From more or less the moment I woke up today, when I figured out nearly immediately upon waking up that our wireless connection wasn’t working, I have been thwarted in goddamn near every single thing I have tried to do today. It’s been the kind of day where I start swearing uncontrollably into my phone and hitting the star key over and over again because Comcast uses a fucking voice recognition computer for their “help” line and there are no options that remotely match what I need. It is the kind of day where I begin one conversation with a customer service agent by telling her in my most polite available tone of voice (which is, despite my best efforts, still not very polite) that I am aware that none of my problems are her fault and I’m going to try and avoid coming off as a complete asshole but that I am this close to losing my shit altogether with her company. It is the kind of day where I begin another conversation with another customer service agent for a different company by asking her what the main ingredient in tomato soup is, because I am completely exhausted by dealing with non-human-being agents and need her to literally prove that she is flesh and blood before I try and talk to her, and yes, ma’am, I am completely serious, I want the answer to my question please.
It is the kind of day where I take my son to McDonald’s for lunch, my son who is at home with me today because his day care is taking a field trip to a place where his allergies prevent him from going, my son who does not remotely deserve the surly, angry, stressed-out, swearing mess of a father that he has—it is the kind of day where I take my son to McDonald’s and McDonald’s is out of ketchup. Because of fucking course McDonald’s is out of ketchup, why would lunch be any different from anything else that’s happened today?
It is the kind of day where a former student who I have remained in near-constant touch with for the five years since she left my classroom– a student who I have referred to as “my daughter” in conversation with others before because our actual relationship is a trifle too complicated to explain—the kind of day where that student is having a Very Bad Day, and I find that I simply do not have the mental energy or emotional capacity to help her, and treat her with a coldness she does not deserve or need.
It is the kind of day where I find out that the brightest student I’ve ever had in my classroom, a student I have not kept in constant contact with, who has just graduated from high school, is moving in with his girlfriend and not into a college dorm room because he cannot afford college and has no one in his family to help him navigate through it.
It is a miracle that I’m ending the day by typing this into this Word document on my desktop—because my internet doesn’t work, and my phone is out of data, and I need to stay offline as much as possible so I’m writing it offline—and not ending it in jail. Because the fact that I made it through the day without assaulting anyone is frankly bordering on miraculous.
It is the kind of day where none of these problems are problems at all, because the monsters who we have allowed to take over our government are drugging children that they have kidnapped and are keeping them in concentration camps. Concentration camps run by for-profit prison companies, on American soil.
And right now I have no idea how the fuck to cope with any of it at all.
Context: my day has been long and tiring, and yesterday was largely consumed by dealing with my now-six-year-old son’s ass and the various horrifying products it was creating and dispensing. I am not in the mood to write a post, but I have always felt like this one didn’t get enough credit. And most of you haven’t seen it. So therefore: enjoy.
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So for the last couple of days the boy has been all
and, frankly, it’s starting to look really unpleasant. He’s clearly not terribly happy with the situation either.
My wife gets home from work today and tells me she has a mission for me. I’ll be honest: I was tired (again) and hungry (again) and more than a little aggravated already for reasons that I don’t plan to go into and the thought of a mission was not entirely pleasing to me.
“Describe the nature of this mission,” I requested.
“I need you to get butt paste,” she said.
“Butt paste.” I replied. I made sure to phrase it in such a way that she heard the period at the end of the sentence.
“Butt paste,” she says. “I’m hoping you can get it at Martin’s.”
(Context: Martin’s is our local grocery store; it’s a chain but I’m pretty sure it’s limited to north-central Indiana and maybelower Michigan.)
I look up Butt Paste on the Internet, which sadly is probably not the oddest search I’m going to perform on the Internet this week. It turns out that there is a product specifically called Butt Paste. Check the URL: you find it at buttpaste.com, which should not be a website for medical supplies. However, frighteningly, that is not the Butt Paste that I’m looking for.
What I’m looking for– what the pediatrician apparently explicitly suggested my wife try to locate– is actually called Dr. Sirlin’s Bottom Ointment, which still sounds inappropriate. Dr. Sirlin’s Bottom Ointment is, near as I can tell, only sold in one place on Earth, but more on them later. Needless to say, that place isn’t Martin’s. My wife calls Martin’s anyway, just to be sure, and asks the pharmacist who answers the phone if they carry, no shit, this is a direct quote: “Dr. Sirlin’s butt paste. For butts. Baby butts.”
I consider protesting the use of the phrase butt paste for this query, because we aren’t looking for butt paste, we’re looking for bottom ointment, which is clearly very different. I do not actually voice the query. The person on the other line comes back quickly with an affirmative. We have butt paste! Go for butt paste!
And I’m off to Martin’s. It’s not far away from home, which is the reason we’d rather go there. Once I get there I arrive timed perfectly with a car leaving a very choice parking spot, which I wait for. The driver of the other car, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to get that I want her parking spot, and keeps trying to wave me on past her, thinking she’s being polite, and no amount of flailing and pointing at the empty goddamn parking spot on my part convinces her otherwise. So instead I park here:
And into Martin’s I go. To be greeted with a conundrum! Cute Cashier Girl is for some reason working at the pharmacy counter. Cute Cashier Girl, I hope to God, is in her early twenties. She’s a cashier, though! She’s not supposed to be at the pharmacy!
I cannot ask Cute Cashier Girl for butt paste. I’m gonna try and be all suave, like
but I know me. It’s gonna come off all
I cannot do this.
I spend a moment considering other options and can’t think of any. I approach the counter. She smiles cheerily and asks if she can help me, with no idea of the horror of the request I’m about to make of her.
“I’m looking for something called Dr. Sirlin’s Ointment?” I omit the word bottom, because I cannot say bottom to this lovely young lady. “I understand it’s supposed to be behind the counter for some reason.”
She looks quizzically at me, then looks around for a minute.
“I don’t see it. What’s it for?”
Don’t say butts.
“Diaper rash.” Ha! I win!
She lights up, smiling again. “Oh! You’re the butt paste guy!”
Oh hell no. I am a lot of things, Cute Cashier Girl, but I am sure as hell not butt paste guy. No. Uh-uh. No goddamn way.
The butt paste, apparently, is not behind the counter. It is actually in the baby aisle. I swallow what is left of my dignity and head for the baby aisle, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt what is about to happen. And my worst fears come true:
God dammit. That, you will notice, is not Dr. Sirlin’s Bottom Ointment. That’s fucking butt paste. I don’t want butt paste. I want bottom ointment.
I pick up the box, cursing God and all creation, and return to the pharmacy counter. She’s still there, of course, it’s not like the goddamn baby aisle is that far away.
“I have a, uh, follow-up question?”
“Oh, okay!” oh god she hates me so much she’s actually got her bright cheery smile on her face, and a bit of a twinkle in her eye that suggests to me that she’s enjoying my pain.
“I assume you are the one my wife talked to.”
“Yep!”
“She asked for Dr. Sirlin’s… (makes a face) Butt Paste. The stuff we want is actually called
Bottom ointment. I thought this might happen. Do you have the ointment? This isn’t actually what I’m looking for.”
She looks around again and then signals the actual pharmacist, who has been hiding behind a rack of drugs and trying her damnedest to keep a fucking straight face. The pharmacist confirms that, no, they don’t have Bottom Ointment. Just Butt Paste. So I have to go to the other place.
I thank her for her time and apologize for my own nonsense. Off to the car!
There are two reasons I don’t want to go to this other establishment. One I’ll get to later. The other is that they are a million miles away. They are literally not in the same town I’m in. I don’t want to go to another town for butt paste or bottom ointment. I want to be home, eating dinner. In my town.
But I love my wife, and I love my son, at least the non-butt parts of him. So off I go. I drive past this place on my way home from OtherJob all the time, so I know where it is, and I head there– to OtherJob, not quite realizing until it’s slightly too late that I drive past it on the way home from OtherJob, and for reasons that are not interesting I generally drive home from OtherJob via a different route than I take to get to OtherJob. So I’m going the wrong way.
Once I realize this and correct my course, I still manage to make two fucking wrong turns before successfully arriving at Pharmacy Two. On the way over to the pharmacy, it occurs to me that I am so fucking blogging this shit when I get home. I take a moment in their parking lot and compose an entertaining Tweet to that effect. Then I get out and go inside.
Well, I try to. As I’m reaching for the fucking door, an employee locks the fucking thing from the inside and points at a sign next to the door. The sign cheerfully informs me that this fucking place closes at six, as pharmacies do oh wait no they fucking don’t, ever.
I look at my watch.
It’s five fucking fifty-eight.
At this point my mood somewhat transitions.
I was entertained with this bullshit up until this exact fucking second.
You did not just LOCK A FUCKING DOOR IN MY FUCKING FACE TWO FUCKING MINUTES BEFORE FUCKING CLOSING AT A FUCKING ***PHARMACY***. It ain’t goddamn 1983 anymore. My fucking watch ties into a goddamn satellite that tells it what time it is. I can’t even adjust the motherfucker. It ain’t goddamn 6:00 yet, which means your ass isn’t fucking closed yet.
Listen, bitch, this ain’t fucking Barnes and Noble and it isn’t fucking Applebee’s. I am not fucking here to browse. You’re a pharmacy, motherfucker, and no fucker anywhere goes to a fucking pharmacy unless they motherfucking need to. I am there to get my shit and get the fuck out, and don’t you dare fucking thing for one fucking second that I can’t see that there is at least one motherfucker in there who isn’t dressed like he’s at fucking work.
I have two fuckin’ choices here. One is to go home. The other is to go to jail. Jail will no doubt feel better but either way there will be no fucking Bottom Ointment.
Not. Happy.
I went home and had dinner. A bit more research after dinner indicated that Dr. Sirlin’s Bottom Ointment is apparently produced by this pharmacy. It’s literally the only place you can get it other than the Internet. Well, fuck them.
Butt Paste it is. I return to Martin’s.
I collect my Butt Paste. I go back to the pharmacy counter, because I’m buying this with a damn flex account and it’s easier if we just use the pharmacy counter to buy anything medical-related. She’s still there, naturally. And she, I swear to God, says:
“There’s a story here, isn’t there.”
Oh sweetie. You have no idea.
(ADDENDUM: I didn’t include this in context because it kinda kills the tone of the piece, but the other reason I don’t like this pharmacy? They tried to kill my dog. My dog in high school/early college developed epilepsy, and rather than try to get a canine version of the drug they needed the vet just contracted through them to produce his medicine– which happened to be in liquid form. He was on the stuff for quite a while, and at some point we went in and got a bottle that was a radically different color and consistency than every other version of the medicine we’d gotten. The pharmacist not only argued with my mother about whether the medicine was different, at one point he actually said the words “Look, it’s just for a dog.” So this is the second time this place has nearly resulted in a member of my family going to jail. Merrill Pharmacy in Mishawaka, Indiana? Go fuck yourselves.)
(FINAL NOTE: As I was finishing this post up, my wife, who has been bathing our son, sticks her head into the office. “Hey, babe? There’s poop in the tub.” Because of course there is.)
This was an exceptionally long week at work– it was decided (not by me) that yesterday needed to be a Move Every Single God Damn Thing in the Store day, and I spent the majority of it out of breath and sweating, which are exactly the characteristics you want in a purveyor of fine furniture and furniture-related goods and services.
I am old and fat and out of shape, guys, and I signed up to be a salesman. If I wanted to work as a mover I would have made sure to be 20 years younger and substantially more svelte. And yet.
But that’s not the point of this post. The point of this post is that in addition to being fat and old and out of shape and sweaty and out of breath, attractive characteristics all, I am also an idiot.
So this lady comes in and wants four $75 dining chairs. She wants to buy one of them from clearance at half off (fine) and order the other three new. No problem! She’s already decided on everything before coming in so everything ought to go really fast, right? I write the ticket, call a manager over to drop the price of the clearance chair, and tell her how much the sale will be. She is writing a check, and blinks a couple of times and then, visibly embarrassed, asks me the name of the store.
I tell her and her day immediately gets worse as her brainfart continues and I have to spell the name of the store for her. It is obvious that this woman is not a moron and is just having a bad couple of minutes where the synapses aren’t firing right. We cool. I make a joke about having made a stupid math error earlier in the day. It is worth pointing out that the joke wasn’t true, and I was just trying to make her feel better.
I tell her how much to write the check for. She pauses, thinking, and comments that the number doesn’t seem right.
“The one chair is half off, remember,” I say.
“Oh,” she says, and writes the check for the agreed-upon amount, takes her clearance chair, and leaves the store.
Two minutes later it occurs to me that $75 times three and a half is not $118, which is what the check she wrote was for, and I look at the invoice and discover that I only sold her two chairs. She not only noticed the error but pointed it out to me and I still looked at $118 and went “Yeah, that’s definitely the right amount to charge someone for four goddamn chairs.”
I had to call her back and tell her she’d need to either call me with a credit card number or come back to the store and write a second check if she wanted all four chairs. She was back in ten minutes, having figured out on her own that I wasn’t able to math. Luckily, both of us blamed ourselves for the mistake getting through.
Earlier today, I sold something to someone who lives on a street very near me. She asked me what street I lived on and I forgot my address. I literally could not remember the name of the street I live on. It took way too long.
Today was a blasted nightmare hellscape of a day, and when I got home my wife still managed to one-up me within less than a minute of me walking in the door. I had an eighteen thousand dollar order finally deliver today after two and a half months of sitting in the warehouse, and while ultimately I’m pretty sure everything ended up working out more or less to the good I spent the entire day on the phone dealing with customer service issues and intermittently talking people who had spent an enormous amount of money off of ledges. Today started with a customer who bought a leather power sectional a few months ago coming in and wanting a refund. Like, literally, I walked in the door, and they were already in the store. I managed to trade those people to another set and actually made some money on the deal, but still. This is me, the entire fucking day:
And, like, okay, there are no bullet holes in me, and that’s probably a whole lot of good thing, but I still spent damn near my every fucking waking second dodging, or looking for furniture in a giant warehouse, furniture that was not where it was supposed to be, or walking up to co-workers and saying things like “I need you to save my life right now, and here’s how you’re going to do it,” and various and sundry other things, and as it turns out that all of that shit is stressful as fuck. I am actually walking into the last day of my week at negative sales, too, which brings its own special brand of exhaustion with it.
I, no shit, suggested to my boss around 5:30 tonight that we start a fight club, and I’m not sure I was kidding.
(Here’s the kind of day I had, in microcosm: y’all know Panera Bread, right? They’re tasty and shit. Today we had an employee from Panera walk into the store and drop off a menu, announcing that they were actually delivering now. Cool! At around 1:30, in the early stages of the shakes from hunger, I decided I didn’t have time to leave the store and needed to get a lunch delivery of some sort, and– at the menu’s suggestion– downloaded the Panera app. Which could not be convinced that the address of my place of business, which is a real place that is actually there, since I was at that address at the time, existed, and so would not let me proceed to the part of the app where I actually order food. So I called them, at which point the recording informed me that the restaurant was closed for renovations despite the fact that their employee had brought me a menu today. Extend that exact kind of bullshit to every single interaction I had with any human at any time today and you have my day.)
You may recall this recent post, where I revealed the existence of my new electrical powers. I am … well, not proud, really, more confused— to announce that not only have I continued to shock myself on that goddamn piece of furniture (and nothing else in the store) but that I managed to deliver an electrical shock to a customer today by handing him an invoice. The shock traveled over the piece of paper; our hands did not touch.
I am terrified to touch one of our power sofas, which actually do run on electricity. I’m starting to think I might die if I do.
Five days since the tooth removal, and I’ve still had barely a second of pain at any point, which blows my mind. I just said this in a comment a month ago, but if dental surgery had always been this easy, no one would be afraid of going to the dentist. I’m blown away at how lucky I got.
Gonna go get a tooth torn out of my head tomorrow. I’m not looking forward to any part of it, for obvious reasons, to the point where I’m actually kind of embarrassed at how much it’s weighing on me. It’s a wisdom tooth. Those shits get pulled all the time. It’ll be fine, and I’ve got an excuse to spend the rest of the day in bed. How often do I get to do that nowadays? This is a good thing.
Stupidest thought of the last several days: that since I mostly chew on the right (which may not even be true) I’ll have to relearn how to eat. I don’t think so. I’m pretty certain that people who have single molars taken out aren’t generally in need of physical therapy afterwards. I’m just being ridiculous. I am also certain that once the swelling goes down, if indeed there’s enough swelling to be worth worrying about, that my face will neither be a different shape nor noticeably lopsided-looking. They’re not removing my jaw.
Anyway.
Keeping with the “it annoys me that this annoys me” theme…
I dropped below 10,000 Twitter followers this week, for the first time in probably two years. In itself, this isn’t a huge deal; followings ebb and flow and I don’t think I’ve ever had more than 10,300 or so, so it’s not a big drop at all. It’s mildly annoying, because I like that five-figure following, but ultimately it’s a nothingburger.
Now, that said: I worked at getting that 10K following, and I had several strategies that I used that worked. It took under a year to go from a few hundred followers to 10K. And once I hit 10K every single one of those strategies stopped working, and nothing I’ve been able to do since then has been able to push me above that 10.3K number I referenced earlier. Anybody reading this big into Twitter, and have any suggestions that don’t involve actually buying followers (never) or premium access to one of the various Twitter helper programs like Crowdfire? I don’t want to spend any money on this, but time I have.
Anybody out there know more than me and want to share?
Had a woman come into the store today looking for occasional tables, and in talking to her about what she was looking for she volunteered that she recently bought a 1600 square foot house, filled it with new furniture, then sold it “on a whim” six months later to buy a 4400 square foot house.
Which she now needs to fill with more new furniture.
Is it wrong that I don’t know this woman at all and I still feel like her taxes probably ought to be doubled or tripled?
You may recall my misadventures in corn chippery over the weekend. The doctor at the ER who checked me out said she thought my tooth might be cracked, so I made an appointment with an actual dentist like a big boy to have it looked at. Now, this person is “my dentist” in the sense that ten years ago when the exact same thing happened to me (possibly not involving corn chips) his office was the one I went to. I’m not afraid of the dentist, I swear, I just … don’t prioritize it? So the last time I was in there was the last time I was in there.
Anyway, what I figured would happen was that they’d look at the tooth, do some X-rays, maybe a cleaning, and then make a recommendation for what to do about the tooth in the longer term. And if they tell me that the tooth needs to come out, so be it. I’m grown, I can handle a little tooth pull. It’ll be fine.
So. Dental assistant gently chided me for the length of time in between visits (fair) inspected my teeth (expected) took some X-rays (still following the script) and then called the dentist in, and then the whole damn thing went sideways.
“So, we’re gonna take that out today,” is how he started the conversation.
“Uh,” I said. “Today?”
“Right now,” he said, gesturing at a pile of tools behind him.
“About that,” I say, realizing that in a very real way my entire life has been leading up to the next three sentences that are about to come out of my mouth, “It’s my 10th anniversary? And I have reservations at an expensive steakhouse and tickets to Hamilton tonight? I am not throwing away my shot.”
And of course neither of them get it.
“What are you saying?” he asks.
“We are not going to be pulling any of my teeth today. I intend to be eating a large steak in about eight hours. I’ll make an appointment for next week.”
… it didn’t go over well.
So, serious question: I had not for a single second anticipated the possibility that absent an imminent dental emergency they were going to just go and yank a tooth out of my mouth on no notice. All of my training with medical procedures for my entire life has led me to believe that this is the decision flowchart:
Make medical appointment to discuss/diagnose problem.
Are you dying or in danger of imminent death? If yes, go to 4. If not, go to 3.
Make second appointment sometime in the future to remedy problem.
Do surgery, or radiation, or whatever.
So apparently I need to add a 2a, which reads are we gonna pull a tooth? and if the answer is yes you also go to 4.
Anyway, I stuck to my guns– turns out it’s awfully hard to convince me to let you yank a tooth out of my mouth if I didn’t wake up today prepared for tooth extraction and have very expensive uncancellable plans that will be totally screwed up if you try to pull my teeth– and now I have an appointment next Thursday for a tooth extraction.
Which I’m sure will be all sorts of fun and generate at least one more blog post.
(Please, somebody, speak up in comments and tell me if I should have been expecting this– because I literally hadn’t even considered the idea that they’d go straight to an extraction without specifically scheduling it. Am I nuts?)
You may have noticed; I’ve talked about it around here as recently as last week: I tend to be a homebody. I used to be a lot more social than I am now, but it takes quite a bit to overcome my societal inertia nowadays. Like… I dunno, a superhero movie. That’s about it.
A couple of weeks ago I committed to being part of a team for a fundraiser trivia night. I did this when “February 1” sounded like it was way off in the future, so far off that I’d never actually live that long. My wife, a bigger fan of trivia than I, also committed. Then we realized on Thursday night that February 1 was in two days and sorta had to scramble for a babysitter. Whoops.
I was at OtherJob all day Saturday, watching shitty weather happening and dealing with a miserably low number of customers. I got a lot of stuff done, but I got no school stuff done at all and so I got home in kind of a crappy mood and in no way interested in mingling with puny humans. The fact that a solid majority of the people we were competing with were going to be strangers made it worse. I don’t do mingling well. I am worse at mingling when in a preexisting bad mood.
My wife made me go. I scowled, but I agreed.
Trivia Night was at the Fraternal Order of Police’s bingo hall. I’d never been in the part of town where it was; easy enough directions, but a lot of looking around for the place we’re going, in the dark and bad-visibility snow.
Oh! Look! A bingo hall. My wife notes that there’s no signage declaring the place to be an FOP.
“There’s no way in hell there’s two bingo halls on the same road,” I say, and we pull in. And we drive past the place. There’s bingo happening inside, and I can’t quite describe why but the place, which was all windows in front, looked like it very well could have been the most depressing building on the planet. I wanted to kill myself just driving past it.
And it was pretty clearly not the FOP. Weird. Well, back on the road.
Two minutes later, we’re driving past a second bingo hall. “This has to be it,” I said, and then we noticed the entire building was dark. So… that’s two bingo halls, on the same road, and neither of them is the one we’re looking for?
Where the hell am I and what the hell is going on? Am I still on Earth? Is it still 2014?
No, the bingo hall we wanted was the third such hall on the same road. We found it. The parking lot was packed, and mostly unplowed. We had to drive entirely around the building and park behind it. There are what looks like millions of people trying to crowd into this place, and my misanthropy has already been well and truly activated.
We walk in. Now, we’re supposed to pay to get in, and the table is registered under the name of one of the members of our group, which makes me think there’s an assigned table for us. We walk in and there’s like fifty tables scattered around, none of them numbered. There’s a woman standing by the door who looks semi-official, but me making eye contact with her just makes her look at me funny, and she doesn’t have any paperwork or anything with her, so we’re… just supposed to look around, I guess? And pay… somebody? Eventually?
Luckily for me our group ended up being by the door; I don’t think I had the heart to search for too long.
Two things become immediately apparent to me: one, I should have taken the “bring a snack” suggestion that I was given much more seriously. There are 45-50 teams of 10 here. These motherfuckers have decked their tables out like goddamn Thanksgiving dinner. They look like they’re tailgating at the Super Bowl. “Snack” does not quite cover it– “each team member will bring enough food to feed thirty people” is slightly more accurate. I spent a moment considering just wandering around the room and seizing food from people’s tables, first to see if they’d even notice, and second to see if they would let me.
Not a joke: one table I walked past several times over the course of the night had six large pizza boxes on the table. For ten people. And there was a lot of other food that was not pizza. Our table, mostly composed of newcomers who had no idea of the, uh, local culture, had a meat and cheese plate, some brownies and a sad-ass bag of Krunchers. And Bek and I hadn’t even brought that.
The second apparent thing: What with judges and employees and bartenders and everything else in addition to the teams there are six hundred people in this place and every single damn one of them is white. Weird fact about me: I am as pasty-complexioned as one can be and I avoid the sun as one avoids the wrath of God, but large groups of white people make me deeply nervous. I spent twenty damn minutes trying to find, at the very least, somebody who looked like they might have had a Hispanic grandparent or, hell, somebody vaguely Jewish-looking, and nope. Nothing. So as soon as these folks get all het up about whatever white Republicans who go to FOP trivia nights like to get het up about, they’re gonna find my ass.
I look under the table to see if there are hoods and robes. No such luck.
Then the PA announcement for, I swear to God, “Ray Lee Ray” to come to the judges’ table, and I had to be physically restrained from fleeing. Nothing good ever happened around anybody who was named Ray twice. And if Ray Lee Ray is running shit then I need to get myself gone, now.
I brace myself for the prayer before the trivia night starts. Amazingly, it doesn’t happen. Which causes me to relax, just a tiny bit.
There’s actually no punch line to this story; once the actual event got rolling and everybody sat down and stopped creeping me out, it was fun and went well. I just did not walk in remotely prepared for what I was going to be greeted by, which is my fault. We got 82 of the 100 questions right, and it probably should have been a little higher– there was at least one question that we would have gotten right if, like an idiot, I had not overlooked the existence of an “all the above” answer, a fact that aggravates me deeply, because I yell at my kids for that kind of shit all the time. That wasn’t a high enough score to place. The wife won a gift basket. And I had a bizarre moment at a urinal that I may save for another post. (How’s that for burying the lede?)
But, yeah: I live in a place where there are three bingo halls within a two-mile stretch of the same damn road. I may need to move.
This was an exceptionally long week at work– it was decided (not by me) that yesterday needed to be a Move Every Single God Damn Thing in the Store day, and I spent the majority of it out of breath and sweating, which are exactly the characteristics you want in a purveyor of fine furniture and furniture-related goods and services.
Gonna go get a tooth torn out of my head tomorrow. I’m not looking forward to any part of it, for obvious reasons, to the point where I’m actually kind of embarrassed at how much it’s weighing on me. It’s a wisdom tooth. Those shits get pulled all the time. It’ll be fine, and I’ve got an excuse to spend the rest of the day in bed. How often do I get to do that nowadays? This is a good thing.
So. Uh. Oops?
You may have noticed; I’ve talked about it around here as recently as last week: I tend to be a homebody. I used to be a lot more social than I am now, but it takes quite a bit to overcome my societal inertia nowadays. Like… I dunno, a superhero movie. That’s about it.
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