We don’t have a plethora of choices when it comes to cell phone companies in Great Falls. I have stuck with the same company for over 7 years, and don’t really have any complaints. I REALLY am dying to have an iPhone, but who knows when or if that day will ever come. As a special treat, when I replaced my old phone, I went for a Blackberry Pearl. I was thrilled to have what they call a “smart phone.” Only thing is, it isn’t so smart. I have had nothing but trouble with it since I took the shiny red goodness out of the box.

I decided my introductory period was over. If I hadn’t figured out the difficulties it actually was the phone, not my being too dumb to figure it out. I walked into the store holding my very special phone and I was greeted by a monotone, “What can I do for you?” You knew when he spoke it was only because he was forced to. I described for the guy my frustration with vanishing texts, and a rollerball that worked only half the time. He took the phone, and for the next 45 minutes never spoke another word to me. He was 2 feet across from me, and made no attempt at small talk, didn’t explain to me what he was doing to my phone, and acted as though he didn’t want me anywhere near him.

I spent this 45 minutes trying to explain away what his problem was. Was he in a bad mood because he just get evicted from his apartment? Is he so painfully shy he can’t speak? Has he been hired as part of a program to help “special” people get jobs? Did he miss the day of job training that explained customer service etiquette? Or…could it be that he is just an ass?

I became increasingly uncomfortable with this silence. It was like I was a kid getting the silent treatment from a friend. I tried to say a few things to break the awkward hush hush. No response…nothing. Wow, really? He can’t even answer me? After our shared eon of quiet he decided to speak. “Here’s the deal…your phone is broken. Your are going to get a new one in the mail. When you get it, bring it back in.” After he showed off his ability to string 26 words together, he gave me my old, torn up, sad phone and that was it.

I stood there, looking unintelligent, not sure if this interaction was really over. More silence. I finally just got up and went to my car. Once in my car I realized that EVERYTHING had been erased from my phone. The address book that I had painstakingly plugged in one letter at a time was gone without warning. My charming phone guy never even whispered to me that ALL of my info would be lost, and if there was anything I needed from the phone I had a minute to retrieve it. Nope, he just handed me back a blank slate.

My new phone arrived and I did as he commanded. I brought it back to the store. When I walked in the door, there was Mr. Personality. I did everything in my power to avoid getting his appalling service. I even pretended to be looking at phones so that other customers were forced to endure him. I paced thinking “PLEASE let me get the friendly blond girl.” Sadly, if finally came down to Mr. Talky and I once again. Could I say, “No thanks, I am going to wait for somebody else to help me.” Nope. With my head down, feeling defeated, I walked over to his station.

He said, “Oh, it came it.” He grabbed both of my phones and started working his secret cellphone wizardry. When he looked up from his work, he wouldn’t even look me in the face. He looked PAST me, as if he was trying to avoid looking me in the eyes. Next thing I know, he gets up and walks away. I am sitting there speculating where he went. Was I so unbearable that he couldn’t sit across from me and do his work? Did he go out back to shoot my old phone? 10 minutes passed and he finally moseyed in from the back room. He finished chewing before he sat down, and then wiped crumbs off of his face. Apparently doing his job had interrupted his meal time.

Mr. Charisma handed me my phone, and with his final words of wisdom said, “There.”

If Annie Leibovitz asked me to get naked, I would do it. And I won’t get naked for ANYBODY. The difference being, I am not a 15 year old. Going after Annie Leibovitz is a witch hunt. I highly doubt Miley Cyrus was there alone. Any teenager should have a parent with them, and any “star’ working for a company like Disney should have a representative with them. If they didn’t want the picture taken they should have said no. Duuuhhhh. Annie was thinking in terms of art, she didn’t card her when she walked through the door. Don’t blame the artist, blame stupid parents. Remember Whoopie naked in the tub of milk? Demi Moore naked and pregnant? John Lennon naked with Yoko Ono? All Leibovitz. So is it that out of the norm that she might ask her to pose like that? No. Her dumb ass mullet head dad or manager should have controlled that situation if they didn’t want it. I’m just annoyed.

I inadvertently attended a Red Hat Society meeting. It just so happened they were having a gathering at the restaurant I was eating my lunch at. They were seated so closely I could not help but be drawn to their crazy feathered hats and purple grandma sweaters. I was staring at them with the same disgusted look on my face that I am sure they have given a thousand times to the floppy haired kids with tattoos and piercings. I don’t think I ever imagined that these groups really existed. I am not much of a “joiner” but I thought if these ladies enjoyed assembling in the name of looking foolish, more power to them. With much observation I realized that none of them were smiling. Their faces were outright despondent. The body language of the ladies started making me uncomfortable, and I became a little worried about them. Did they really want to be there, or did somebody just dress them up and prop them in those chairs?

The Queen Mother of this batch of ladies (yes, they call the leaders Queen Mother) was quite the grandstander. Not only did she want the attention of her minions, but the entire restaurant. She was so loud, you could not even stop yourself from staring if you wanted to. In her giant feather hat and matching boa she hollered, “Everybody say hello to Clara. Clara came all the way from North Dakota on the choo-choo to have lunch with us.” I was wondering if Clara regretted her decision yet. Next she made an offering to all around the table. They could take home some of her second hand purses that matched the necessary wardrobe. Gee, could I have one of your old dirty handbags with a used plastic comb to tease my hair, a crummy mint loose on the bottom, and the bonus of a recycled tissue?

Next thing on the agenda…voting on where to have lunch for their next fancy affair. The kingpin made her announcement of the choices. Judging by her bravado, I had no doubt that 60 years earlier she was head cheerleader and prom queen, and she was still fighting to be the center of attention. She was really pushing for a particular restaurant, and I am not sure that her followers were comprehending. She let them raise their hands for the first restaurant, and I counted the votes in my head. Second vote, hands raised…I count. Now, by my numbers, the second restaurant won, by the chiefs numbers, the first restaurant won. I am not kidding, I swear she fudged the vote so she could have the buffet of her choice!! By the expressions of the wait staff in the eatery I was currently in, I think they were just thankful they weren’t coming back to visit them any time soon.

I checked the website for the Red Hat Society, and was surprised to see the conventions and functions all over the U.S. Somebody is making a killing on hideous red hats, and purple fabric. You can buy everything online, even kazoos. What do those women do with kazoos? I cringe at the thought. I was still trying to convince myself that this roundup of old ladies was a positive thing. Then I read on the website,

The standard answer to the question, “What do you do?” is… Nothing.

Nothing? Really? You are going to tell me your entire organization is pointless? That is, unless you are collecting money for the wardrobe, chapter dues, or Decade of Sparkle convention. Damn, I remember growing up my Mom warned me about groups who wanted all my money, and to blindly follow their rules. They were called cults.

They have been advertising the Festival of the Book around town for a while now. They had cushy full color posters printed, and Pete Fromm and Jamie Ford were the festival rock stars. My hope is that the library would not want to deprive these authors of the biggest possible audience. Admittedly, I was not there at 7 p.m. on the dot. But, in none of the advertising or the Great Falls Library website did it say you would not be allowed in after a certain time. There was also no direction as to where in the library the reading would be held. I assumed when I arrived at the building, a friendly librarian would greet me with a smile and say, “Are you here for the readings? Well, right this way. Please enter quietly because it has already started.”

It looked dark as I approached the doors. There were cars parked in the lot, so I expected people inside. I try to open the front door, no luck. The next person tries, in case I wasn’t smart enough to open it on my own. Nope. If you pressed your face against the glass, you could read the dry erase board inside the entry that said there was a reading going on, as well as the poster. OK…OPEN SESAME. No, didn’t work. There is another book enthusiast trying to call somebody on the inside. That attempt was another failure.

Defeated and annoyed it was back to the car. One girl pulled up and asked where to go. Hell of we knew. Our last effort seemed to involve something criminal. Trying the back doors of the library. Sure enough, we went in the exit and had to sneak downstairs. From the look on the woman’s face behind the table, she was startled to see us.

There wasn’t enough seats for everyone so people were sitting on the floor like a confused kindergarten class. So, were they purposely trying to limit the number of people? It seemed strange to shun people who wanted a little literary culture. Especially after the effort they put into promoting it. Was putting a sign up that said Enter Through Side Door OR Sorry, Lecture in Session, Please Join Us Again Tomorrow too much strain? Anything would have been a help. So, to all of those that turned away before me, and those who tackled the door after I was gone, it will forever be Festival of the Locked Door.

I have to start by saying I am a total tool. I was sitting in an average, adult lecture surrounded by at least 55 people listening intently to the speakers. For an event that lasted two hours, I lost interest about 32 minutes into the presentation. The surrounding doors had been closed. I was too self conscious to walk in front of the others and try to make an escape. I didn’t want to be rude to those who felt they had something important to say. I was completely distracted by the woman behind me who insisted on gnawing on carrots during the entire production. Her chomp was all I could hear. I was approaching the moment where I was going to do the quick turn and shoot her the “I know it is you” look. As I was preparing my best evil eye…SHOCK HORROR, I hear a muffled “Sexy Back.” Oh God, are you kidding me? My cell phone was ringing!! I scrambled to find my beastly phone. Completely mortified and agitated, I could feel the heat shooting off my red cheeks. Once the phone was located all I could do was open it without answering. My friend on the other end of the line is wondering what is up as she is listening to dead air. (Later she informed me she was worried I needed help of some kind.) I handed the phone to my friend in the next seat because I as far too distressed to figure out how to mute it. I made a silent plea, “Please mute it before Donna Summer starts singing.” Lookin’ for some hot stuff baby this evenin’ would play for all, if my friend on the other end called back to leave a message. Please, no. This is far worse then the carrot nibbler.

Most of my cohorts can vouch for the fact that half of the time my cell phone is either sitting at home when I need it, or the battery is dead. Of course when I would prefer to sit in a crowd anonymous, I have a fully charged phone with me, ready to serenade the group of fake intellects. I can’t tell you how many times I have looked at others with disgust when their phones rang at inappropriate times. If you know you are going to be at a get together that requires quiet to show respect to others around you, why aren’t you genius enough to shut off your phone? It was pure stupidity on my part. The person who calls me 95% of the time was sitting next to me, so I never imagined I would get another call. So, what is everybody else’s excuse?

I’ve committed a crime. In my book, I would consider it a felony. I don’t have a mugshot, only because I have never endangered the public with my delinquency. My crime? Owning a pair of Crocs. Just like other criminals, you try to carry out your wrong doing in a way that you will never be caught. I have secretly worn my Crocs behind closed doors. If I am positive nobody will spot me, I will venture outside in my Crocs to pick up all the treasures my little dog has left behind in the back yard. But, NEVER the front yard, that is too risky. Just like a 16 year old hoping not to get caught with a bottle of Mad Dog, you would hide in a basement, not chug it on the front porch.

I don’t delight in admitting I own a pair. In fact, it makes me feel a little dirty. My only refuge is knowing that I did not pay for them. They were a gift purchased from QVC. (That makes it feel even filthier.) How could it get worse? They are hot pink. I love pink, but seeing these shoes in that color seems like some sort of pigment abuse. People drone on about how comfortable they are, but if I wear them more then 45 minutes they hurt my feet. Even if they were like walking on a cloud, is it really worth looking that ridiculous?

I enjoy breakfast at a good dive every now and again. I don’t need linen napkins, ceramic coffee cups, or an attentive wait staff. Periodically I can endure the “uncivilized” for a good piece of bacon. One of my favorite spots to hob nob with the “plain folk” is the Double Barrel. On a recent pop in, it seemed the patrons were more colorful then usual. At the table behind my boyfriend sat a mother and daughter, the daughter carrying a baby basket with a new human in it. From what I could overhear, they were arguing about what a loser the baby daddy was. To the right side of me was a table of old guys who looked like Lyle the chicken farmer from Napoleon Dynamite. (Please go the the Lyle link for the perfect visual.) They were hygiene challenged, missing many teeth, as well as leathery and weathered. Their booming voices suggested they were all hearing impaired. They were having their own version of coffee talk, and enjoying their chat. Up trots the waitress with her side-swept eighties ponytail held together with a green scrunchy, and the appropriate amount of flair for the upcoming St. Patrick’s Day celebration. She poured the group of “Lyle’s” a fresh cup of coffee and asked if they would like to hear a joke. She made no attempt to mute her brazen voice so she didn’t offend any of the surrounding customers, but proceeded in full bravado. “What do you call a homosexual in a wheelchair?” The Lyle’s look puzzled. “Rolaids!!!” She laughs at her own joke. Before the Lyle’s had a chance to digest the homo joke they just heard, she started joke number two. By that time I was in full on, red faced, throw down the napkin, offended mode. At the same time I was questioning if humor from 1991 was funny, or completely ghastly, I hear the punch line of the second joke. My rage made me foggy when the words “butt-load of semen” came out of her mindless chapped lips. The Lyle’s had not a clue what the jokes meant, and didn’t even offer up a courtesy laugh. But, our unpolished waitress was proud of herself.

I am not the demographic that Hot Topic is aiming towards. But, once in a while I have to venture in there to get my Hello Kitty fix. I was rifling through the bargain bin, trying to block out the noise of the music. There was a girl next to me with piercings and colored hair. (I am not the kind of old lady who is offended by the floppy haired punks.) I hear this girl say, “I can’t wait until Sunday.” I ignored her, and went on with my business of ransacking the sale items. She says it again, “I can’t wait until Sunday.” I dismiss her again, hoping I can avoid a conversation if I don’t look directly at her. She decided to try another route, “I like your shoes.” Dammit, she got me. I said, “Thank You.” Then like a broken record I hear, “I can’t wait until Sunday.” I take the bait. “What is on Sunday?” She proceeds to tell me it will be her 14th birthday, and she is getting her tongue pierced. My thought was, “Wow, your Mom is going to let you do that?” She said, “My Mom is paying for it.” I had to wait until I was 16 to get my ears pierced. Even then my Mom thought I wouldn’t take care of them, they would get infected, fill with pus and fall off. This was a little girls tongue we are talking about! Our little rap session continues with the 13 year old telling me her boyfriend was mad at her. I ask why. “Because I think I am pregnant and he wants me to keep the baby.” Ahhhhhhhh, I see. That could be a problem. Her friend from the dressing room yells, “You are keeping the f***ing baby!” To which my new little friend said, “Yeah, but you were older when you had your first one.” I soon found out that the 19 year old trying on the whore corset was on her 3rd kid.

Lesson is, never ask somebody why they can’t wait until Sunday.

Admittedly, I am not sure why I started a blog. I’m not trying to sell anything, I don’t have a target audience, and I don’t have any special talents with secrets that I would like to share with the world. What I do have is a big mouth and an opinion. You don’t get 50 hours of detention in 9th grade for sitting quietly at your desk and being attentive in class. I figure if people can write about what they ate for lunch, how to knit a sweater, or their screaming children, I can share my own musings. I was talking to somebody who dropped the hint that I might want to tell my close friends how to locate my blog. Hopefully, they will show up here, and with any luck leave some smart ass comment. It felt like the “hint” should have been accompanied with a special pat on the head. They were quietly saying, “Awwww, poor newbie, nobody will ever visit your blog.” I got the same look from my Mother when I was dressed like an ear of corn for an ice skating show. When she gave me a pat on the head it was saying, “Awwww, poor honey, you will never make the Olympics, but it was a nice effort.” Just for that, I am determined that somebody, ANYBODY will drop by here and read my ramblings. I might eventually find my niche. If not, it will just be another thing in my long list of stupid that I have attempted. To the Master Blogger with the hint, you know who you are, with attitude I say, “WHATEVER!”