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I just know it - Coldplay is out to get me. So is Will Ferrell.
Obviously, I'm a big Will Ferrell fan, so, needless to say, I was chomping at the bit to get his latest movie, Semi Pro. I was equally excited for the new Coldplay album, Viva La Vida.
I was less enthused when I got home.
Not because of the quality, of course, I thoroughly enjoyed both. My significant other can attest to that, as last time we watched the movie, I was writhing with hysterical laughter.
In fact, I laughed so hard, I began that silent laughter - eyes closed, mouth wide open, maybe a little hiss or two. You know the one, where you have to stop yourself because you're no longer breathing.
No, it wasn't the product. It was the package.
Oh yes, that shiny plastic with its colorful stickers, gleaming from its conveniently placed spot on the shelf.
Of course, I can't avoid the plastic so tightly wound around my grand prize, so I reassure my delusions that this purchase is a good idea, no matter what.
When I get home, it's just me and that plastic
With a sigh, I pull it out of the bag.
First, I assess my nail situation - is there enough to do the job? Finding a sharp utensil is out of the question. My nails are right here, and sharp things are elsewhere. It's just too much work.
Furthermore, using scissors on this task is almost an insult. I can do it myself - I don't need no stinking scissors, as my father might say.
Besides that, scissors are never readily available. I can only find them when I have absolutely no use for them.
In fact, sometimes when I stumble upon them in the house, I'll frantically search for one of those pre-approved credit cards and chop it to oblivion. Just out of spite that I can't find them when I actually need them.
So I know I'm going to immediately regret this decision, but I choose to open that package with my recently filed-down nails and brute strength alone.
Here we go.
The first step is location - where are the edges sealed together? It's impossible to find an easy way to tear open that clear nonsense. There is no way I'm going to figure out which edge of the plastic is on top and which is on bottom.
So I'm running my fingers over the seal, trying to get a nail underneath, hoping I'll make it work this time and it will all be over with. It's unfortunate that I am always wrong.
Sure, I manage to break the glue and get a little corner of the seal sticking up, but this is several minutes after the scissors would have been done with the whole thing.
Ever so gently, I pinch the corner between my fingers and begin to peel it back. Feeling success so close at hand, a triumphant smile spreads across my once-troubled face.
Oh no, this fight isn't over so easily. To my horror, the plastic tears the wrong way and I look down to see only a sliver of it in my fingers, like a tiny glass shard.
The smile quickly dissipates. I take a deep breath, maybe two, and think to myself, "This is OK. You can do it, just peel slower."
So I get my nail under the opening and start peeling once again.
How can each effort produce such an insignificant amount of progress? I feel like I'm taking crazy pills at this point.
Finally, in a desperate act of self-preservation, I scramble with the case. Clawing, biting and screaming are all fair game; anything to get that plastic out of my life.
After several more minutes, and one or two people discovering me in a crazed state, offering to help, and receiving a low growl through my clenched teeth as a response, I break the plastic in a T-shirt ripping, Hulk-like manner.
I'm now laughing maniacally with the CD in one hand, raised triumphantly, and those nearby are staring in shock as they just witnessed a mental breakdown.
As I prepare myself to open the hard-earned prize, light shining on me and music playing gloriously, I hear a chuckle. Whether it's inside my head or someone in the room, I don't know because I'm past the point of no return.
I hear a quiet voice say, "Did you forget about the tape on the sides of the case?"
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Katy Blair is an Effingham native and Globe reporter. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
Sure, I speak Russian.
Most people who know me hear a Russian word or two on occasion. But that's all I speak - English and Russian. I'm sure you could guess in which of the two I'm completely fluent.
So when I call customer service, for just about any company that I have dealings with, I want to speak my fluent language. Instead, I end up trying to comprehend some jibber-jabber from Bholpal, which makes me completely hesitant to even call customer service in the first place.
In fact, when a problem comes up that will require a call to customer service, I first just try to ignore it. What's a couple hundred dollars next to dealing with CS? Just shrug it off and don't make eye contact with that bill lying there on the table, mocking you with such vivacity.
Except, I can't. As a penny-pinching American driving a Ford truck at $4 a gallon, I cannot simply ignore that money that I worked so tirelessly to earn.
The dread slowly creeps into my mind as I look at that credit card statement, with the obvious miscalculation that should have been caught by the company.
It's like pulling teeth. Or limbs.
So to the number on the back I go, slowing dialing 1,8,0,0, palms sweating at the thought of the inevitable argument I'm about to endure.
The first responder is a success - a woman from Georgia. There's a slight drawl in her speech, but definitely something I can understand.
It can't be that easy though, and I know it. She can't help me, so on to the next customer service department I go.
I just want to say "No! Please, don't transfer me!" But I hold my composure and stop short of sobbing before I hear the line go silent.
What comes next is a true test of whether I should own any weapons - kitchen knives included.
"With who is speaking?"
"This is Katherine Blair."
"Katereene Vlare?"
"No, Katherine Blair."
"Oh, Kaverib Plare."
"No. Kath-er-in Bla-air."
"OK, Mez Kaberin Blahar, I am showing of no problems with your account. Have a goot day."
(This is after asking her three times to repeat what she had said because she spoke too fast.)
"No, it's Katherine Blair, and there is a problem. There's a charge on my card that I didn't make and I want to know why it's there."
"OK Mez Blahar, I look into charge. One moment. Mez Blahar? I see no charge of what you say. Do you have de card?"
"Yes."
"If dee card was not taken from you, den you made purchase. Correct?"
At this point, I just want to reach through the phone and shake her until she realizes the logical deduction she obviously missed. Giving me a new last name is one thing, but such a ridiculous inquiry is beyond my capacity for self-restraint.
Would I really be calling if I had made the purchase? Really?
And the question that comes to mind is, if I'm an American dealing with American companies, why must I be transferred to some customer service agent in India to solve my problems? Shouldn't I be allowed to communicate my problems with someone that knows how to say my last name?
The only question getting answered is whether this experience will thrust me into the arms of insanity. Now, I'm 100 percent certain - I belong in the loony bin.
The worst part is that I know I look like a crazy person. I'm flailing my arms about, pointing to the woman on the line even though she's obviously not standing in front of me.
Even my dog, the nervous epileptic who refuses go to the bathroom in his own yard, is staring at me with a look that says, "Stick a fork in 'er!"
So what do I do? I resign myself to the fact that I will get no help through this conversation, and through my teeth, say thank you and punch that 'end call' button down as hard as I can.
That will show her.
I also consider viciously catapulting my cell phone, but knowing that I will immediately regret that decision, throw it into a blanket on the sofa instead.
In my rage, I don't realize how ridiculous I look while throwing my phone into something soft and cushy. The dull thud it makes on impact doesn't quite have the satisfactory ring of something smashing into a wall, but at least I don't have to buy a new phone.
So the next time I speak with someone trying to unceremoniously endow me with a new name, I'm going to take a deep breath and say something wise and insightful, right before I hang up and avoid the whole process.
In the words of one of the worldly intellectuals of our day, Ron Burgundy: "I don't speak Spanish. In English, please."
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Katy Blair is an Effingham native and Globe reporter. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214 or katyblair@npgco.com.
What is it about fast food? We all know it's death on a bun, not to mention a crater in your wallet, and yet we do it anyway.
And with the way customers get so angry, why isn't crime sky-high at McDonald's? I'm just waiting for the day that some poor soul on the brink takes a baseball bat to the drive-thru speaker system.
Before you get to the speaker, however, you must deal with the lines. Of course, there are always two for one drive-thru menu.
Not only do you have to monitor vehicles leaving their parking spots, but you've got to protect your spot in line, or some soccer mom in a van full of kids is going to steal it while you are cussing the guy impatiently tapping his brake to get backed out.
If you do manage to keep your place, you are still completely irritated by the experience once you hit the menu. And the soccer mom is glaring because you should have done the chivalrous thing and let her go first to quiet the screaming children.
Then there is the pressure of making a quick decision because everyone in line is staring at you through their windows and practicing some deep sighing exercises.
In your haste, you barely pay attention to what you are ordering.
Now the angry train can go one of two ways. Either the employee running the headset doesn't repeat your order back to you, or through the garble, you couldn't understand "cheeseburger" from "salad" if you wasted the time to get out and put your ear to the speaker, which you won't because the people behind you are starting to inch up to your bumper.
Shooting a dirty look towards the mom behind you, you resign yourself to driving ahead, despite the inevitable order confusion you know is underway.
Pickles? Of course not. Even if they got it right, you'll only get one, maybe two on that burger. And no onions? Forget it. What they will do is get ketchup everywhere.
Hereafter, the food can no longer be considered "fast" since you'll be pulling over to clean up the mess on the steering wheel and all over your pants.
That's if they gave you any napkins.
So up to the window you drive, already defeated. Fork over your hard-earned cash and watch the bustle inside while you feel doom approaching.
The woman behind you is already riding your bumper again, hot at the handles to get those miraculous Happy Meals that she so desperately hopes will solve all her problems for the next 20 minutes.
With the way she's leaning into her steering wheel and foaming at the mouth, you are slightly afraid to survey your bag's contents when it gets rammed into your outstretched hand.
You hear a very loud bang, and look up to see the drive-thru window already closed. You are too late.
Drive off, my friend. Only carnage awaits you if, upon receiving your food, you hesitate for more than 30 seconds.
Your brake lights begin to gleam red in the eyes of the soccer mom behind you. She needs that food more than you do.
With a heavy hand, you pull out the French fries - a meager portion for such a tall, regal box. That box wouldn't look so proud and shining if it, too, saw the sadly limp fries that you now gaze upon.
No burger? Having reassured yourself of what you ordered 20 times by now, you are sure you yelled "cheeseburger", not chicken nuggets. You don't even like chicken nuggets, but it's beyond your course for recall.
And you know why?
Because you don't want to take back your food, as meekly as possible, and be afraid from the first bite to last that the disgruntled grill cook has defiled it in some way.
The damage is done, you say, never again. But you'll be back.
Just wait until there's nothing to eat at home, or you are rushing around town with no time for real food, or the kids are whining in the backseat. You'll see.
They always come back.
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Katy Blair, an Effingham native, is a Globe reporter. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or katyblair@npgco.com.
Shopping carts. That's all I need to say. You know what I'm talking about.
Let's start with the basic ordeal that everyone suffers with shopping carts. Why are they always broken? Wal-Mart is a multi-million dollar corporation, can they not afford upkeep on their equipment? Running into someone in the middle of Wal-Mart because the starboard wheel is cocked at a resilient 45 degrees is not my idea of a pleasant shopping experience. No one enjoys that.
The worst part is, these carts (most evidently shipped in from Satan's lair) get me every time. I can grab one on my way in the building, and before I pass the Wal-Mart greeter, looking smug for some odd reason, I know I've picked a bad apple.
Now there's a decision to be made. As if I'm not busy enough trying desperately to remember what was on the list that I left on the kitchen counter.
Do I return the cart to its defective friends, wrestling it backward and risk getting one that is worse? Nah, I won't be in here long, right?
Right.
Instead of making my life a little easier, I press forward with my defective hunk of rusted metal. You know how this goes. One hand is on the phone because I'm talking to my sister, who is having one of those days, and the other is on the cart.
The cart with one wheel cocked sideways.
What a site to behold as I careen down the aisles, knocking items off the shelves, boxes and bottles scattering everywhere. Children get "deer in the headlight" looks, not knowing which way to avoid me because my cart is snaking both sides of the aisle.
With all of the commotion, I'm just wandering at this point because I can't think of a single thing I came in for. I'm trying to hurry because I'm embarrassing myself.
In an effort to expediate the awkward process, I just start grabbing things senselessly, assuring myself that I'm getting the right stuff.
All the while, I'm trying to ignore this growing pain in my wrist. I know exactly what it is, but I sacrifice stampeding a small child near the cereal to assess the situation.
The cart is going right, I'm desperately forcing it left, and as I gaze at my hand tightly gripping the handlebar I think, "It really shouldn't bend like that." Meanwhile, Tricia is still on the phone, saying she is tired of the cat beating up the chihuahua, and I'm trying to remember if it was mozzarella or cheddar that I needed, thinking I should seriously consider a career in contortion with the way I'm manipulating my wrist into such unnatural positions, and would that pay off my student loans?
Multitasking to the extreme.
That's how you spend an entire paycheck at Wal-Mart. Go in for five things, come out with a cart full of debt. All because of a phone call and a faulty wheel.
The worst part is yet to come, however, because it isn't until I get home that I realize a hard truth - I purchased toilet paper that feels suspiciously similar to tree bark.
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Katy Blair, a Globe reporter and Effingham native, may be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 213, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
