What's my least favorite Customer Service excuse? All of them

Anyone who knows me well can answer the following question - aside from over-priced hipster cupcakes, what modern convenience do I find most irritating?  The answer, of course, is dealing with a"customer service representative".  It's an impossibly broad category, if you waste time thinking about it.  Any job, really, should be considered a customer service job.  But I'm specifically miffed by those generally still human members of society who have the task of answering our questions about, say, a broken Kitchen Aid mixer (Williams-Sonoma, I'm possibly looking in your general direction).  Those people are the ones that pee in society's coffeemaker, wrinkle our collective laundry, don't clean up after their dogs who always stop out front of our shared driveway, and/or just plain make certain tasks that, say, 30 years ago were not that big of a deal a whole ton more irritating.  Not that I'm talking about anyone in particular.  But if you decided to dump a whole bag of really obnoxious garbage in public to stage your own personal tea party protest, you may want to consider the front entrance of a Williams-Sonoma.  As an American who's also a big fan of all the Founding Fathers, I wouldn't try to stop you.

To be less opaque if you don't get that last reference - Sarah Palin did it again.  She's 500-miles-wide and an inch deep.  Which is as new and insightful as saying the ocean is wet.

From the wonderful adventure that is Maya's not-quite-5-year-old life, the new favorite word metaphor around our house is "rollerskates".  She just got a pair, after I returned the poorly received Razor scooter that Hanukah Harry left under the ol' Festivus pole.  She really only wanted the skates.  I was just being a wuss in thinking that she might be a bit young.  Hell, in little more than a year she can start kids roller derby here in Seattle.  So you can rightly expect that I'm psyched that she is picking it up pretty fast.  For a normally cautious kid, it's a treat to see her get a bit ballsy.  And it brings back memories of how I lived in rollerskates for a hearty chunk of most weekend days in the Winters of my youth.  My cousins who lived nearby and I had skates to run constantly evolving courses we set up in their huge cement floored basement.  I'm glad Maya got that gene.

Hope your own lost memories show up in genetic copies today.  Rock on.