure wish I had!) “Basically, I can have any drink I'd like, but only if its Pepsi???”
“That will be $5.45 at the window, sir. Please pull around.” she said, tartly.
At the window, I declined to pay for the Pepsi. I took my curly fries and sub and drove off in a huff. I returned to work (also known as: the concentration camp of the mind, the gulag of the soul) and felt sorry for myself for a long, long time.
I consider myself a very patient person. Usually, I'm more than forgiving in incidents such as these. And I was, in all honesty, completely polite and patient on the exterior yesterday. But inside I was a stewing pile of discontent. I think everybody encounters this frustration now and then. Most people have at least one moment in their life, I think, where they begin to suspect that all of creation has somehow conspired against them, as if their unhappiness and dissatisfaction were a vital part of the grand scheme of things. It's easier than facing the truth that the universe, by and large, is coldly uninterested in the affairs of one tiny person on one tiny planet. The frustration, at least, lets us feel that we are somehow important, relevant. In the end, its easier to accept cosmic emnity than cosmic apathy.
Which gives credence to the idea that every man has an inner psycho killer, just waiting for the balance of power to shift just so, so it can come out and run amok with a sledgehammer.
Fortunately, things didn't go that far.
Comments
Have better days Matt.
Love you
Mom