Meet Staples Girl

All I wanted was some copies made without having to go downtown to the other, more user-friendly, copy place. My bank, where I needed the copies, was around the corner. Okay, I thought, let's poke the bear and give STAPLES another try. Another place guaranteed to offer up some drama, where it's always something. Whose management, judging by the number of teachers I've met at the other copy place who tell me that STAPLES won't print copies of stuff whose publisher states that copying it for classroom use is okay, apparently never read the rules covering fair use of copyrighted material. (Oh BTW: copying a borrowed CD booklet to replace yours that got lost, one copy for personal use, is also allowed by the Fair Use rules. But I digress.) 

In I went, flash drive in hand. Everything went smoothly until I was asked for my phone number. Seeing no need to give someone my number in order to get some copies made, I gave the female print shop clerk the number of the Obamaphone I no longer have. 

Forward we went. The printer started kachunking. Then, after demanding my phone number, Madame asked for my name. My response? "Look . . . I don't want to go out with you, I just want some copies made. Can we do this without me giving you any more personal information?"

The ensuing theatrics weren't the quality of Renee Zellweger playing Judy Garland. More like Julia Roberts throwing fits in "Mona Lisa Smile" when she finds out she has to teach the syllabus and throw away her own agenda of how art should be taught in a fancy women's college.

I in fact reminded her, as I did Miss Snowflake over at the Court of Flags Kroger, that impersonating Ms.  Roberts on the clock won't help one's career in retail customer service.  This was probably a mistake. She loves Julia Roberts. And, she went on to tell me, management loves her (Staples Girl, not Julia).

Well, that's their problem. But Jesus God Almighty, where DO all these people come from? The DNR people, the Blue Water Transit people, the Kroger drama queen, the STAPLES drama queen, the Aldi's drama queen I haven't had time to tell you about, stuff happens so fast, and the others you haven't read about simply because I've been too busy being productive elsewhere to sit down and tell their stories. Where?

Now I'm convinced there's a factory somewhere, maybe out on 32nd Street, or in Croswell, that makes them out of leftover parts and cuts them loose on selected parts of an unsuspecting community. Selected, because they are nice at the bank, and the other print shop, and the other couple of places in St. Clair County where I still shop. But, everywhere else . . .

Driving 30 miles one way to Chester Field Township, or an hour and ten minutes one way to Sandusky, or  (yikes) Flint, is worth it if I can avoid the bad actresses in Port Huron. But then I wouldn't have real time stories like this one to tell, and would have to fill space by deconstructing cat lady profiles I find on Plenty Of Fish, and posting pictures of local FAT chicks. Both can get old after a while. 

Thirteen dollars and change for 63 copies. Twenty-one cents a page for having the sweet, gentle, helpful STAPLES print shop clerk print them for you. It's still fourteen cents a page if she doesn't. The other copy place charges five cents a page and you can do it yourself and not give anyone your personal information. That's a saving of ten dollars and sixty three cents. But you don't get any street theater and blog content. 

The Survey Generation has offered me the opportunity to make my voice heard:

The survey code expires next Wednesday.  I'll give it some thought.

"Spirited," they call themselves on Plenty Of Fish, and other places where women of all ages who can't get a coffee date to save their lives post profiles. I've gone out with a couple of them. Had to deal with others out of necessity. The rest, I can imagine . . . and to each of them I offer this piece of unsolicited wisdom: Julia Roberts, who earned $25 million for making "Mona Lisa Smile," is "spirited." You, on the other hand, are a bitch. 

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