The Craptastic Trifecta

There are certain companies and businesses that are the low of the low. The bottom of the barrel, if you will. They are the armpit of society and the trashcan of human decency. While I am sure there are hundreds, nay, thousands of craptastic companies, I am going to focus my post on three. Let's get started, shall we?

T-Mobile: I had always been happy with my choice in T-mobile...until I had an issue with being harassed, that is. I consider them a fair-weather phone company. They want nothing to do with problems, complaints, or suggestions for improvement (usually involving expletives or the middle finger...not by me, of course).

After the first few times of being harassed, I called T-Mobile to see what they could do about it. Their answer was I could either file a police report or change my number. They wouldn't do anything, even with me being a "valued customer"--as they so liberally say. I filed a police report. The cop said T-Mobile is the worst company to work with because they refuse to give out any information--even if someone calls 911 and hangs up. They just won't give out any information because they are "protecting" their customers' privacy. But, it just so happens, that while they protect the creeps, the innocents get woken up in the middle of the night to dirty phone calls.

The second type of harassing was through text message. I even had the number, and it was a fellow T-Mobile customer (Just call me Detective Dawson). I called them and they said the same as before: either change my number or file a police report. I filed another report.

On both counts, T-mobile completely refused to help. So, I decided that once my contract was up, I was switching phone providers. I even wrote a long email detailing my disgust with how they handle these situations. And, of course, they didn't put it in the notes on my account--as I just found out. The lady I talked to today (to tell her that I didn't want to renew nor have my account go to month-to-month) didn't know why I was changing companies. I gave her the low-down...out of the kindness of my heart. She was a complete tool. We went round and round because she didn't understand what I was saying.

Needless to say, don't use T-Mobile if you can avoid it. They are absolutely repugnant.

Gold's Gym: Overall, they are the most dishonest company I've ever used...for anything. They continued to charge me each month, even though my contract had ended, and I wrote an email eight months prior that I didn't want to continue once my contract was up. They conveniently had no record of that correspondence. So, I had to pay a few extra months worth of gym membership fees before I annoyed them into submission (emails, phone calls, phone messages, letters, and a negative BBB report). Plus, I closed my bank account they were drafting from. Looks like they wouldn't have gotten any more money from me anyway. :)

24 Hour Fitness is SO much better. If you have the chance, use them instead.

Best Dental: I suppose this only applies if you live in Mesa, Arizona since it is a local practice. Not only is their equipment completely archaic, but they have no finesse or gentleness. They rough your mouth up while you have to look at their dumpy walls. After my first examination, they said I needed 2 root canals plus tons of other work. I decided to get a second opinion. When I requested my x-rays to take with me, they conveniently forgot to tell me on the phone that they have to charge me for duplicates. Whatever. I paid. Then I go to the new dentist. They tell me Best Dental didn't give me a full set of x-rays. They only gave me about half. I called Best Dental and asked them about it. They were no help at all. So, the passive aggressive person that I am, I wrote a few negative reviews on dentist review sites.

Heed my sage advice. Avoid these three companies at all costs.

Um...Yes, Please!

Within the last few months, I've discovered a brilliant, new musical artist. Not only is he talented, but he is dang good lookin'.

Ernie Halter.

Usually, when artists do covers, I am not impressed. But I am head over heels for this one. :) I put it on repeat for days. Yes, DAYS!




Not even sure if I want children, but I would totally have his babies. Don't judge.

If you're not into that song, try this one:



Or this one:



Or perhaps this one? Just listen to the song. I don't know about that video. :)

Today I Wore...

And...



Which I paired with...And...


And I loved it!

Reminds me of:

Doctor From The Depths Of A Well

A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity, nay, the pleasure of going to the lady doctor. *Warning* If you are grossed out or offended with the mere thought of something along the lines of a pap smear, stop reading. Consider yourself warned.

Some background information is essential here. In June of July of this year, I was diagnosed with P.C.O.S. (polycystic ovarian syndrome). As a result, my hormones are naturally off-kilter. When I was originally diagnosed, I was put on some medication--three, actually. One of which had to be coupled with anti-nausea medicine. I took it for a few weeks, and stopped. One reason was because I was quitting my job, moving here to beautiful Arizona, and I wasn't going to have insurance any longer. And heaven knows, I'm cheap. Oh, and not to mention, the medication made me constantly angry, paranoid, moody, and anxiety-ridden. Not a whole lot of fun--especially for those that were forced to interact with me.

Once I moved to Arizona, my body was acting up again because I stopped taking my medication to regulate my hormones. Once my new insurance kicked in, I made an appointment to see a new doctor. Being the shortcut-taker I am, I picked the closest doctor--instead of looking more into the type of doctor they are and so on. As I'm driving down the street--exactly where Audrey (my GPS) is telling me to go--I am shocked at what a ghetto neighborhood I am driving through. This couldn't be right! Ah, cosmic-joke-lovin'-universe, it was exactly right. There, next to dilapidated buildings and construction zones, nestled not-so-quietly in the back, was the unsanitary clinic that I picked.

First impression consisted of feeling like a cow in a herd (resist any fat jokes, if you will). People EVERYWHERE! I finally made it through the "check-in line" and had to sit next to a woman whose right foot was wrapped in bloody, seeping gauze. I couldn't take it anymore. My escape plan? The bathroom. The restroom had to be clean and sanitary, right? I mean, it WAS a health center, for heaven's sake! WRONG-O. It was the equivalent to a truck stop. Wait. Scratch that. I'd rather lick the floor of the men's room of a truck stop than ever use that nasty little, bug-encrusted, poor excuse for a modern toilet.

Finally, after a 45 minute wait past my original appointment time, my name was called. I was then handed a cup and wet-wipe as the nurse pointed to the bathroom. And, Universe, you strike again. Hardy, har, har. I went to the bathroom TWICE before my appointment. So, I made the attempt and failed. Ah well. Not my problem. It's the nurse's problem now. :)

I finally was left in the room, feeling so pretty in my paper dress, sitting in a dirty exam room. Another 20 minutes later, and the doctor finally decided to bless me with her presence.

"Oh, you look so pretty today!" was the first thing out of her mouth. As opposed to the other times she has never seen me? And, yes, I felt ever so lovely, chaffing in a see-through large napkin covering my parts.

As she was reviewing my medical history, she starts speaking to me in Spanish. The only thing I understood was "Mexico". Keep in mind that the nurse is from the Philippines. It isn't like Spanish is her first language. I was completely blown away. I didn't know how to respond because I had no idea what she said. I'm sure she saw my look of confusion, and switched back to English. Here's how it went down:

Dr: "Mija, you have your shots in Mexico before you come to states, yes?"

Me: "What?"

Dr: "Your shots? You get them back home in Mexico?"

Me: "Mexico?"

Dr: "Si, Mija."

Me: "Uh, I am from here"

Dr: "You from the states?"

Me: "uh....yes."

***For those who don't know me well, I am Irish-Italian, with blue eyes and freckles.

And she proceeded to question me based off my information:

Dr: "Mija! You no sex?"

Me: "No"

Dr: "Mija! You no boyfriend?"

Me: "No"

Dr: "You NO sex?!?"

Me: "..."

This whole time, I am still sitting on the edge of the table in my paper dress. She begins to ask me about the medication my previous doctor prescribed me. I told her I brought it with me, but it was in my purse. She looked at me like she was expecting me to jump right off that table, bend over to reach my purse, and then hobble back towards her and the table. That would be a big no thank you. After a rather long staring contest, she finally said that I could just get it after the exam. Yeah. Thanks, Doc.

Throughout the course of the exam, she told me twice that I was "big girl". Wonderful. That is what every girl wants to hear when she is getting a pap smear. As she continued her exam, she said,

Dr: "Mija, you no boyfriend? You so pretty, Mija."

Me: "Nope. I'm not dating anyone right now."

Dr: "Mija, you young. You no boyfriend?"

Me: "Nope. But, in my religion we believe in waiting to have sex until marriage."

Dr: "Sex? Who say anything about sex? I just say boyfriend. Not sex. We catholics believe that too, but girls don't follow it. Is good. Is good, Mija."

Finally, the exam is over. She tells me I can get dressed, but she doesn't leave the room. She simply turns around and works on the paper work. Hello, Awkwardness. I am dressed and she begins to look at my medication. I told her my doses and she said, "Such small dose for big girl". At this point, I almost Chuck Norrised her. Granted, the doctor was not even five feet tall and probably about 80 pounds. Anyone to her would be big--especially because I am 5'9.


Let's just say I'll never go back there again.

Dear Paper Toilet Seat Cover,

First off, I am very appreciative of your services. You give a germophobe a little peace of mind when said germophobe is forced to use a public restroom. While I hear the Psycho shower-scene theme music every time I use my tootsie to push open the door (afraid of what I may find inside because we all know that adults disregard cleanliness values I hold so dear whenever they aren't using their own bathroom. I mean, really? How hard is it to NOT explode inside of a stall? But, I digress), you are like a breath of fresh air. Not that I try to breath in a public bathroom, but you get the general idea.

That being said, I am not exactly tickled with your tomfoolery. You have such an important job and yet, you like to frustrate your biggest fan. Why is it that you fall right into the unhygienic toilet water right as I am about to sit down--in that small range of motion that is impossible to get back up; the only way is down and my choice to hover is no longer mine to make? The bare contact alone nauseates me. I'm on to your joke, and it isn't funny. Have you ever seen me do anything other than roll my eyes and grit my teeth in frustration? No? Exactly. 'Nuff said.

In the future, please be so kind as to do your job as it was intended. I won't accept anything less than 100% from you. I believe in you.

Warm Regards,

Charlene

The Never-Ending Saga of Pool Boy

As much as Pool Boy annoys me, I just HAVE to swim on Saturdays. I can get a tad grumpy when I miss out. Unfortunately, the back pool (far away from Pool Boy) was closed. And, of course, the only pool open was the one with a front row view to Pool Boy's door.

There was no way I was going to miss out on swimming--especially with the pool so pristine and blue. I was out there for about 45 minutes when I happened to look up and see Pool Boy watching me from his window, not even trying to hide. My heart dropped. But, he didn't come out. I can only assume it was because there were other people at the pool.

Eventually, he got the nerve to come into the pool area to try and talk to me. It is just as annoying when boys try to talk to you while you are working out and feeling completely gross. Side note: If a girl has headphones on and she is working out, don't talk to her. Smile and keep walking. If she wants to talk to you, she'll take out her earphone.

But, back on subject. Here is how the little conversation went down:

PB: How's your writing coming along?

Me: Fine. How is yours?

PB: Good.

Me: Yep. *awkward silence while he stares at me*

PB: You always ignore me when you're in the pool.

Me: How am I ignoring you? I answer every question you ask me. How is that ignoring? (Obviously, I'm getting a little annoyed with the dude)

PB: You're right.

*trying desperately to wish him away*

PB: What did you eat today?

Me: Excuse me?

PB: What did you eat today?

Me: What does it matter what I ate?

PB: Just wondering.

Me: What did you eat? *feeling guilty for being kind of rude*

PB: Nothing. You want to go eat something.

Me: No, thanks. I ate before I came to the pool.

PB: Every time I come out here, you turn me down.

Me: And yet you still ask.

PB: Never give up.

Me: You'll never give up?

PB: I never give up.

Me: Maybe you should. Think of it as a change of a goal and perspective. Focus on something else instead.

*Pool Boy just laughs*

I get out of the pool and lie on the pool chair, working on my tan. And I'm pretty sure that creeper was taking pictures of me with his phone. I just hope he wasn't zooming in on my feet. Gag.

And yes, he is as creepy as this dude:



It makes me want to die inside.

Eek, Eek, and More Eeks.

A few posts ago, I listed all the things creepy Pool Boy said to me. One of those things, as you may recall, was about his disturbing foot fetish. And even more disturbing is that he liked MY feet. Eeek.

Today, I was taking a quick gander at my Google Analytics for my two blogs. And, what did I discover? Someone came across my blog from searching with the term "foot fetish legal in Arizona". Double Eeek.

Either Pool Boy is doing an online search...or this state is loaded with freaky foot fetish fellas (and yes, be very jealous of my amazing alliteration skills).

Triple Eeek.