Drive-thru ATM

Yesterday was a Saturday.  Wondermutt didn’t (and still doesn’t) care.  He can’t tell time (officially) and he cares nothing for calendars.  And since he holds a grudge against my job that keeps me away from him 10-12 hours a day, five days a week, he couldn’t care less that I was exhausted due to an eleven hour turnaround from the time I left work on Thursday and was back at my desk on Friday.  Some people would probably tell me to quit my bitching.  But those are the same people I’d tell to quit their bitching if they should come over to my foodless and dirty apartment, with fur tumbleweeds at their feet rolling around the floor to the sound of some random Western theme style whistling music, as they try to find somewhere acceptable to sit amongst the squalor, the dust, the 3-foot high pile of two weeks worth of laundry, including several of Victoria’s dirty little secrets—because my personal life does not happen and things do not get done when I am mentally and physically exhausted because of long days and short turnarounds in my professional life.  But, I digress.  The mutt woke me up to start the day and start the play, as if it were any other day, around 6:00…that’s A.M….on a Saturday, which, in at least one (acknowledged) religion, is the Sabbath, the Lord’s Day, the day of REST.  Wondermutt is obviously not a Jew.

I had shit to do today.  First on my list was to rearrange a few things to see if I might have some money until next payday with which to do these things.  Some people might call this “moving around some assets,” probably the same people who’d bitch about my foodless and dirty apartment.  I call this trying to “find an asset,” or just another week in my single, post-college, assistant-job life.  I made a payment to a credit card earlier this week, so I could turn around and use the credit it gave me (the exact amount I paid) to get me by for another week, to, perhaps, get some food, a little gas, and to pay the 14-year old girl (who is a hustler and is serious about getting paid on time) who walks Wondermutt during the week.  I was less concerned about the food and gas than I was about paying the teenager—I would hate to come home one day to just a tuft of his fur taped to a note that read, “you’ll get the rest when I get paid!”  As I took my credit card into two banks in an effort to get a cash advance (apparently hustlers, even the ones who are teenagers with braces, don’t take plastic) and was told twice that my particular card wouldn’t allow for that for some unknown reason, I decided my only option was to play a financial Russian Roulette, and withdraw cash from my bank account, in hopes that one of my bills won’t clear until I get paid again.

Since I was the pre-shower, pre-deodorant, pre-“could give a fuck” version of myself, I decided I had had enough face-to-face engagement for the morning, and rolled up to a drive thru ATM.  Now, these drive thru ATM situations are utter bullshit, because not once have I been able to, nor have I seen any other individual be able to pull up to these things and get close enough to the machine without taking off their side mirror to actually stay safely in their car and do the necessary transaction.  100% of the time, someone will unbuckle their seatbelt, and proceed to hang half way out side of their rolled down window, with their driver’s side door open, their fingers outstretched all the way, dancing and barely grazing the key pad, and trying to grab at their “fast cash” while trying not to dent or scratch their car door against the ill-placed painted poles in front of the ATM, until they finally snatch their cash, breathe again and sit back in their seat exhausted.  I can safely say, it’s not just me who experiences this.  In this, for once, I am not alone. 

And this drive thru ATM was no different.  Until, it kind of was.  I pulled up to the machine, got as close as I could, put the car in park, unbuckled the seat belt, and commenced with the outside-of-the-window hang.  I quickly pushed my card in, but not too far in because I had to “quickly remove it” and I was still kind of far from the machine—at this point, it had turned into a full-on pilates session with the immense stretching and balancing I was doing.  Nope, first try didn’t work, please try again.  So I did, and it worked.  I was so focused on getting the card into the slot and being able to grab it back again, that I almost didn’t see the receipt that was hanging out of the machine from a previous transaction, from a car that I never saw arrive or leave.  I assume that person couldn’t be bothered to stretch one last time to collect their receipt, so they just left it…for me to collect.  And why wouldn’t I?  I’m an honest gal.  The person that comes after me could do something unscrupulous with any information contained on that receipt, but me—I would just throw it away for the stranger who left it (and maybe blog about it later).  So, with a final heave, I grabbed my cash, grabbed the stranger’s receipt, breathed again, sat back down in my seat, threw the cash and crumpled receipt in my purse and drove off….

I think it was maybe eight blocks before I decided that before I threw away this receipt, maybe I could just take a look at it, and see if the person who came before me was in the same unfortunate and sinking financial boat I was in, and then, again, I could feel “not alone in this.”  I wasn’t going to do anything unscrupulous with the information, I was just going to look at it, maybe shrug a little, maybe give a little “meh,” and be on my merry way.  I rolled up to a stop sign, and pulled out the crumpled receipt with the two 20s I pulled out of the machine, which eventually will cost me at least an additional $34 in overdraft fees--$40 for the bargain price of $74…but I’m thinking, whatever, the person who this receipt belongs to is probably in the same boat.  I’m not alone in my destitution.

Until I realized I was not in a boat, because boat is too fancy a word.  Dinghy, perhaps, could be more accurate, or maybe an inflatable life raft one could find on clearance at Kmart.  Because when I opened the receipt and saw that this stranger’s remaining and available balance was over $320,000 (that’s nearly 1/3 of a million dollars, for those who like math), I could swear I heard a pop and slow squeak of the air being let out of my inner tube...that’s not a euphemism for “I had gas” either, because, in fact, I did not.  Literally.

I finally closed my mouth and popped my eyes back into their sockets, but I think I’m still suffering from shock.  People actually live like that.  And those people, of course, don’t need their receipt, that’s why they didn’t bother taking it.  Because it doesn’t matter what their balance is, because whatever it is, it’s enough.  It will always be enough.  And they don’t have to balance their checkbook every time they get a $5 footlong at Subway, and they don’t have to decide what’s more important, food or gas, because they can afford both—forever.  I California-rolled through the stop sign as a third warning light lit up on my car’s dash, making me even more aware that not only was I out of money, but I was about to be out of gas, too.  Immediately I thought, whoever this receiptless person was, I had a few words for them:  “thank you very little,” and, furthermore, “are you single and/or willing to adopt a 31-year old girl?”

It does make me feel a little better, that even though as far as our finances are concerned, and that person is in a yacht, and I’m now holding onto a piece of deflated rubber that used to float a little (metaphorically), neither of us can escape the pain in the ass that is the drive thru ATM.  I didn’t look at the receipt again, and I haven’t thrown it away either.  I’m not sure what happens next.  But I bet you anything my dog will wake me up at 6:00AM again tomorrow with the sound of him playing with a squeaky toy in his mouth.  Because when you’re a dog, what else is there that really matters?

I can think of at least 320,000 things…

Romantic Comedy?

I do enjoy a good romance.  97% of the time, I'm referring to the ones that are fake and on screen...2.5% of the time I'm referring to the ones that I make up in my head, and the remaining .5% is  a mixed bag of: 1) my one-ish relationship; 2) a romp in the sack that ends on a good note; and 3) amazing take-out dinners, with take-out dinners in a very decent lead ahead of the other two.  I didn't used to cry at anything I'd see on screen--no sweet movies; or television with a thought provoking, kind, and hopeful message; not even commercials for tutoring services.  I'm not sure if it's because sensitivity and sentiment (not to be confused with sediment) grew with age, or because it wasn't even a thought in my mind that whatever romantic and lovely scene that I would see on a screen couldn't or wouldn't ever really happen to me in my life, so there was no need for tears or fears.  Because, I so willfully thought, of course super sweet Brad Pitt was going to get hit by a car and die, come back as the Angel of Death, fall in love with me--a doctor with a trust fund, he'd speak Jamaican to my patients, decide he wanted to have me enough to kill me and take me with him to heaven/hell but then decide to spare me after my father (who'd have a British accent) pleaded for him to reconsider, he'd go back to heaven/hell, and then re-emerge unscathed as the Brad Pitt character that got hit by the car in the beginning of the movie, and would come back to life and watch fireworks with me at my dad's mansion in the Hamptons (Meet Joe Black, yes please).  And don't be silly, of course that hot senior Jake Ryan would initially not notice me at school because he was dating the hot senior chick with the big boobs, but then he'd track me down at my high-as-a-kite sister's wedding and be waiting outside of the church in a Chicago suburb, his angelic presence only to be revealed when the wedding crowd dispersed, and then he'd whisk me off in his expensive red car, neither of us caring that I was missing the reception, and we'd end up sitting on top of his dining room table with a birthday cake in between us as we made out (and yes, this was going to happen on my 16th birthday like in 16 Candles).  Yes, I thought this was all possible in my naïve youth.  Damn you, Hollywood, and your trickery embedded in messages of love and hope with hunks!

Cut to, I'm 31 in two-ish weeks, and have never had an actual Valentine.  There's been no one who has or would "walk 500 miles and then walk 500 more and then fall down at my door," no John Cusack standing outside of my house with a boombox over his head, no meet-cute with Tom Hanks at the top of the Empire State Building (Sleepless in Seattle/Brentwood?)or in the middle of a New York garden where our meeting after some clandestine email activity (You've Got Mail) was simply, "mmmmagic."  Every year, usually twice a year (Valentine's Day and Christmas), another romantic movie premise gets kicked off my list of "Possible Real-Life Love Scenarios" after I watch it and realize that what I'm watching  is not how my interactions with the male species have ever gone down.  Ever.  My romantic life has been closer to Night at the Roxbury meets The Truth About Cats & Dogs meets the first half of Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion meets a Roto Rooter commercial.  Yes, that great.  So, perhaps it's a no-brainer why I now cry at run of the mill rom-com movies.  However, I still have no explanation for tears during Care Bears cartoons or Sylvan Learning commercials.

I'm not all cynicism, though.  Even now, as I sit on my couch with my niece's dog (who I am now the legal guardian of, as my niece is off to be all that she can be in the Army), and we both stare at my front door with our sad little hearts, waiting for whoever left our lives to come back to us as a redemptive soundtrack gets bumped up in the background, knowing full well all that awaits is iTunes and half bottle of Belvedere, and the only thing coming through my front door tonight is the sound of CNN blaring from my creepy old neighbor's TV set next door.  However, I still have an inner Bridget Jones, that is optimistic.  I keep the optimism under wraps more often than not, but it's there, tucked into Spanxy granny briefs four sizes too small in order to impress the hot boy at the party with my artificially flatter tummy, and smooth ass and thighs, in order that he might like what he thinks he sees and stays long after the illusion is gone.  It's a very slim glimmer of optimism, slimmer now more than ever (I hope my ass follows suit), but it's present.

Maybe the previously mentioned "not-a-match match" who lived his life (and our "interlude," as it were) as though he were in Jerry Maguire was onto something.  Maybe he just wanted the happy ending, where love wins, completes, and has Renee Zellweger at "hello."  Though if he really knew me, he would've known I'm not quite as easy as Renee, and it takes a whole lot more than a "hello" to have me.  A horse-drawn pumpkin-converted carriage would be a good start, followed by an, "I'm sorry for being a douche" Valentine's Day card (regardless of the day, I'm not that unreasonable) or vice versa.

Interestingly enough, or maybe not, as I type this and finish my fourth vodka based beverage and my cheeks are numb, suddenly anything is possible again.  I could be that easy, where a simple knock at the door followed by a "hello" just might suffice, and complete me.

.....unless at my door is the creepy neighbor.

Spin Class

I recently gave up cable.  As in, I turned off my service and turned in the cable box.  I held on to the remote for a couple weeks, since I have an extremely difficult time saying goodbye.  One could call this my pre-Lent sacrifice several months early (I tend to be early to parties/events, too, but I'm working on that [i.e., circling the block for however long it takes for me to arrive with the masses, or just after them] since I've discovered the whole early arrival obligation of help-the-host-set-up makes me feel less of a guest and more like "the help" and I gave up being in the domestic help industry a few years ago when I got a "real job" that pays less [plus, my Spanglish was lacking]).  OR it's me giving into the fact that I should be living under a freeway overpass, with a Ralph's shopping cart serving as my roll-in closet, and my early morning showers provided by homeowners that do not believe in water conservation and have exceptionally green lawns.  In addition to my dismal bank accounts (I have three, which would be slightly more impressive if their combined balances would have a number, any number, in front of the decimal point), I thought the lack of television would compel me to do something more constructive with my time, like write, workout, soak up some vitamin D, or perhaps, if I was really bored, actively participate in life instead of live it vicariously through Iron Chefs, dog whisperers, and Real not-Housewives.  None of the aforementioned things have happened often enough to make this little "experiment" worth it.  I've been watching DVDs where the girl gets the guy/guy gets the girls/kid gets the puppy/Kate Beckinsale gets out of a Thai prison/Bradley Cooper, Zach Galifinakis and Ed Helms get over their hangover, all of which make me lonely and depressed, or reading Craigslist postings (whatever, everyone without the Hallmark Channel and The Nanny marathons does this on Friday and Saturday nights) that make me laugh, and then feel lonely and depressed that I'm not a "BBW," "submissive," "dominatrix," "420 friendly," or "under 30" gal that Craig's friends are, by and large, in search of falling into everlasting, or nightly, love with.  I've also been eating more, which, given my financial status, makes no sense.  The poor are not supposed to be Rubenesque (great word, learned it on Craigslist = active learning).  So to combat most of these issues (except my non-BBW/dominatrix/420 friendly-ness, I decided to make actual and regular use of my gym membership again.  To my delight the treadmill didn't break during my run, and since that went so well, I thought to myself,  "why not kick my molasses-like post-Christmas metabolism into high gear and take a spin class??"  Of course.  Why not?

Several reasons why not.  Most of which I'll share.

This latest class I indulged in was not my first, mind you.  I've taken three others, but for some reason I've never had as vile and, frankly, rude an experience as I did during this last endeavor.  My heart races before going into any situation that I see as a potential battle; for example--interviews, signing a one-year lease or agreement of any kind that requires my commitment, dates, sexual encounters, and group workout classes.  Nevermind that there's a good chance I'll be in an enclosed space and less than three feet away from a stranger while sweating (applicable in all of the above examples), but add in an instructor with a mic and fast moving body parts, and I get a little apprehensive about what I willingly signed myself up for.  I signed up online and picked a bike that was in the far corner of the room, furthest away from ridicule and seemingly far enough away from the bikes that would be to my right and left.  Upon entering the actual room, the situation was not as depicted.  Yes, I was in a far corner, but no I was not far away from the bikes to my left and right.  I was actually cornered in.  My only hope was that  the bikes that had me cornered would be unoccupied, hopes that were dashed immediately by a Rubenesque (love that word, thanks, Craig) older-something woman, who looked just as pathetic as me, but with proper spin shoes.

The instructor couldn't have been sweeter.  She set me up with the gear, the little feet buckets that attach to the pedals for those of us who aren't serious and don't pay $400 for shoes that were meant for spinning, or are just coordinationally retarded, and adjusted my bike to, presumably, suit my body.  Her energetic and enthusiastic nature was, at first, reassuring that I would survive my little hour long bike ride.  I had no idea that 20 minutes in, I'd want to throw one of my foot buckets at her head, or hope that her sweat would make her mic short out and class would be immediately over as the bikers in the front would try to resuscitate her electrically charged body.  I started pedaling casually, to I guess warm up (I was just doing what the people with the fancy shoes were doing) before the actual start of the class, already deciding that my ass and I would not be friends by the time this was over.   And then, the mic was turned on, the music was turned up, the door was closed and we were off.

There was no graceful way out, as 30 seconds in, I started to develop a callous on my lady bits.  By the three minute mark, my corner of the room started to smell like someone shit their pants out of fear.  It wasn't me, but it's equally embarrassing just to be in the general vicinity of the Bog of Eternal Stench because in the eyes of others, I could be the culprit.  But the instructor was saying such Zen-like phrases like, "Remember why you're here, in this studio, taking this class, and fight for it.  Let go of everything else," and I did my best to transcend the stink.  I wanted to turn to my neighbor and say, "well, don't let go of everything," but I guess my brain-to-mouth filter was turned off by the chapped ass I was quickly developing.  The only miniscule reprieve I received was when we would pedal standing up, until my ankle would unceremoniously decide that it did not want to pedal while standing and give out from sheer exhaust and put me back into the cement-like saddle.  I'd like to be able to say that from the immense discomfort I forgot all about everything else, alas, I did not.  I became resentful and angry at the 25-year old instructor's voice, there was no way she could really believe what she was saying.  I didn't.  "Forget all your worries.  Forget what he did to you.  There is no try, just do!"

"Wait," I thought, "did she just say, 'forget what he did to you?'"  Ahh.  Clarity.  Her annoying rantings now made sense.  This was a girl biking up that mythical hill, away from her heartache while I was desperately wanting to run away from my cooch-ache.  But neither of us were going to be successful in this hour.  I powered through it, only by becoming numb from the groin down, something that may have been visually apparent given the look I received from the douche a few bikes down to my right who kept looking at me with a concerned face.  Brain-to-mouth filter released, I shot back at him with my death look and mouthed "mind your business!" to him.  He immediately looked at his bicep and then faced forward, and I felt better, like I could finish the last five minutes of this trip through the Hell Himalayas.

And I did.  After a full hour of self-imposed torture, I peeled my nether-regions off of the banana seat, and hobbled out of the room, cold from my own sweat drenched clothing, and vowing never to go back into that room again if I know what's good for me (and my ass).  Two days later, physically I'm 95% recovered.  Mentally, well those scars are for life.

Elevator

I have long waited for the day where I can have that moment in an elevator where I just say or do something that is completely out of the norm (aside from marveling at the steelwork, or watching the numbers light up above the doors as I go up floor by floor)--the moment that catches everyone else in the elevator off-guard and throws them into a tizzy-ish state, or makes them feel like schmucks for not being sociable and even saying so much as a "hello" while sharing the same confined airspace with strangers for 15 seconds (although, I never really want to spark up a conversation with anyone I’m not not genuinely interested in, so this whole scenario really is a catch-22 for me). Well, some older lady totally stole my moment in a whole foods parking garage/elevator.

There were four or five of us boarding the steel box, one of which being this fun-looking (note, not funny-looking, although, her knit cap and pink lipstick made me chuckle a little inside) older woman, whose name, I’ll guess, was "Gertie." I would say she was in her early to mid-seventies (mind you, my age and name approximations are about as good as my distance and length measuring without a ruler or tape measure, or my ability to decipher which side of the street is south/north/east/or west when the sun is not up or I am without my compass that I don't own). She was talking outside of the elevator, which, I later realized, was to no one in particular, just those of us who were in earshot. I have no clue what she was talking about, because I didn't think she was directing anything to me in particular. And because, I live in my own little world most of the time and tune everyone else out....or because I was on the lookout for my would-be significant other, who I imagine I would just happen to run into one day in a whole foods parking lot (I hear the alias and never been kissed hottie Michael Vartan met his fiancé in a whole foods parking lot, and the rest will be Hollywood happily-almost-ever-after history for them). Anyway...

The doors opened and we all took our respective places within the elevator, careful not to stand anywhere near each other or make eye contact. "Gertie" just kept on talking, which is when I realized, it was directed at no one in particular. And then, right there, she called each and every one of us out, mid-sentence. "Operation: elevator jackass" had commenced, although, shamefully, it was not by my doing. And as she continued her rant, without missing a beat, she went into, "and of course we all become anti-social in an elevator, which makes no sense. 'Let's not say anything and sit in our own quietness, two feet from each other.' ridiculous really...."

I initially was looking down as she began spouting this geniosity, and then quickly looked up at her when I realized what was happening, sort of with a, "how dare you!" look, mixed with an "exactly!" and a slightly solemn, "this is what my future looks like, in a knit cap and hot pink lipstick." I chuckled, and heard other people smile (you know, the kind of smile that is accompanied by a short, small puff of air that comes out of the nose, sort of signaling the beginning of amusement, but an action that is very non-committal and can quickly be turned into a fake cough or heavy sigh in case no one else thinks the moment is funny, thereby averting being the lone laugher). I wanted to say something, but that would have sounded forced, like I was only lending something to the conversation because she had brought up the fact that I was being anti-social and, effectively, stupid. "Silly, really..." she continued, "I don't understand why people don't acknowledge each other in an elevator, they just look at the lights or at their own stupid shoes," or something to that effect. I was in a state of shock, so I may not have been hearing what was really being said.

Ding. We reached the ground level of the store. It was only one floor we had to climb, it took all of about 7.2 seconds, but it felt like an eternity. The doors opened and filled the elevator with a sense of relief, and everyone shuffled out quickly, as I just stood there, watching the lady waddle out, shaking her head in disappointment, as the sorry saps she shared only a few seconds in the elevator with left without saying a word. I just stood there, unable to move and amazed at what had just happened. As the doors began to close, I snapped out of my daze and hit the button to open the doors again and slowly walked out, feeling more than a bit defeated.

There it was, and there it went. My moment, almost staring me in the face, future almost meeting present....I’ll say "almost" because "Gertie" did not go the extra length of spontaneously throwing her arms around a stranger and whispering, "I’m just so happy you're here," as she nestled her head into their shoulder, as I imagine I would do. But had she done that, I’m pretty sure it would have been game over for the mystery of the life that lies before me. And that would have been the exact future I would have not wanted to meet at a whole foods...I can't stand lipstick.

Jacuzzi

A good friend came over last night to protect me against a Craigslist goof that wanted to buy an old car radio from me. It was my first transaction using that site, and since she's a pro at wheeling and dealing, I thought it would be good to have backup. Even though I haven't seen the movie, I imagine she's the Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch to my Will Ferrell in The Other Guys, or perhaps vice versa. Anyway, sold! And now I have booze money for the weekend...or I can keep my lights on and air conditioning running in my condo for another couple of weeks...or I can buy booze and just use the complex's pool to cool off. Either way I win, and perhaps a few lucky friends do, too.

Speaking of pools, I have one where I live. I've heard stories about its existence, and perhaps even have seen the sun shimmering off of it every now and then, but haven't used it in the almost year that I’ve lived at this complex. Oddly enough, whenever I feel so inclined to take a dip, I go to my friend's place and swim there (or just bob like a buoy). Or at least until last night. After the successful transaction, we treated ourselves to a Dixie cup wine tasting and some swimming and Jacuzzi-ing in the warm midsummer night's air. How fitting that just weeks before I move, I discover that treasure. Downright romantic - wish you were there, and by you, I'm talking to Patrick Dempsey and his flowing dark brown locks, so don't anyone else get the wrong idea. Anyway, it was lovely. We had some good laughs, some alright wine, and a few bubbles (mostly mechanically made), which is pretty usual for us, minus the wine and the mechanics.

Our conversation eventually led to our old age...both of us in the realm of our thirties, which apparently is the age where a female should be, at least, one of the following:

A.) In a serious relationship, engaged, or married

B.) Divorced, or about to be divorced from at least their first marriage

C.) Have a bun in the oven, a loaf in the crib, or a whole wheat field full of kids

D.) If none of the following - living with one or multiple roommate(s)

E.) If not that, living with their parents

F.) All of the above

Such tempting options, and we sure as hell feel like we're missing out!  Not.

We kind of resent the fact (and she'll have to pardon me for speaking for her, but I will anyway) that if we're not a, b, or c, then as women of a certain age it's baffling that we are taking care of ourselves and living on our own. Thanks for the credit, peeps. Both of us are college graduates, have fully insured cars, are in jobs that pay more than minimum wage (score!), which, for the most part, pay our bills...and on time. Imagine that shit. We are practically any Kato Kaelin's dreams come true (again). And, every Kato needs a chick with her own pimp crib, right? Well, look no further (but keep walking, thankyouverymuch).

I am well aware of the fact that once I hit thirty, George Clooney won't consider dating me. And let me tell you, I'm going to disappear in a pile of tissues over that. But what else sucks is that 30 is the age where a woman's eggs begin to shrivel and die (or since we're talking about eggs, they scramble, become tough, brown and inedible, and get fed to the dog, if you will), mustaches and goatees must be added to your waxing bill and actually figured into your monthly budget, people (aka "doctors") have to feel on your naughty bits regularly and not in a good way, and that may be the only "play" a single woman gets for months (perhaps, years?), your underarm doesn't stop waving and your face doesn't stop laughing or frowning long after you do because the lines and wrinkles get deeper and the skin starts to become shot like petite-size pantyhose that get wrangled onto a queen-size body day after day.

Look, I shave my armpits and legs and shower at least 98% of the time which is almost every day of the year, I don't wear cargo pants and Birkenstocks (everyday), or carry around cardboard signs on sticks and bullhorns to remind people that women have been given the right to vote. That's not what this is about at all. The mind just boggles at this perception that I, nor my single (and fucking fabulous, I might add) gal pals can't stand on our own two feet.

Actually.....I just would really like it if my grandma would stop thinking I'm a lesbian just because I'm the only one in my family that hasn't had a husband and at least one child at my age. I might be vegan, but I like my sausage know-what'm-sayin' (nudge, nudge)? And I really don't want to have to field her inevitable question, "do you pee standing up, too?" in a supermarket checkout line, or in front of wait-staff at a restaurant, which is where most of her inappropriateness shines its brightest.

Hmmmm. Apple meet tree.