omg, shuz.

I sell shoes.

Well, that is a lie. I sit. I attempt to look somewhat alert while shoes sell themselves.

This is the way I live, betch.

It is great working somewhere that has hundreds upon hundreds of shoes, yet maybe only four pair in the entire inventory will actually fit across my foot without crippling my abilities to walk and/or have toes. And those four pair typically resemble footwear made for a she-man or an elk. Needless to say there is no temptation.

Since there is no dire need to play in the shoes like a toddler sitting in a box full of sand or a stripper in a pool full of pudding, I find my entertainment in other ways. Hulu, MSNBC, Facebook, Google Reader, TFM, listserv emails with no purpose, Twitter, drawing, running laps around the hamster cage that we call a store, and last but not least, talking to shoppers.

Although I realize that incriminating anecdotes and rhetorical letters to strangers aren't usually in my repertoire, I figure I will try something a little different.

Jokes.

Dear strangers that have nothing important to say,

My face is really good at this thing. Maybe you've heard of it? It's called a blank stare. It is a natural reaction of mine to not care about whatever you are saying to me, so it takes a lot of effort to construct my face in an appropriate manner. My family told me that my typical reactions are never socially acceptable, so I have taught myself to feel nothing. Having no soul really helps in this endeavor. The black pit that my friends like to call my heart is void of emotion and concern for the event you have coming up that calls for a red pump that isn't too tall, short, shiny, matte, noticeable, unnoticeable, big, small or ugly. It's funny, I had those same stipulations for you. Don't like what you see? What a coincidence. Neither do I.

Don't get me wrong. There are many sweet women who come in here to shop. They look at what we have, buy something if they like it, or politely leave if they don't. Those women are what I like to call normal.

For those who refuse to fall between these predetermined lines of normalcy? Dude. I thought small conversation should be friendly, light, simple and should never provoke angst. Right? Maybe I was mistaken in my mental note taking at Junior Assembly once upon a middle school Friday night. I mean. That's totally possible. There were always snacks there and you guys know how I feel about snacks. Good posture? Dancing with boys? Knowing what fork to use? I mean, yea, that stuff is gold. But there is one thing that Junior Assembly really taught me to appreciate, and that is snack time. Who needs people? Clearly I'm better off with a box of crackers and tray of room temperature cheese.

I have come to the conclusion that I know nothing. This is my cry for help.

Help me interact with strangers. You all do it so well.

I am unsure of a what normal person's reaction is supposed to be when strangers abruptly divulge, break into tears or speak to you as if you had to have your caretaker drive you to work this morning. Reality check. This is a store, not an after school program. I am competent.

To show my genuine efforts to conform to this thing you guys call "social interaction," I have provided options! Please print this page and complete the following multiple choice assessment. Simply circle the answer choice you feel most appropriate and give it to me upon completion. I would give each question an "Other" option, but I'm afraid you would all use it.

Plus, let's be honest. My choices are enough. Your input couldn't be that good, anyway. We are just pretending. This is the blog where everything is made up and your opinion doesn't matter.

To keep the length of this under control, I am limiting my assessment to quotes from only this week. Sucks for you guys.

Name: ____________________

Date: _______________

What should your response be when someone says:

1. "I'm short, but have like.. a lot of girth. Ya know?"

a) I actually do know, and yes. You do.

b) No, you don't! What you said is completely factual, but I am going to disagree with you out of kindness anyway.

c) The word girth makes me feel uncomfortable.

d) YUM.

e) Gimme some of dat girth.

2. "I called about the boot."

a) You're an idiot.

b) You called? So did 200 other women with unrecognizable voices. The boot? Oh ok, since we have 72 of them. I know exactly who you are and what you're talking about.

c) The cryptic store called. They want that sentence back.

d) Ok.

e) Try again.

3. "It smells nice. Is that you?"

a) Hahahahaha.

b) I can smell myself. It isn't pleasant.

c) Hell no, lady.

d) I put on deodorant when I left my house.. which was yesterday. So, yes. The nice smell is probably me.

e) You're standing in front of a candle, dimwit.

4. "No, I'm definitely not a size 9. That is for big honkers."

a) Oh wow. You just said that.

b) Die.

c) My shoe size and your grandson's age are the same number. Your grandson has a girlfriend, is familiar with the five paragraph essay format and may already have a facial hair. Yea. Say it again.

d) What is your definition of a honker?

e) Your husband doesn't love you.

5. "I came in last week and bought 4 pairs of shoes and some earrings."

a) Did you want a cookie for that?

b) Oh my god. I am so impressed with how much money you have previously spent at this establishment that I need to excuse myself.

c) We were closed last week.

d) You have something in your teeth. I think it's lies.

e) The sandwich I am hiding underneath the counter is delicious. Please leave so that I may continue eating it.

6. "Did Kim have fun last night?"

a) My name is Stephanie. And, yes. Stephanie had fun last night. Thanks for asking Stephanie that question.

b) Yea, she did. She also had Cocoa Puffs for breakfast, is due for her annual visit to the gynecologist in two weeks and just left the room she was in. Anything else?

c) I mean, I can call her if you'd like to ask.

d) I don't know, but Kim Kardashian was on QVC. That's fun, right?

e) Please go away.

7. "Are you familiar with BJ's?"

a) Bold.

b) That is neither here nor there.

c) If I use the word "bulk" as a pun in my response, will you or will you not be offended?

d) Your job really sucks.

e) I would be more interested in your offer if you were a sales representative for CUTCO Cutlery. Just kidding. No, I wouldn't.

8. "Do they make this shoe in a different color?"

a) I don't even know who they are. I have never seen the shoe in your hand before.

b) Probably.

c) Yes.

d) No.

e) I'm going to need you to repeat your question because I was too distracted by the fact that you are a 63 year old woman trying to buy a cheetah print stiletto to comprehend your words.

9. "You have a lot of pretty things here, don't you?"

a) No. We pride ourselves on the fact that we trick customers into investing hundreds of dollars into pure garbage every single day.

b) Kind of.

c) Some people think so.

d) We try.

e) Yea. If you're blind.

10. "I just came from the lingerie store next door with my daughter."

a) Well, touch you twice.

b) Isn't this something you should maybe be telling your therapist?

c) Cool beans, old lady.

d) I just came from sitting in this exact spot for the past 6 hours with myself. You win.

e) Ma'am, I am sure your daughter is very cute, but I like boys.

I have neither given nor received unauthorized aid on this test or assignment.

Signature: _________________________

Thanks for playing.

life in buffet form.

Carnival Imagination. Are you kidding? Understatement of a lifetime. You can't make this shit up.

My family is very grateful for my lack of Internet access over the past week. Instead of tweeting, I ate. Instead of texting, I slept. Instead of BBMing, I ran. Instead of judging people silently, I judged them aloud. Instead of getting in trouble for judging people aloud, my remarks were validated and appreciated. Ok, that's a lie. I still got in trouble. But there was none of the usual Bonnie telling my parents I tweeted something inappropriate and then me getting yelled at and lectured about my inability to filter and have a soul. The good, the bad and the unfortunate of civilization discontinuity. Whatever. Internet, shminternet. Here are my comments.

In Cozumel, I walk out of a public restroom to find a restaurant employee sitting on the ground near the sinks. Not only is she sitting on the dirty ground, but she is staring into the broken mirror, chewing her nails. Uh. Senora? Please put it away. It, being your teeth. This is a bathroom. And you live in Mexico.

As Bonnie and I make our way to the room, we are met with an obtrusion. Two large obstacles, rather. A couple of young ladies, approximately 17 in age. Questionable BMIs, children's bikinis and cover ups that would make Brigitte Nielson cringe. Stumbling through the stateroom hallways around 2pm, and all they can muster are yelps about "tah mooch tah-killa." Help us.

Have you ever smelled goat vomit? What about dog diarrhea? Fish? Rotten eggs? Old milk? Fountain Dining Hall after 8pm? Ok. Well, have you ever smelled them all at once? I have. His name is Ben. He is our head server.

Molly ordered prime rib. She received the bloody, large intestine of a moose. Don't worry, though. Gravy was complimentary. All is well.

One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor. The woman passed out next to me is dressed just like a whore.

In case anyone wanted to know what "queso" at a Mexican restaurant in the heart of Cozumel is made of, I will tell you. Velveeta. Chilled, congealed Velveeta. Have no fear. Sliced peppers were present. It was very authentic.

If you are shirtless, stumbling, morally cauterized and only capable of yelling out the name that is tattooed on your left bicep, I have news for you. Sir, I am sorry. She isn't lost... she just left. She doesn't love you anymore. Don't be too upset. Her name is Trish. As for the tattoo? I'm afraid you are out luck. You were the one smart enough to get a dolphin tattoo with "Trish" scribbled across its back. Embarrassing body art and animal cruelty? You belong in a cage.

Raleigh? Shelby? Ocean Isle? You are not alone. Apparently running at obscure hours in tall socks and neon doesn't bode well in international waters either. I know. I was shocked too.

People of the boat, this is a cruise ship. This is not a small town Women's Center. You are going to dinner. You are not going to prom. Your forty-two pound dress and nineteen inch hair? Seriously? Neither are warranted. This is not 1983. Please go back to your room and pack. Your time machine awaits.

To the very brave man who thought a wedding proposal on a cruise ship during one of the nightly photography sessions was both romantic and honorable, you were terribly mistaken. Terribly.

If I ask permission to take a picture of you or something in your vicinity, do not be flattered. I am probably making fun of you. I just like to be polite.

You know your family has a lot to talk about when you're guesstimating the cleavage length of women three stories below you.

As I search for the top floor that's not really the top floor, but only sometimes the top floor, I run into a man who is made of blood, fat and domesticated beer. Apparently he owns some company that mass produces petroleum? He told me about his life. He also told me that I had a "great chest." Having seen my own chest before, I can only assume the females that men who own petroleum plants see on a regular basis are either small children that live outside, mildly deformed workers, or their wives whose knees are currently kept company by what was once their own version of a "great chest."

I wanted to go for a run after the gym had closed, therefore I was forced to utilize other sections of the ship. After realizing people don't exactly appreciate a stranger taking laps through their hallway, I tried my luck on the outer decks. What did I see? A woman. But this was no ordinary woman. Passed out on a chair, right arm over her face, left arm hanging limp, and estimated age of around the 53 mark. Bleach blonde and burnt to a crisp, she was all kinds of Linda Bollea. A pretty accurate weight guesser, myself, I'm going to say she was about a 230 pounder. She may or may not have been able to bench press an entire tanning bed. She, at one time, had been wearing a bathing suit. I know this because her bottoms were still on, thanks to one side still being held together by a knot. Just one side, though. Just one. Her top was on the ground beside her. There she lay, 10:37pm, alone. I'm guessing her fun induced blackout occurred around 6:45pm, but don't hold me to that. I am no professional. Approximately 30 minutes later, I made my way to her vicinity again. She was now lying on her side. Close enough, anyway. Oddly enough, she was also wearing her top. There was a full drink on the ground next to her that wasn't there before. Some people would assume she had friends in the near distance looking out for her and making sure she didn't die... or if she did die, she would do so with a drink in immediate reach. However, that is some people. I am not some people. No, I am Stephanie. My only valid conclusion? She is a gypsy.

feigned fortitude.

After a romantic dinner with my father the other night, it was made very clear to me that my family legitimately thinks that I hold no valuable skill. Although this may be true, who willingly admits that to their very fragile child? I will never live up to the red (blood) and black (soul) of the dearest Bonnie, and that is fine. Acceptance happened a long time ago. We've gotten over. We've moved on.

But what have we moved on to, you ask?

"Stephanie, we just want you to get a job. Just a job. We don't want to be overwhelmed or underwhelmed. We just want to be whelmed. That's all that we ask."

Lost hope, I answer.

It has happened. They have settled. I have, once and for all, forced submergence of their faith in me. Baptized them with my waters of inadequacy, if you will.

Cool.

For those who have lived to tell of the experience, I think you will agree that selective hearing is a prominent, familial characteristic. What can I say, we try. Peer pressure and word twisting. It is what my family does best.

Peer pressure aside, let me dwell on this whole selective hearing shtick.

What I say:

I can write a successful press release on mechanisms, machines and men of which I know nothing about.

What they hear:

I like writing about boys.

What I say:

The system had been reconfigured, so instead of selling shoes I had to rewrite basic code so the website wouldn't look like complete jibberish.

What they hear:

I updated my MySpace page at work.

What I say:

I didn't really feel like going out and meeting them after dinner, so I just stayed at home and read.

What they hear:

I am socially inept. And sad.

What I say:

I don't have class tomorrow and I finished all three of my books yesterday, so I decided to go out with my friends, but just for about an hour or so.

What they hear:

I have a drinking problem. Please seek help.

What I say:

I've already had dinner, but I'll just come along for the company and not order anything.

What they hear:

I haven't eaten in three weeks.

Speaking with haste has always worked well for me. By "well" I mean that I never feel the need to further explain myself. Not exactly, "well" in the sense that people understand exactly what I mean and can decipher if I am joking or being dead serious. Totally their problem, not mine. Many of you have admitted never knowing my intentions. Am I serious? Am I funny? Am I dangerous?

Beats me.

Here's the thing. I am not incapable. I am not lazy. I am not apathetic. I have never wanted to admit this to anyone because bragging is not my strong suit, but I am growing weak from masking the truth. So. Here it is.

I am a child genius. Or was, rather. I was a child genius. Now, I'm just regular, young adult genius. It's a hard life dealing with all of you people and your average levels of intelligence. Having to dumb down my words so that you can comprehend the meaning is a tiring task. When I have that dismissive look on my face during a conversation, it isn't one of boredom or lack of compassion. That? That is simply me being so unimpressed with whatever you are saying that it literally feels as if a very small portion of my right hemisphere is being depleted. But alas, it is not. Why? Because you could never make me any less of a genius. I am so genius that ungeniusing my genius is inviable, inconceivable and unfathomable. Unfathomable, for you. Me? I can fathom the shit out of it. Because that is how genius I am.

I speak with haste to better communicate with all of you and your normal sized brains. Very similar to selective hearing, what I say is often times a very condensed version of my actual thought. Let me give you a couple of examples.

What I think:

A child of several incarnations, she listens to her own tales. She laughs at her own jokes and follows her own advice. Some of us think she has just allowed her unusual beauty to cloud her vision of the world.

What I say:

Bitch is crazy.

What I think:

Metaphorically, he bends in the fingers of his right-hand as though he were holding a cup. He raises it up and acts out the motions of pouring a libation. The imaginative opening in his forearm is the very essence of his manhood and his expectations from this fallen world. Alkalinity is his hand's possession, once shaken will thrive in his veins before ending all that he knows to be good.

What I say:

He looks like he wants to kill himself.

What I think:

This is your family drum; beat it, my wife.

What I say:

Sup?

What I think:

Bring your ears nearer, my friends, so that I may whisper you a secret.

What I say:

HOLY SHIT; GUESS WHAT!?

What I think:

He moves up to her and changes his attitude to one of supplication.

What I say:

Whipped.

What I think:

Nine months of unwholesome desires and evil dreams. The hour has finally arrived for the breaking of the amnion.

What I say:

Plan B.

I am done. Way too smart for this, I suppose. Update from the champions around me.

Chopstick gives her perspective on honorable African suicide strategies. Drowning preserves the body. The use of a gun is "way too colonial," and would be shameful to the African culture. That's good, Chopstick. Did they teach you that in Honors Social Studies? I'm not sure where you're getting your information or umbilical tie to ancient culture, but I am concerned with the reading material you choose to spend your down time with.

Milkshake is giving his argument on globalization although it has no correlation to what we are discussing. The ultimate state of being, in his opinion, is for one to feel as if he or she is a citizen of the entire world. Statelessness is a problem and "we should reach out to fill the void of exclusivity." Of course we should. That is totally what we should be doing. Seems easy enough.

Blank Canvas hasn't spoken since the first twenty minutes of class. Instead, he is playing Tetris on his phone. My god, there may be hope for him after all.