Most every time I go out in public, I end up with a story.
Earlier this week I went to a local Sprawl Mart to get a few things for the office.
It was a simple shopping trip.
But, we are a talking about me here.
I got to the self-checkout lane and rung up my purchases. I swiped my credit card, and that’s when things went horribly awry.
The screen read “Processing…Please Wait”, and it stuck there.
The helpful cashier monitoring the self-checkout lanes came over and tried to cancel, tried to suspend, tried…everything.
It didn’t work.
Instead, it got worse.
Slowly, I noticed cashiers and customers alike up and down the checkout lanes mashing buttons and cursing the gods of shopping as purchases were stuck in limbo.
Apparently, I’d broken Sprawl Mart.
Finally, after many minutes, one manager with long false eyelashes and nails started mashing on buttons at her console and the gods of shopping released their death grip on the machines.
I finished my transaction and booked it out of there.
I got in my car and noticed I needed gas, so I stopped at the nearest place and as the gas was pumping I decided I needed a vat of soda from their vast fountain selections.
I filled the vat with ice and diet soda, went to sit it on the counter so I could pay, and my miscalculations as to the height of said counter led to soda-launching as if from a trebuchet.
The now-drenched clerk waiting to ring me up stood there blinking at me, pieces of ice and rivers of soda running down her hair, face, shirt.
“Well, at least it’s diet…so…umm…you…uh…won’t….be…you know, sticky…” I mumbled as I backed away, intent on
reloading refilling my vat…because, dammit, destroying the world is thirsty business.
When I came back to the counter, I had a new
victim clerk waiting to take my money.
I paid, and got the hell out of there.
And this is why we can’t have nice things, and why I shouldn’t be allowed out without a chaperone.
I joined Angie’s List recently, and was looking over some recommendations for pain management doctors.
Not that I’m unhappy with my current doctor, but one must keep their options open.
Most were chiropractors or rheumatologists, with a sprinkling of anesthesiologists (yes, please just put me to sleep so I don’t feel the pain), and so on.
That’s all well and good, and please don’t think I’m down on which doctor anyone chooses. If it works for you, great. Go for it.
It’s just that, for me, I need an MD or DO who understands my pain issues and how to manage them – preferably with a combination of chemicals and massage or physical therapy. A glass of wine helps too.
Which is why I don’t think I’ll be going to Dr. Wacky* anytime soon.
One of his patient reviews included this:
“I just love Dr. Wacky! I especially loved his advice to ‘forgive’ my tumor. I did and it worked! My pain level has significantly decreased! I’ll definitely be going back!”
This person was not being sarcastic.
He/she was also not the only one who referred to forgiveness as part of Dr. Wacky’s pain management protocol.
*I may have changed that name, to protect the
whack-job doctor in question.
…a day for which I am amply prepared year-round.
Oh no, kids…it’s also Paczki Day!
So after the paczki, we can work off the extra calories by racing to the top of the stairs and out onto our balconies in N’awlins, and throw beads at people.
See, here I thought that was a Mardi Gras tradition, and all this time it was people working off the pile o’ paczkis they ate.
It’s all in preparation for Lent, a very important religious observance for some. My husband suggested we participate in Lent this year. I don’t know why, we aren’t Catholic. I told him I was all for it, and suggested we give up ‘sacrifice’ for Lent.
I sacrifice paczki all year long. I think, during Lent, I should give up that particular sacrifice. I also sacrifice leisure time for work, I’d like to reverse that trend, too.
He walked away muttering to himself about how I don’t understand the concept.
Clearly, the man does not understand the concept of ‘sacrifice’.
Instead, we just got the tree up but not decorated, and I’m still waiting for all the gifts to arrive (I shop online whenever possible).
My house looks like I’m in the midst of moving, half-full boxes of Christmas decorations and the boxes that hold those decorations are in just about every room.
We just got back from another frigid trip to Missouri. This time to bury my sweet mother-in-law.
It was a sad time, but the snowfall was beautiful.
And this is a short week before I’m off again.
How do rock bands do it?
Nevermind, most of them aren’t as old as me.
If I don’t get back here..Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and to be on the safe side, Happy Easter!
The other day, at It Just Gets Stranger, I found myself in the unique position of having to act as assistant to Bugsy, the Insane.
You see, Eli was convinced he had contracted cancer.
From a cat.
Now you see why I read his blog.
Anyway, the following exchange took place…
Apparently, he’s a flamer.
I tell ya, I just don’t know what to do with him anymore.
What I do know, though, is the minute Bugsy, the Insane develops opposable thumbs I’m in real trouble.
We all are.
Remember my squee-fest over a t-shirt I found?
Yeah..so, this happened to it:
And it’s lost.
Which makes this the most ironic t-shirt – EVVVAHHH!
One Saturday afternoon a quiet suburban couple, on a quiet suburban street were enjoying the peace and quiet of a home they shared as empty-nesters.
Suddenly, the door bell rang and the husband answered the door.
In burst “Wendy”, claiming to have just come from “your neighbor’s house”, and saying she wanted her guys to “shampoo your living room carpet”.
“We’ll be in and out in 30-40 minutes. And it won’t cost you a thing.”
The husband, either too flummoxed by Wendy’s fast-talk or seeing this as a way to get a free carpet cleaning so he wouldn’t have to do it, let her in.
He completely ignored the fact that anything ‘free’ is usually expensive. Especially when it shows up at your door on a Saturday afternoon.
Wendy’s “guys” followed her in the house dragging a large box with the word Kirby on the side.
By this time, the wife had emerged from her quiet reading room and seeing the “Kirby” logo new this would not end well.
Unless by ‘well’ you mean costing her and the husband a lot of money.
I guess it’s a matter of perspective.
Two and a half hours later, and the carpets, furniture, walls, and bed were vacuumed and one room’s carpets were clean and fluffy.
The house looked great. And it smelled fresh and clean.
The wife asked if in lieu of buying the Kirby, for the same amount of money would the guys just come over every weekend and clean her house.
The guys didn’t like that idea.
So, lo the husband presented the credit card and the Kirby changed hands, and all was good and well in the quiet suburban home on the quiet suburban street.
A few days later the doorbell rang again.
This time, the husband refused to answer the door.
It appears he is learning.