Deep Sigh #989 - Everyone's a Doctor

I've been hit with a series of illnesses lately, most likely my body punishing me for all the fun I had while traveling all summer.  The most recent blow is a case of tonsillitis, with a side of fever, chills, body aches and pains.

Now I'm usually not a wuss when it comes to illnesses.  My philosophy has always been: it's always good to let your body battle it rather than going to the doctor and getting over medicated.  But this has been a most severe case of a sore throat I've ever had, so I finally succumbed and was prescribed a shitload of medication.

The Taiwanese like to overmedicate.  

But what's worse than the whole process of going to the doctor and getting a list of pills to swallow, is the horde of people you know who all think they have a cure for you.

"Drink hot water!"
"Drink cold water!"
"Warm milk with honey!"
"Jump up and down and hold your breath!"

I'm sure we've heard all these goofy suggestions from people before.

Apparently everyone thinks they are Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman and like to offer their two cents on not only what is ailing you, but how you can be cured if you follow their instructions to the letter.

As an example, my Dad loves to both diagnose and prescribe.  Before my real M.D. used science to determine that I had a nasty throat infection, my Dad took to WebMD and thought that the most likely cause of my sore throat was a nasty cold that I must have gotten from my Aunt who just recently came back from Thailand and threw a whole stack of pills from his leftover medication cabinet.  Not only am I sure that taking old medication is not the healthiest of decisions, but I'm not sure why he thought it necessary to horde medication in this manner rather than finishing it off as you're supposed to do when battling infections.  However, this is good to know if a zombie apocalypse happens and I need to stock up on some Nyquil.

Then there's my teacher who believes in more traditional means of medicine.  Coincidentally, our class has been learning about "Being Sick" as a unit in our Mandarin course, so she's let us know some of her ways to get rid of headaches like eating a 1/3 of a clove of garlic.  It's apparently the same cure for when you have way too many friends and want people to stay away from you.  She also wanted us to squeeze our thumbs and big toes really hard every 10 minutes for an hour because those are the pressure points that help relieve tension in your head.  It's also very practical to do, you know in the middle of a meeting, to excuse yourself as you need to massage your big toe because the subject matter of that meeting is giving you a migrane.

While I understand everyone is trying to help a person who's suffering, it is best to leave health matters in the hands of the professionals.  That Robitussin Dr. Mom campaign really gave everyone way too much confidence that they are anywhere close to being a certified doctor.

'Mo Tussin! - oh, Chris.

Now I must go and dab my head with a cold wash cloth to help me calm down from this rant.

DEEP SIGH.  (COUGH COUGH)...


 

Deep Sigh #990 - Oreo Teeth

Apologies for the lack of blogs recently - I had a short recess of a couple of weeks as I adjust to being a student once again (Ah, see what I did there?  Recess and School?  Not funny?  Fine.)  I'm sure in the coming weeks, I'll have some awesome Deep Sighs about student life.

This post was inspired by my early morning semi-drunk craving for food.  Without a Mickey Ds near my house, Plan B was to raid the cupboard for anything that could satisfy my hunger.  The cupboard was pretty disappointing.  Having not grocery shopped in a couple of weeks, there was a package of  Chinese rice crackers and a box of Oreos that I bought from a few weeks ago.  After a brief internal battle between my Western and Asian self, my Canadian side won.  The box of Oreos it was.

I know I'm going to get a lot of flack for this because who does not like Oreos?  Flashback to my first ever experience (six years old) with the awesome chocolate icing-filled cookie, I remember eating an entire row of them and consequently throwing it all back up in a wonderful display of black and white colours into the toilet bowl.  If it wasn't so disgusting, it would have made for an amazing Rorscharch image.  Don't get me wrong, even with the sugar high induced vomiting, there was still a lot of love for the delicious sandwich cookie.

Return to the present where I've poured a glass of milk, opened the box of Oreos and proceed to decimate half the box; stopped only by the sound of a growling stomach (DEEP SIGH #989 might be for Lactose Intolerance).

No, Asian Oreos do not taste any different.  They are just smaller and more efficient.

The consequence of this spontaneous Oreo binge is what I like to call Oreo Teeth - where the delicious cookie crumbs have trapped itself in every valley of your teeth and smeared itself all over your once pink tongue.  The task of getting rid of Oreo teeth is quite the chore.  Three brushings later, I still couldn't shake loose some of the dark dots on my teeth (even with my power toothbrush) and having used the tongue scraper twice, my tongue still looked like one of the fifty shades of grey.

The only thing that saves this Deep Sigh from becoming a Super Deep Sigh is at least I was eating Oreos before going to bed and not before an important event such as the following (some of which I have done before):

- Client Dinner
- Job Interview (DAMN BREAKFAST CRAVING FOR OREOS!)
- A Date
- A Date that leads to other things (wink wink)
- A Dentist Appointment (they'll clean it out anyways, right?)

So to you Oreo, as much as I have deep love and passion for your deliciousness, it pains me to get you out of my system.

DEEP SIGH.

Deep Sign #991 - Sidewalk Hogs

Sadly, this post isn't about pigs lounging on pedestrian walkways.  I apologize to those who thought otherwise and was disappointed on the click through.  Rather it is directed at individuals who have no clue about proper sidewalk etiquette and do not know how to share the thoroughfare with others.

I admit, I'm a fast walker - correction, a pedestrian with a purpose.  I have places to go and I'd rather get to it quickly than move at a glacial pace.  I'm not crazy quick, I mean, it's not like I'm going at the pace of one of those Olympic speed walkers (who look like they are all on a mission to find the nearest washroom, IMHO).

I love to walk - living downtown, it's faster sometimes to get to point A to B by taking a brisk constitutional than hopping on public transit or by car.  But it was always incredibly annoying to me when I was stuck behind a, or many, Sidewalk Hog(s).  I've identified several forms:

The Slow Walker.  These individuals were exposed to the story of the Tortoise and the Hare as a child and really took to heart the lesson that slow and steady wins the race.  I mean, it's easy to say that seniors are the most likely group to fall into this category, but don't be fooled.  Slow walkers are likely that way due to their personality.  They are usually the laid back, non-chalant, never on time person that you hate to have with you when you have to catch a plane.  Slow walkers take note - if you know you're going to move at the pace that Eeyore talks, then kindly move into the imaginary slow lane to the right of others, on the sidewalk.

The Sudden Stopper (aka Course Changer).  When a car ever stopped suddenly forcing you to slam on your breaks, you know the number of expletives you would use in a situation like that.  I feel that way about people who stop suddenly in the middle of a large group of people to check for directions or try to find something in their bag.  Or those who decide - crap, I've gone the wrong direction, I'll just make this u-turn without looking - before they slam into you holding a cup of Starbucks with your wrong name on it.  These Sudden Stoppers and Course Changers really should be equipped with car hazard lights and signalling devices to spare the rest of us the pain of tackling them.

The Group Hogs.  This pack of inconsiderate mofos travel in a pack to irritate the shit out of you.  They form a walking group that takes up the entire width of the sidewalk forcing people to walk around them and then giving US the dirty looks when we decide we've had enough and walk through them.  They are also prone to stopping and gathering in a big group on the sidewalk preventing normal flow of traffic, like plaque buildup in an artery causing a heart attack.  In any case, when you encounter Group Hogs, you'll likely have a heart attack trying to suppress your overwhelming urge to charge through them.

The "I Own This Sidewalk"-er.  This is the douchebag that decides, well, I'm just going to stand here in the middle of all of this traffic and check my phone while waiting for my buddy.  Good for you man, but next time, fuck off to the peripheries of the sidewalk and do your chilling out there.

The Expandables.  No, this isn't a group of super heroes from Disney, they are those who carry bags and bags of shit (shopping bags, luggage, gym bags), that make them take up twice the amount of space on the sidewalk.  They are even worse on escalators - blocking up the passing section and forcing injuries of scratches or bruises on those walking by.  They also walk slowly since they are weighed down by all this extra baggage, and every time they turn, you bet your ass they injure some unsuspecting poor soul.  They are triple threats.

You've likely encountered at least one or two of these Sidewalk Hogs before, and for those of you who enjoy a regular jaunt you've likely seen all five of these characters.  They really make you reconsider walking outside or just hopping in your car and avoid pedestrians altogether.

DEEP SIGH.

#992 - When the barista gets your name wrong

After traveling for these past two months, I've come to the realization that once in a while, it's nice to treat yourself to a taste of home.  I have two guilty pleasures - one is McDonald's (I've tried Mickey D's in at least 20 different countries by now - which I'm sure will be a DEEP SIGH topic sooner or later) and the other is Starbucks.  Despite its crazy prices and endless menu that makes you do more reading than a ninth grade English class novel, Starbucks is always a great destination for that cup of joe that reminds you of home, and free wifi to satisfy your internet craving.  As an addict of the net, I am very grateful to pay a premium for my iced beverage just for the ability to surf the internet for an unlimited amount of time.

But what I absolutely hate about the place is the fact that the Baristas take down your name during your order.  Look, I understand the fact that you want to personalize the customer experience, but really, does it help if my name is rarely correct on the cup?

Maybe it's the loud sounds of people talking at the tables, or the machines whooshing and whirling every sort of concoction that prevent the Barista from having any clue of what your name is.  The more letters, the easier it is to fuck it up.  Three syllables?  You might as well go fuck yourself, you'll never get your name properly written on that cup.

Here's how a conversation usually goes with a Barista (mind you, even English speaking countries still have issues with my name - this example was from a recent trip to London):

Smiling Barista: "What's your name sir?"
Me: "Terence."
Happy Barista: "Thanks Karen - your order will be up shortly."
Me: "No, it's Terence." (Puzzled look on my face as if I look like a Karen while double checking to see if my penis was still there.)
Apologetic Barista: "Sorry, Clarace, I'll get that corrected for you." (pens out Karen and starts to write Clarace.)
Me: "No, sorry, it's Terence." (Saying it louder and wondering why I just apologized - I guess it's just the Canadian in me.)
Puzzled Barista: "Taris?" (Scratching out Clarace and now trying to find an empty spot on the cup to write this common name of Taris on the cup.)
Me: "No, TERENCE." (I'm projecting like I'm on a Broadway stage speaking to a crowd of over 1,000 theatre goers.)
Confident Barista: "Oh, Terrace!"  (Feeling all proud that he's finally got it.)
Me: "Yea, Terrace." (Resigned to the fact that I've just wasted a full minute trying to play 20 questions with my name with this Barista.)
Other Barista: "Terrace?  Iced latte?"
Me: "Here." (Begrudgingly accepting my new identity.)

After a trip to Starbucks, I walk out with and iced cold drink and a Multiple Personality Disorder.

At this rate, it's just better to make up a name like Peter or Mark or Paul that they can't fuck up.  (Or can they?)

DEEP SIGH.

On a DEEP SIGH sidenote, I was outside an Edinburgh Starbucks near closing time and saw a woman walk into order a coffee.  She was the only one in the place and the Barista still asked her for her name. She looked around, first to her left, and then to her right, and she must have been thinking, why the fuck do you need my name if I'm the only one here.  I guess she finally relented because I saw the Barista quickly scribble something down on her cup before getting her drink ready.  I wonder if ELLEN walked out of there equally angered that her name Helen (or better yet Eileen) was nowhere to be found on her cup.

#993 - People who sit beside you on the bus when there are other seats available

I am a huge fan of public transit.  Before you attack me on my statement, I'm going to legal asterisk my comment by saying "In most metropolitan cities."  Public transit is cheap, accessible, and gets you where you need to go.

Of course, there are the downsides - it is crowded, it is dirty and it is often smelly.  Summer + no air conditioning + people exposing their sweaty armpits to hold onto railings while wearing no deodorant =  the breath holding skills you practiced with your siblings as a child and your parents said would never amount to anything really do come in handy.

When I worked in advertising, I'd often take the Toronto subway during off-peak hours because, well, I was at work earlier and later than your regular 9 to 5er.  Commuting at this time was perfect as seats were available throughout the subway cars and everyone had ample personal space.

Just when you think you have reached the peak of commuter nirvana as you comfortably sit three seats away from any other life form, a weirdo sits right beside you.  I'm not talking about two seats away, I'm saying ass cheek to ass cheek beside you.

You look to your left and see three empty seats.  You look to your right and (besides the one that's now occupied by Weirdo McFreakazoid) and there were three empty seats.  Really, of all the places to sit, the seat next to you was deemed the luckiest of them all by this guy?

So you're in a predicament - if you stay, you're stuck having to ride it out until one of you gets up for your stop.  If you move, you have that awkward ride of looking at each other knowing you moved because you were uncomfortable around that other person.  There's really no polite way of getting out of this one.

Plus, you were settled there first.  You put the stake in the ground that that empty area belonged to your ass and no one else's for at least a few seats.  Fuck it, you decide to move.  You're never going to see this asshole again.  You move your seat, look into your bag to see if you can score some reading material to avoid the puppy dog eyes of the guy who you just moved away from and realize you left your go-to commuting book on your desk at work.  Get ready for some awkward eye contact avoidance for the remainder of your commute.

DEEP SIGH.

#994 - Being sober when all your friends are shit-faced drunk.

"I'm the designated driver."
"I'm on anti-biotics."
"I'm observing a religious event."

All proper excuses for not drinking.  All perfect reasons for you to curl up into a corner and cry because during the next six hours of partying with your friends, you're going to regret agreeing to be DD, having that horrible infection (no judgement), or being a part of a religion that makes you abstain from happy juice.

Let's face it, we're no angels when we get shittered.  We're loud, we slur our words, we sometimes spit when we talk, we bump into people, and we laugh/cry/rage uncontrollably.  We force the poor sober friend to take our abuse.  One of these abuses is making them the one to take the obnoxious photos of everyone else progressively getting drunk so that we can all laugh about it tomorrow and yell at our friends over Facebook to not to tag us, but really secretly hoping everyone sees how much of a party animal you are.

This photo screams: "I am
a responsible adult."

Then, it's your turn.  You're the sober one (everyone has to step up sometime).  You have to put up with the friend who's yelling in your ear about her problems with her boyfriend while on her seventh glass of wine.  You have to decipher your best friend's slurred tirade about why he hates his job while trying to comfort him with short sentences and repeating the same advice since they keep A.D.D.-ing elsewhere.  You wait impatiently as your group of friends stumble into each other in a crowded club trying to take a decent group partying photo.

And just when you think the night can't get any worse, drinks get spilled on your nice clubbing clothes, people keep stepping on your feet while you navigate a dancefloor of intoxicated heavyfoots and the bartender starts ignoring your requests for diet coke because he realizes he's not getting tipped by you.  Everything is just amplified by the fact that you're sober and observing all these assholes around you having the time of their lives and wishing you could be like them.  This is where an Ariel/Little Mermaid reference cue would work well.

All you want is for this night to be over.  You look down at your watch and it is still only 11 fucking 30.  These people are going to be partying until at least 2am.

DEEP SIGH.  Next time, you're drinking regardless of the antibiotics or the religious holiday.  But don't drink and drive.  That's just fucking stupid.

DEEP SIGH FUNFACT: The term SHITFACED DRUNK comes from the time where people used to dump their chamberpots (where they stored their shit because there was no indoor plumbing) out their windows and it would rain on unfortunate victims below.  In Edinburgh, Scotland, there were laws put in place that only allowed people to throw their pot contents out the window at 10am and 10pm.  10pm just happened to be when all of the drunks would leave the pubs as it was closing time.  The drunks would hear the warnings, but would be so wasted, they would look up to see where the shouting would come from and end up with shit on their face.  Hence, they would be the SHITFACED DRUNK.  (Cue "The More You Know" music.)

#995 - Forgetting tissues in your pockets during laundry

I like laundry.  I know many loathe having to spend a couple of hours every weekend to sort through their whites and colours, sit around and wait for a couple of hours and then engage in the terrifying task of sorting and folding begins (God help you if you have a large family.)  But for me, I find laundry to be nice downtime in which I can destress by catching up on some missed shows, read a book or perhaps pop open a bottle of wine, unless this happens...  Plus, one of my favourite smells in the world is Tide laundry detergent, which is amplified by the warmth of being fresh out of the dryer.  Mmmm...it's a strange smell obsession, but who are you to judge?

I'm pretty thorough when it comes to laundry.  Chalk it up to my obsessive compulsive nature, but I have one bin for whites and one for my colours.  I always double check the lint trap and make sure to do a pocket squeeze check to make sure nothing of importance is left to die in the frigid cold water wash cycle.  (Sidenote: reduce your energy costs by washing in cold water.)

However, there's always the one or two items that you've missed which results in some hand smacks to your forehead.  No item is worse than the dreaded tissue (used or unused, they both suck balls.)  They elude your squeeze test, they stay buried as a damp clump during the wash cycle but then unleash their full fury during the dryer phase.  Operation Fuck Up Your Clothes is soon complete.

The minute you open the dryer door, your jaw drops in reaction to the utter madness of it all.  Some small wisps of paper tissue escape the dryer and fly aimlessly through the air as if they were taunting you for your stupidity.  The rest of their colleagues stubbornly cling onto the entire load of dark clothing that you've been eagerly waiting for.  You close your eyes and think - fuck, if only I had stuck my hand into that damn jeans pocket, that one second invested would have saved me this frustration.

You're stuck with either doing the laundry again and hoping the white bits would wash away, or using a roller to go through all of your clothes and manually picking out the really stubborn asshole tissue pieces that refuse to vacate.  Regardless, you won't get rid of all of them.  They'll be with you for at least another couple of washes, and each time a friend or work colleague picks one off of your sweater, you'll be reminded of your failure at life that particular Sunday laundry-filled afternoon.

DEEP SIGH.

#996 - Travel companions that can't take photos.

You saved up for a wicked trip.  You invited your good friend to come with you.  You're on the plane to that once in a lifetime destination.  You guys arrive and start taking in the surroundings.  You pick an amazing backdrop to commemorate your vacation and *SNAP* - the photo that will be on display in your living room for the next decade has been taken.  Then you get your camera back and you realize your friend is a shit photographer.

Friend, I understand this was an action shot, but you couldn't have snapped it at a more appropriate moment where I didn't have the instructor behind me?  No?  Okay.

You're head's cut off, the scenery is out of focus, everything is backlit.  Basic photography skills are no where to be found with your companion.  "What the fuck?" - you silently fume to yourself as you try to take a self-portrait to make up for the disappointing photo.  Even the self-portrait, taken at a ridiculous angle, produces a better result than the one your friend just took.  You produce a small sigh and think, maybe it was just a fluke.

Until you get to your next destination and ask them to take a photo because unfortunately, there's no one else to be found.  You instruct them how you'd like to frame the photo, what you'd like captured and how you're going to pose and the only thing they need to do is to hold their arms in the way you've positioned them and click the shutter button.

Of course my face looks that blurry in real life.  Thanks again for capturing one of my life's great moments.

It still turns out like shit.  You're now pissed.  You've just come on vacation with a shitty photographer and you realize that you're not going to get one good photo for the entire time.  Flush all of your important memories down the toilet.  No more awesome photo on the mantle.  No more Facebook profile photo to use for the next two months.

Fuck it, it's time to follow around some Asian tourists.  When in doubt, ask an Asian with an SLR dangling around his neck to take your photo.  They will rarely disappoint.

DEEP SIGH.

#997 - Cutting your fingernails and realizing you need to open a can after the fact

In my humble opinion, men should always have short fingernails.  There's nothing worse than seeing a man with Howard Hughes-esque claws, especially when you go in for a handshake and you're stabbed by their ivory digit daggers.  There really should be a law in place for this - I once had to ride in a cab where the cabbie's 1.5 cm pinky nail (I fucking kid you not) was staring at me the whole way to my destination.  I would have rather that he had horrible body odour as opposed to freak nail.  I had to stop a couple of blocks early because I started hallucinating that it was talking to me and saying: "LOOK AT ME."  (Fine, I was a bit hammered when this hallucination occurred, but I would have been equally freaked out if I was sober).  Okay, you get it, I hate long fingernails.  This is why I have a policy in place that I cut mine every weekend.

Another pet peeve is uneven
nail lengths.  But for now,
let's just not go there.

Just as you start to admire your freshly pruned fingertips, you realize one huge disadvantage.  You cannot open beer cans as easily as before.  This just fucking sucks because the first thing I want to do after some intensive nail clipping labour is to reach for a cold one.  Guys (and some really awesome girls), you know what I'm talking about.  You groomed yourself so that you can go out partying that night and you want to start things off right, but now you can't because each time you attempt to open that metallic tab, you hear that "click, click, click" sound of the metal popping back into place.

You're slightly irritated so you attempt it again with your other hand.  Click, click, click goes the metal tab - it's laughing at you for no longer being able to get it to go "PHISH", that golden sound of can opening accomplishment.  It's taunting you - click, click, click - that you would do something as stupid as shaving off those valuable can opening tools leaving yourself can-dicapped.

You have three options now: either abandon your quest, use another tool to open the can and look like a sissy for not being able to crack open that top, or hand it over to another person who will mock you for your silly life decisions of wanting short fingernails.

One can never win in a situation like this.  Especially since you realized you should have gotten the beer in bottles.  DEEP SIGH.

HOW WILL I GET TO MY OZUJSKO AND KARLOVACKO BEERS NOW?!  WHY GOD?  WHY?!

#998 - When a cork breaks in the wine bottle

You've had a shitty day.  Work was crap, the commute was awful and the weather decided it was going to add a third layer of annoyance to irritate you at 6:45pm.  All you want is a nice glass (or four) of wine to help calm your nerves and help you settle into a calm evening of doing absolute dick all.    Thankfully, you remember that you have that bottle of Merlot kicking around.  You thank whatever deity (or deities) you pray to and kick it up a notch to get home as soon as possible.

The minute you step through the front door, you shed everything on you like a school kid coming in from the rain at recess.  You throw on your PJs, you grab that bottle and a corkscrew and you settle in on the couch.  As you twist that instrument deep into the cork, you are filled with sheer excitement that in a couple of seconds, wine will grace your tastebuds and all will be good with the world again.

You start to realize something is off as you start pulling out the cork.  It's stiff and uncooperative.  (Yes, I realize how dirty this description is getting, so I'll stop it here.)  It's when you start hearing the cork tearing that you start realizing it is too late...the cork has split in two and you're stuck holding a useless corkscrew with half-decimated cork in one hand, and a still unopened bottle of wine in the other.

A small sigh is released, but you attempt at getting the other part of the cork out.  Just like an Olympian stepping up to whatever event they are competing at, the brow is furrowed, the eyes are focused and the movement is calculated.  Digging the corkscrew into the bottleneck again, there is now a deep concentration on making sure this time, you don't fuck it up.  There's wine in jeopardy here.

But then, you suffer the same disappointment as a fourth place finisher, the cork now splits down the middle and there's no way of getting out that precious liquid.  You're now crying on the inside because you're just too tired to go out and get more wine and you've lost a bottle of booze to a defective cork.

Look at all of these non-defective corks mocking you.

DEEP SIGH.

#999 - Being the weakling that can't open jars

We've all been in this situation before: you buy a yummy jar of (insert your favourite jarred product here.  For me, it's pickles.) from the grocery store, you rush home to satisfy a craving, and low and behold, you can't open the fucking jar.  You do everything to try to open it; you twist, you turn, you heat up the lid, you use a dry towel, and you go through all measures besides breaking the glass jar to try to get to the sweet prize inside.  In the end, you're covered in a layer of sweat and the lid isn't budging like that lazy boyfriend who is on the couch after he's found a documentary of the greatest sports moments in history on TV.

This jar of olives that won't open
 is bugging the shit out of me.

Admit it, you've laughed at those stupid infomercials on late night TV where you see the idiot fake struggling with a jar (these are clearly people who failed drama school) paired with the announcer emphasizing awful copy like: "You're struggling, straining and even injuring your hands to open that jar!  Well, struggle no more!  Introducing the Lid Turninator!  For only $19.99, we'll send you this one of a kind device that opens lids so easily, you'll never have to worry about carpal tunnel syndrome again!  And if you call now, you'll get another Lid Turinator for free!"  I'm sorry, do I have that many jars that I need to open two at the same time to save on time?

Then, we realize once we're stuck in the non-jar opening situation, that we really should have picked up the phone and paid that $19.99 plus the shipping and handling charge so as not to be on the brink of tears over a stiff lid.

But wait for it, the deep sigh doesn't come into effect until someone casually wanders into the kitchen and asks why you look like you've just run a marathon while holding a jar of preservatives.  Fuck you, you mutter under your breath.  You tell them that this jar lid is absolutely impossible and challenge them to try.  They take the jar from you, tilt their head, look at it for a second and with a swift shift of their two hands, you hear the POP that's been eluding you for the past ten minutes.

As you mutter another "fuck" under your breath, and claim that you just made it easier for that other individual to open it, you walk away with your jar.  With your back turned because you don't want to show the other person your defeated face, you eventually breath out an air of frustration to indicate that you died a little on the inside.

DEEP SIGH.

#1000 - Thinking you have exact change...

When I was six, I remember walking to the local supermarket with my parents and feeling very proud.  It was the day I was going to buy my own candy with the money I had saved up in my piggy bank.  This was my biggest ticket purchase to date as a human being - so a pretty big fucking deal at the time.  With the $1.99 of quarters, dimes, nickels and more pennies than you can find in a wishing fountain, I skipped to the market, albeit weighed down heavily with the two pocketfuls of change.

After strolling confidently down the candy aisle, picking up the box of Fruit by the Foot and placing it behind my own groceries divider at the cash register, I learned quickly what disappointment felt like...and also an important lesson about taxes.  See, in Canada (at the time) there was 7% government tax on such products like candy.  My $1.99 purchase turned out to be $2.13 - not having the extra $0.14 and Asian parents that didn't believe in rewarding stupidity, I had to march back to the candy aisle with the box of candy, and hold back the tears, in fear of being scolded by the same cruel parents that thought this was the best time to teach their son an important life lesson about financial responsibility.

I wish I could say that that lesson stuck with me, but exact change has let me down time and time again.  Coins are fucking annoying, and there's nothing better than that feeling of being able to get rid of those meaningless copper discs that are turning green from oxidation and staining the insides of your pockets of that pair of pants you love.

Coins.  Useless, useless coins.

What's even worse is when you think you have exact change but then you're forced to break a large bill because alas, you were fucked over by one or two cents difference, and the cashier is unrelenting in keeping her till synced with her receipts.  You know what I mean, that look that you give them, the deep sigh you release hinting that you don't have enough change, and if they really don't get the message, being more direct by saying, "Shit, I'm just one cent off."

If anything, a deep sigh should also be given to that asshole cashier who can't look the other way when you're just a penny short.  Whatever, all I have to say is karma, bitch, karma.

And if breaking the big bill isn't annoying enough, the final coup de grace comes when you get MORE change back from the cashier and she smirks knowing you didn't want the fucking coins in the first place.  Now, all you can do walk away serenaded by the clink of the coins as they shift around in your new ball sack of a pocket.

DEEP SIGH.