Friday, January 4, 2013

An Open Letter to Macy's

Hi Macy's,

I just want to start off by saying I have loved you for so many years. SO. Many. Years.

I went back to school shopping with you.

I bought prom dresses from you.

I realized I needed to lose some weight while in your dressing room.

Even though I MIGHT have maxed out the $100 credit card I got as a teenager (and never paid it off), I still regularly offered up my cash for some nifty swag, amazing presents and random shit I probably didn't even need.

And today you offered a STELLAR deal on this new perfume I've been dying to find. Thanks for all the free gifties that came with it, by the way. My only complaint is that, like.... ok no... when the fuck is it going to be here?

You know why I don't know? Because your site crapped out during the ordering process. So I checked my credit card. Yep. Monies be gone. Ok, so I'll wait. An hour later with no email I'm all like "eff this ish" and I decided to check my order on the website.

Track your order with email address? Nope. Phone number? Nope. I get this wonky error message to call customer service. FINE.

**By the freaking way, why don't you have an option to email customer service?! Don't you know how much easier your lives would be without having to hear irritated customers like me? C'mon, son.

I call. I wait 2 minutes on hold. A woman answers and tries to help but fails to locate my order based on name, phone number and email. UM. Ok. So she tries to confirm the right email address (because she didn't the first time) and low and behold she spelled my name wrong. I correct her spelling and... click.


Laters, Macy's rep.

I'm at work and have already wasted 15 minutes of my precious day. 4:40 rolls around and I still have no confirmation. Screw it, I'll try again.

Repeat all of those last phone paragraphs sans a hang up and we get to the point where they need my credit card number. I cave and offer it up. WHOA order found!

"So can I get an email confirmation"
"Ma'am it looks like our system already sent you one."
"Oh, weird. Well as I explained earlier, I never got one. And I can't check online. And my card was definitely charged. Which is why I called. Is there an order number?"
"Ma'am I can give you an order number. Your order will be processed within 5 days and then shipped out."
"Awesome! Can I get an email confirmation."
"Ma'am you will get another email within a couple hours."
"... Ok well thank you for clearing this up."
"You're welcome. Have a good day ma'am."

Well it's like 5 hours later. Still no email (Yes, I checked my Spam folder). Still can't find my order on your website through your search options.

Am I getting my shit or what?

Oh. And by the way. Please let your entire phone team know that I am not a "ma'am."


Monday, January 16, 2012

Stop it.

So I scour baking/cooking blogs like it’s something to do. If I could get paid for power reading a list of ingredients and automatically thinking about what could be improved, I’d be eating lunch with Donald Trump on the daily. But, I don’t and I’m not.

Regardless, I found a recipe today that looked amazzzzing. Like, really. This was going to “the shit” of cooking adventures this week. Until I got to the bottom of the list of ingredients. Went something like this:

Got it.

Got it.

Got it.

Subbing it.

Got it.

Got it/need to scavenge the back of the baking cabinet.

Got it.

Go… wait.. thefuck?

No, really. Machalepi. What. The. Fuckery.

I’m no stranger to weird spices and will have admittedly archived tossed recipes over ingredients I really just don’t want to buy or can’t be used in anything else. But this? This is something else. I thought the point of blogging your food accomplishments and posting the recipes was to allow for others to share your caloric joy? Good for you that you can find/purchase such a kitchen remedy, but freal? Everyone else looking at your stuff more than likely a normal human being that gets giddy over saffron.

Get off your machalepi high horse, lady. Oh and your red velvet cupcakes look like crap.

Sunday, January 8, 2012

Valley Fair

And here I was thinking that the mall on Sunday would be safe after the holidays.

But just like everyone who thought Tebow was done for the season, I was wrong. So horrifically and utterly wrong.

I still don't understand what it is about the mall that causes brain cells to seemingly evaporate. Come to a complete stop and flip that baby stroller sideways in the middle of a major walkway? Sure. Wander aimlessly side to side with a coveted Cinnabon? Yep. Bend down to tie your shoelace, exposing your plumber's crack/inducing a gag reflex to everyone on the planet? You betcha. Watch helplessly as your toddler embodies the most insane display of humanity during an emotional breakdown? Yeahhhhhh buddy!

However, you sir, with the Hammer pants paired oh so fittingly with a Ralph Lauren pull over and Crocs? Yeah. You were my favorite. But then, you just had to out do yourself by literally walking in circles within the same 3 foot radius with the most "dear, God, help me" look I've ever seen before wandering into Forever 21. Whatever you were shopping for, at whichever store... I really... REALLY... hope someone just demolished your face with some sort of fashion sense bat, club, rock, mallet, etc. Because your presence is public is really doing humanity an overwhelming amount of disservice.


Friday, December 30, 2011

Football Season: Manning as God and Shotgun Suicides

In typical Sunday fashion, much of the day’s conversations revolve around pregame, who’s in/out, the actual games, fantasy teams and… well… this shit. Enjoy.

Z: Jimmy Johnson’s stupidity is leaking through his mouth on this pregame show. I think hey may have brain damage…

Me: I think he’s just trying to be the next GOP candidate.

Z: I want to viciously murder Frank Caliendo. No jury would convict me.

Me: Haha I don’t think anyone would be too upset.

Z: Bradshaw clearly hates him and I love it.

I wouldn’t even try to make it look like an accident. Cops would be like “I didn’t see anything.”

Me: “I don’t know how he shot himself in the head with a shot gun but uh yeah… clearly suicide.”

Z: “Must have pulled the trigger with his toe. Case closed. Mexican for lunch?”

And later…

Z: If the Chargers get Tebowed I’m gonna Caliendo myself.

Me: Hahaaa

Z: I wish he would really go all out with his TD celebrations, full crucifixion…

Me: Stigmata included.

Z: With railroad ties.

Me: We are going to be forced to watch Tebow clips for all eternity when we get to hell.

Z: Hey, if he gets hit by a fat bitch on a rascal while praying about the nickel he found in the parking lot, so be it.

Me: Pretty sure God isn’t worried about him winning football games.

Z: We all know God is a Cowboys fan…

Me: He’s definitely not a Detroit fan. That’s for sure.

Actually if you think about it, I’m pretty sure Peyton Manning may be God.

Z: He used to be a Miami fan… until somebody told him that dolphins are just like gay sharks and he’s totally not cool with that.

Pfft if Manning was God he would have rehabbed that neck a little bit faster…

Me: He’s just teaching the team they need him to avoid being Al Davis’d

Z: Just win, baby?

Me: Not without Manning. Not even once.

Z: …you complete me haha

Friday, September 2, 2011

You know what was cool about my drive home today?


As per usual.

However, I did encounter a prime example of someone who should just clearly drive their car off of the nearest bridge.

Commuting sucks. Hardcore. We all know this. Everyone that has to experience it on the daily would rather eat razor blades than deal with Friday afternoon gridlock. But, hey, how the fuck else are you going to get home, right?

Anyway, I’m doing my thang… resisting the urge to just shake it out while blasting Innerpartysystem. When suddenly, a wild merge appears. This is no ordinary merge. This merge is akin to fighting for the last Tickle Me Elmo a minute before Toys R Us closes on Christmas Eve. A battle royale, if I may.

This isn’t my first rodeo, kids. I know what’s up. I know how to jibber jab my way to where I need to be. And then… Sir Douchebag Asshat IV, Esq. appears. Foolio drives next to me, speeds up, cuts me off, gets into the right lane, cuts me off… again… gets into left lane… then… gets behind me and tries to do a little bumper love peck before… flipping me off?

Eff your couch, bro. We are ALL in this shit traffic together. However, some of us can deal and realize that a shitty 20 minutes after work is leading to a glorious three day weekend. Why you mad, yo? Is it because you’re fat and barely fit into your car? Is it the sweltering heat that’s making you pissy? Is all that grease in your hair just makin ya angries?
Oh I know. It was the fact that your car is purple. I can dig that. I mean, my car is brighter than rainbow unicorn poop; not a smart 17 year old holyshitimbuyingacaricangetwhatevercoloriwant move. But that doesn’t mean I’m driving like a total asshat all over the freeway, flipping off people who are doing what they’re supposed to in the traffic dance.

So, really. I hope your hard drive has a total melt down and your entire WoW game/character/account/whatever the hell it is just obliterates itself, forcing you to perhaps venture outside and maybe, I don’t know, get some exercise? Who knows… maybe it’ll alleviate some of that hair grease anger.

Monday, May 23, 2011


It would appear these morning workouts are making my brain overflow with random imagination. A normal text conversation went completely awry when the notion of a dinosaur rapture came into play. Hang in there, people.

Me: So how about that failed rapture?

Friend: Right?

Me: Unless... it wasn't really failed. We just all suck that bad at being people so we were... left behind.

Friend: Great. I knew I'd end up in hell, anyway.

Me: Well I mean I guess we all should have seen it going down that way. Everyone knows the last successful rapture is what made dinosaurs extinct.

Friend: Please tell me you're joking.

Me: Huh? Please tell me YOU'RE joking. You never heard of the dino rapture?

Friend: Kelsey... you're scaring me.

Me: I know, right? The Dinosaur Rapture was a really scary thing. And to think they were deemed more worthy than modern day man?

Friend: The dinosaurs weren't raptured. Or whatever.

Me: Don't even tell me you believe it was a natural extinction. There's just no way. Like a giant meteor is going to wipe out every living thing but Earth is still all chill and whatever?

Friend: We're really having this convo?

Me: Well I think we should. Obviously, you need to be educated on this.

Me: If you just think about it logically it makes sense. How many dinosaurs were on the planet? Bazillions, right? So, science would suggest we should be finding WAY more fossils and skeletons. But in comparison we really haven't found a solid amount. Rapture, baby.

Friend: You're combining science and rapture in the same theory?

Me: Rapture IS science and this is fact not theory. Come on.

Friend: Ok so why were only some of them left behind then?

Me: They were probably just assholes. That's just the way it works.

Friend: T-Rex? Weren't they all assholes?

Me: Yeah... but the whole small arms thing? I think they probably got some "Sorry about that, guys" credit or something.

Friend: Oh ok well yeah that would make sense. I'd feel bad about creating a living being with that kind of deformity, too.

Me: You just agreed that Dinosaur Rapture makes sense. What is wrong with you?

Friend: Don't even turn this around on me.

Me: Hey, if you want to believe you can create dinosaurs and shit that is your own deal.

Friend: Seriously, not cool.

Me: Dinosaur Rapture... wow.

Friend: Stop.

Me: Dinosaur Rapture... they were all... RAPTORED.

Friend: Go work or something.

Me: Jurassic Rapture?

Friend: I'm done here.

This entire exchange was probably way more amusing to me than it will be to anyone else. I'm sorry.

Saturday, October 30, 2010


Target is turning into this generation’s Wal Mart.

On my adventure to seek out a Pumpkin Carving Kit (which are, by the way, out of stock… EVERYWHERE) I encountered these horrific displays of parenting/humanity:

- A 4 year old boy pushing a shopping cart. Correction. A 4 year old boy pushing a shopping cart with the same comprehension as a 98 year old man changing lanes on the freeway. Fool cut us off twice before smacking into our cart and saying “Excuse me” until we moved. Parents? Anyone? Bueller?

- Screaming baby who hit decibels Mariah Carey couldn’t even reach in her prime. If she’s going to cry because you refuse to buy her a Barbie doll at 8:30pm perhaps you should re-think her attendance on your next run to the toy aisle of a department store.

- The man who was too busy looking at EVERY SINGLE diet supplement known on the face of this earth to realize his cart was blocking an entire pathway. It’s cool, dude. The 3 of us that had to walk completely around the health food section totally appreciated it. May your impending weight loss bring more attention to your surroundings than food cravings.

- My absolute favorite. The couple buying two things in line. With a shopping cart. And stacked so far back behind the shopping cart that no one else could possibly even unload their precious cargo onto the “let me buy this shit” conveyor belt. By the time their purchase was complete we were left with the ever-popular cashier glare from hell while trying to frantically empty our trinkets onto the moving black belt of doom.

I’m not sure if it’s the holidays that will tempt late night shopping from America’s finest. If that is actually the case, I will gladly hibernate until taxes are due.