Your Satisfaction is Not At All Important to Us!

Also, did anyone else know that Sunday was No-Pants Day on the subway? I hope Monday was Purell-the-Seats Day.


Which reminds me of a story of something that happened two hours ago.

I'm not a fightin' gal. I get annoyed easy but angry? I'm a bit burned out for all that. I can recall three times in the last few years when I got the old red mist in front of my eyes and nearly reached for my stabbing stick.

I once nearly strangled a couple who was noisily making out during the incredibly emotional and gut wrenching 2004 Mike Leigh film "Vera Drake." For those who have seen this film, need I explain more? For those who did not, its the story of a working class British woman in 1950 who gives abortions to women in desperate need and then must face the consequences. It's a incredibly heartbreaking story of class and values. How this film could arouse passion of the spit-swapping sort in anyone is beyond me. I became angry. Punches were nearly thrown. My companion was mortified. I calmed down. The couple sulkily stopped making out. Rage over.

Another time was with a former boss and it was so horrible that it hurts to recount it. I'll just say this. I thought I was speaking in a reasonable tone to this person but it turned out that I was shouting at the top of my lungs. I lost my shit completely and utterly.



Then there was the time that we had bed bugs that wouldn't go away and... well, I know I need not say more. Ugh, just typing about them makes me itchy and angry.

Then there was tonight. After a lovely afternoon with the wonderful folks of Girls Write Now, I headed down into the NYC subway, where the machine promptly ate my $10, announced an "encoding error" and then refused to barf up a receipt for me. How to retrieve my money? The charming specimen who was standing outside the glass infomation thing kept telling me that I needed to get an envelope from a booth. What booth? A booth. Was I deaf? I pointed to the clear glass booth where helpful people tended to work. She leaned down and pointed to the sign as if I was differently abled. "See here?" she said slowly and deliberately. "This is a kiosk. Not a booth."

I was lucky that there were people around me, people who beginning to worry if an "incident" was about to occur. Because I began saying, "Why couldn't you just have said that in the first place? How would anyone know the difference between the booth and a kiosk considering there's no one inside either one? Why is it acceptable for none of the machines to work and then for no one TO BE INSIDE THE KIOSK TO OFFER ASSISTANCE. GIVE ME BACK MY $10! TEN DOLLARS!"

"DO I SIT AT THE EDGE OF THE BED AND BOTHER YOU WHILE YOU'RE WORKING, BITCH?!" (Note: I didn't actually say this but I wish I could have.)

The gentle, yet terrified man who was fixing a broken subway card machine (have you ever seen the inside of these things? They do not inspire financial or mechanical assurance) gave me a number to call, wrote down the number of the machine and subway station for me. Thanks mister. I go be crazy somewhere else.

I should probably go back to yoga.

Also, has anyone seen how friggin' fancy Duane Reade has gotten? The one on 34th and Sixth Avenue is not to be believed. Like Sephora except you can also get some condoms and a bag of peanuts. Classy!