The Daily Rant

A few weeks ago, I rented a U-haul to get my most recent, and hopefully last, piece of living room furniture (pictured above). I drove to U-haul, and they set me up with a pick-up. After being on the phone 20 minutes to get my insurance approved, we finally got to the contracts. As I signed the forms, the woman behind the counter told me that I was getting the truck with the gas gauge between 1/4 and 1/2 tank full, and I "needed to return it the same way". The paperwork even showed a gauge, with a grey bar centered slightly south of 3/8 full.



Everywhere else in the world, by the way, you get the truck with the tank full, and you return it full. This way, you only pay for the gas you use (unless you prepay a tank). In SF, though, they need to make a little extra off you, so they invented this system to make sure that you over-fill it and save them money (because they threatened you with a re-fill fee).

I drove the thing about 10 miles, and the meter was still just south of 3/8 full. I'll be honest here -- I wasn't trying to get away with anything, but I was in a hurry (my baby was parked in a 2 hour spot). Since even a gallon would have overfilled it, and it was still between 1/4 and 1/2 tank, which was what she had said (as opposed to "Return it with the exact same amount of fuel), I just took it back. She claimed the tank had been 3/8 full, it was now less, and I owed them a refueling fee. This despite the fact that I showed her the paper, with the bar at less that 3/8.

But that's not what set me into a rant that my friend demanded I blog. I just took the keys back, added two gallons, and, cursing all the while, returned it more full than I had found it. No, what drove me crazy were this lady's (used loosely) fingernails. Let the rant begin -- expect little logic.

There are a number of levels on which I do not understand the long fingernail craze. First, women seem to think it is attractive. In an evolutionary since, I can see the use of a manicure. Nice nails might make it appear that your life is easy, you don't have to do manual labor, your immune system is good, etc. We haven't had fake nails all that long -- I just can't fathom a selective advantage to long, curved, blood red plastic with sequins. At most, it evokes in me an innate Freddy Kruger-esque fear that makes me want to run (You can actually still buy the pictured glove -- www.morbid.demon.co.uk).

But that's not really what gets to me about those nails.

I'd have to say my annoyance began when I worked in community hospitals, and many of my female patients had the nails. I could never understand how people who raised hell about paying $1.00 per prescription (not making this up) could afford to have their nails done like that. Priorities, folks! And don't wear those things and complain that your rash is itchy and just keeps getting worse.

Aside (before you send me hate mail):
(1) I know the cost of a nail job is a drop in the bucket compared to the cost of health care, and (2) the manicure probably made them feel better than I could on the county's budget. Symbolically, though, it drove me nuts. And that's not really what gets to me about those damn nails.

Enough suspense. What makes me cringe is watching women with long, fake nails type. I have seen this done in two ways. First, there are those who can curl their fingers back like some double-jointed witch, get the nylon out of the way, and still type with their real fingertips. This is just freaky.

Then there are those who actually type with the tips of the fake nails. This works in today's touch typing world, and on its face seems less freaky than keyboard a la witch. Let's remember, though, that I have a bizarre mind. Every time I see this, I get a mental image of one of these women using a manual typewriter (from www.wescottcompany.com -- they still sell 'em). Something would have to give. Would the nail break in half? Would it come off at the base? Where would it fly?

Suddenly I'm watching a CSI episode, with someone surreptitiously placing a solvent on the woman's fingers so that when she sits down to type, a nail flies through her eye and kills her. Even cooler if she were typing a suicide note -- and got murdered on the way. Coolest if she somehow rigs the carom to "accidentally" kill someone else. Every time I see those nails, my brain gets stuck on this for a good hour before I can dispatch the thoughts to a place where they only pop up a few times a day. I love a good mystery, but after a while, it drives me nuts. I've actually thought about the equation that would define the trajectory of the nail. I shit you not.

That felt good. Nothing like a bizarre, tangential rant. You should hear the next three burrs that were up my ass that day. Maybe you will -- let's just say that the phrase "Turn on your Gaydar" led to a 10 minute diatribe that had my friend, and two other people who happened by, in stitches.

For the record, I can't even blame this on a mind-altering substance. I was sober when it happened, when I complained about it (though not for long after), and when I wrote it (we'll see about the after). If you hadn't already figured it out, I'm just strange. As some hero of my Dad once said, "The truth shall make you -- odd."