really short work week, and you sure don’t hear me complaining. My ear’s still bugging me, with that whole constant-static sound still going on, not to mention the unable to hear much out of that ear thing, so I have a doctor’s appointment at 11:15. The kitten has a vet’s appointment at 2:30, because her eye has been bothering her, but Fred kindly consented to deal with that appointment. Aside from that, I have to register my Jeep and Fred’s Jeep (which was supposed to be registered in January, but I obviously dropped the ball on that one), stop by Petco to pick up a bag of cat food, and rent Double Jeopardy at the movie store. There was one other thing, but I can’t remember what it was. Oh, well, can’t have been too important, eh? Remember when I talked about Richard Grieco being a dead ringer for the Grinch? (I’d link to the entry, but I’m too lazy to go look for it) Well, for your viewing pleasure, the photo comparison: griencho That’s still not the Grinchiest Greico’s ever looked, but I definitely see the resemblance. Don’t you? So Sunday night I had to drive a fair distance to return the movies we’d rented for the weekend, and since I was going to be passing the Dairy Queen on the way home, it was decided that I would stop and pick up dessert. Things were going well – drove to the movie store, dropped off the movies, headed back for home – and so it was with a happy heart that I pulled up to the Dairy Queen drive-thru. When the person on the other end of the drive-thru speaker asked if she could take my order, I spoke clearly "I would like a banana pudding blizzard-" "What size?" drive-thru-chick demanded before I could finish my order. "Size medium," I said, and had opened my mouth to complete my order, when drive-thru chick decided that I was done. "A dollar four, drive up." As Fred would say, that just flew all over me (ie: really pissed me off). I fumed for a few seconds, then said "Fuckthis," and drove off. Would it have killed the bitch to make sure I was done with my order before giving me the total? I wasn’t doing the dumbass thing that far too many people do, which is to hesitate for a full minute before continuing on with their order. She didn’t give me half a second to finish, fer godssake. And yes, I know she was probably really busy, but I worked the drive-thru at McDonald’s for three years (ask me about my horror stories), and I never cut off a customer. Sure, I made faces at the drive-thru speaker, and muttered "Come ON already, it’s the same freakin’ menu that’s always there," but cutting them off? Never ever. The manager of the moment would have kicked my ass. Speaking of drive-thru idiots, I hit McDonald’s this morning (and with the horror stories I have, it’s incredible I ever eat from any fast food place ever) for a sausage mcmuffin with egg, hash brown, and large coke. Simple order, right? Well, apparently "coke" sounded like "coffee" to the Einstein taking my order. How is that possible? They’re two completely different words, the only similarity being the "c" at the beginning. Cohk and cawfee. Idiots. The worst part is that I didn’t realize it was coffee until halfway back to the office. Grrr. I finally got off my butt this weekend and paid the bills. While I was paying the phone bill ($130 this month, and that’s for three separate lines and only four short long-distance calls. Am I wrong, or is that an incredible amount of money to pay for three basic phone lines?) I noticed that we pay $3 a month for the privilege of being unlisted. Isn’t that odd? Instead of charging people to be listed, they charge people to not be listed. It’s like if you went into a clothing store and they said "Okay, you don’t want that shirt? That’ll be $50 to not buy it." I hate talking on the phone, have I ever mentioned that? I’m a blithering idiot on the phone, and it amazes me that I’ve held so many jobs where the main responsibility was taking calls. At home when it rings, it’s always up to Fred to answer it, because I let the answering machine pick up. When he’s not home at all, I check the caller id before picking up the phone, and if it’s anyone other than him (he?) or the spud’s school, I don’t bother to pick up the phone. That’s just the kind of anti-social gal I am. —–]]>