My husband is hosting his poker group tonight, so...a little of this and a little of that:
It's a good bet I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel when I start a blog with "a little of this and a little of that". Either my life is more mundane than usual, or I just don't have the wit to write a lengthy blog on one subject. Probably both.
Paige slammed her hand in the door and broke her pinky finger, see picture above. Apparently, in the rush to teach her all the things mothers are supposed to teach their offspring like 1) there is no such thing as a five second rule, or 2) don't use your brother's toothbrush on the dog, I failed to tell her to remove her hand from the door jamb before slamming the door shut. Nor, it seems, did I do a good job clarifying what I meant by splinting her finger. When she texted me that picture, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
I knew I was going to kick myself for getting on Facebook. I resisted the temptation for years and then, when I succumb in a moment of weakness, Zuckerberg and Company decide to launch Timeline. I didn't have a chance to figure out how the old Facebook worked before getting slapped with this new version.
I sent an email to New Jersey governor Chris Christie protesting his decision to honor the late Whitney Houston by flying the flags at half-staff. This gives a whole new meaning to the term "lowering the bar". If this keeps up, then the passing of an American president or a soldier's ultimate sacrifice will soon be meaningless. What a repugnant move on the part of the governor. It's been a long while since I've been so riled up over something in the news. I think Octomom's litter was the last time I had a hankering to hit somebody.
Who the hell names their kid Chris Christie?
In the wake of recent stories about UPS and FedEx package drivers who need anger management classes; yesterday, I received a package for my older son that looked like it had been in a wrestling match between a couple of grizzly bears. Because he travels so much with his job, Mitch arranged to have the merchandise delivered to the house instead of his apartment. This was his polite way of saying, "Because you have a boring life, you are always home and don't get to do the kinds of exciting things I get to do". It turned out to be some clothes, nothing breakable, but just how in the heck the box wound up in that condition is beyond me. Later, when I went to dump the emptied box in the trash, I found Phoebe curled up inside it taking a nap. What is it with cats and boxes?
The mayflies are back. I don't know why they are called mayflies. Februaryflies would be more apt. They look like mosquitoes on steroids, but they don't bite or sting. Their sole purpose in life is to annoy the hell out of people whose homes they fly into. For several weeks, you can't escape them and then, all of a sudden, Poof! they are gone, much like Richard's money when he plays poker.
Since when did it become necessary to answer so many questions while going through the grocery store check-out line? Paper or plastic? Do you have a courtesy card? Would you like to apply for a store credit card and get 10% off? Were you able to find everything all right? (Is it just me, or is this a dumb question to ask at the end of the shopping trip?) Would you like to donate a dollar to psoriasis awareness? Do you need help taking your purchases to your car? Sometimes, even the little electronic doo-dad I scan my card through gets in on the action to inquire if I want it all on the card? I'm not sure what it is asking me. Do I get to pick the items I want to pay for and get the rest for free? I loathe shopping and by the time I get to the check-out line, my only goal in life is to get home, and how's that going to happen when I'm in jail charged with choking the clerk in a moment of insanity?
Luby's used to be a really good place to eat. It was cheap, the food was good, not great, but good, and the portions ample. Then they had to go and fix what wasn't broken. They brought in a waitstaff whose job, it appears, is to say hello and bring you the ketchup if you request it. Of course, they are working for a tip, but I refuse to tip them, and why should I? I stood in line. I pushed my tray. I put my drink together: glass, ice, tea, lemon. I carried said tray to the table and I unloaded it. In short, I did all the work. (When my mother is with me, I do the work for two.) They should be tipping me. Is it just a coincidence or did the prices dramatically go up when they hired the ketchup staff?
While waiting to get my mother's drug stash refilled at my local Walgreen's pharmacy the other day, I noticed they have the most asinine security set-up ever. There's a long, open check-out bay with a couple of cash registers on a counter that comes about hip-high on me. Immediately to the left of this open area is a steel door with reinforced glass and the kind of digital door lock employees use to punch in the super secret entry code, like 1-2-3-4. Really, they think some hopped-up addict jonesing for a fix and toting a gun is going to try to hack his way through the security door, when there's a counter he can vault over? All I can say is, if he does manage to get the door open, I hope he remembers to remove his hand from the jamb before slamming it shut.
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