In the spirit of Halloween: Did you hear the one about a skeleton who walked into a bar and ordered a drink and a mop?
By far, one of my favorite jokey, non-jokes. Most people don't get it the first time they hear it, so you get to watch the lines in their forehead wrinkle, their eyebrows knit together and the gears in their brain grind. THEN they go "OH." Very rarely does anybody laugh. They just acknowledge that they GET IT.
But, do they really?
I, for one, know I fain understanding sometimes just to get out of a situation. Like the one at Tom Thumb the other night.
I was purchasing a 36-pack of water bottles. I had lifted the bottles off the bottom shelf and carried them to the conveyor belt myself. It wasn't a back-breaking experience and, actually, I needed to work out my arms, so I was glad to carry them*.
Once I got to the head of the line, the kind checker asked if I wanted a cart for the bottles. "No, thank you" was my response.
Then the inquisition began.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Thank you."
Enter our handy bagger. Who happened to be deaf, God bless her. She pointed to the cart area and said something I couldn't understand. I smiled, doing my best "I totally get what you just said" look.
It was clear she thought I needed a cart, too. And she wasn't giving up easily.
Me, hoping I was about to respond to the unitelligble statement correctly: "No. Thank you."
Bagger: "Need cart."
Me, waving my arms and hands like I was a line judge at the Super Bowl: "No. That's OK."
Then the bagger stopped an elderly gentleman. A co-worker. "Cart", she commanded. And pointed at me.
I'm sure the confluence of wrinkles on my forehead could have held pennies in it. I just couldn't believe how insistent these people were. What did I look like, a 90-year-old with arthritis and no muscle tone**?
At this point, the gracious thing would have been to accept the cart. But, by golly, it had became a matter of principle. I just wasn't in the mood to deal with GREAT CUSTOMER SERVICE and these people needed to back the heck up!
By this time, my handy credit card had posted the $4.99 charge and mutiny was about to start in the line behind me. Who could blame the other line-dwellers? Here I was with one freakin' item and you'd think I was buying an elephant and leaving without peanuts. Or a big shovel.
Deaf bagger person continued to insist I needed a cart as the checker handed me my receipt. I reached to pick up the water bottles, saw the 80-year-old savior, with MY cart jetisoning toward the checkout stand. I did my best peripheral blindness imitation and passed by him.
After I got to the car, I couldn't help but think about how this would have panned out at Walmart. I would have picked up the bottles, drug them to the checkout stand, the checker would have slung them up on the merry-go-round-for-plastic-bags and, if I was lucky, said "Have a nice day." Or grunted goodbye, depending on the hour and the checker.
And, you know the strange thing? I prefer the Walmart experience. Because I really hate to try to reason with strangers or explain my point-of-view to people I don't know. That's hard enough with people I know intimately.
So, Tom Thumb. Thanks for the water. Best of luck in the grocery wars. When I can't find something I need at Walmart, I'll be back.
But I damn sure won't be buying anything heavy. Or bulky.
Unless I'm in the mood to accept that forsaken cart.
*Over the Summer I attempted to pull myself out of the pool by the arms, without assistance from the legs. I found myself flopping back into the pool like an epileptic fish. Let's just say, when you are laughing at your own lack of strength, it's not a good idea to try this stunt a second time. Best just to use the ladder.
**Don't answer that.
Showing posts with label credit cards. Show all posts
Showing posts with label credit cards. Show all posts
Friday, October 30, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Piles, Piles, EVERYWHERE
"Hi. I'm Jill. And I'm an addict."
"Hi Jill"
"It's been (looking at cell phone clock) 1 hour and 20 minutes since I created a pile."
Gasps of horror. One woman passes out cold. I wonder when I'll be able to leave the building, speed home, and ORGANIZE something, into a PILE.
Yes, sports fans, I am a piler. Add that to my sugar addiction and you get a FAST PILER.
I think this problem has been an issue all along, it just came in different forms when I was younger. Such as the fact that I had my books on a shelf, with a card catalog*, all arranged by the Dewey decimal system. I don't remember anybody ever checking out a book, but I was READY for the chance to be the Huber Library.
So, I've always been an organizer. The organization has just morphed over time.
I don't remember my first pile, but I can certainly look around my house and tell you about the ones that are the most current.
Right now, there are approximately 10,503 piles in this house. Among them:
1. Bills that need to be filed. At least two feet deep.
2. Credit card receipts for which we haven't received a bill. At least 150 of them.
3. Books and magazines. Unread, "I'll get to them soon", editions that are patiently collecting dust in my bedside table, on top of my desk, and in the driver's-side pockets of both cars.
4. Coupons. Oh, the coupons. They actually have a manila file-folder home, but they rarely seem to make it there before they expire. Which always make me wonder: why did I clip them to begin with?
5. Recipes. From soup to bread to desserts and beyond. I even have one buried somewhere that tells me how to boil eggs properly. If I made one recipe a day from the pile, I'd die trying.
I could go on naming the rest of my piles, but, frankly, I need the time to actually try to get them where they rightfully belong.
Seems to me there is a 50's-era-horror-story-"B"-movie wrapped up in my piles. They are big. They are prevalent. And they seem to be prolific. Kind of like too many rabbits in too small a cage with intense hormones and no supervision.
I'll get working on the manuscript right after I work on roping in this problem. But, before the piles take over this house and, ultimately, the planet.
How does the title "Bunny Piles from Beyond" work for ya?
*Index cards in a box.
"Hi Jill"
"It's been (looking at cell phone clock) 1 hour and 20 minutes since I created a pile."
Gasps of horror. One woman passes out cold. I wonder when I'll be able to leave the building, speed home, and ORGANIZE something, into a PILE.
Yes, sports fans, I am a piler. Add that to my sugar addiction and you get a FAST PILER.
I think this problem has been an issue all along, it just came in different forms when I was younger. Such as the fact that I had my books on a shelf, with a card catalog*, all arranged by the Dewey decimal system. I don't remember anybody ever checking out a book, but I was READY for the chance to be the Huber Library.
So, I've always been an organizer. The organization has just morphed over time.
I don't remember my first pile, but I can certainly look around my house and tell you about the ones that are the most current.
Right now, there are approximately 10,503 piles in this house. Among them:
1. Bills that need to be filed. At least two feet deep.
2. Credit card receipts for which we haven't received a bill. At least 150 of them.
3. Books and magazines. Unread, "I'll get to them soon", editions that are patiently collecting dust in my bedside table, on top of my desk, and in the driver's-side pockets of both cars.
4. Coupons. Oh, the coupons. They actually have a manila file-folder home, but they rarely seem to make it there before they expire. Which always make me wonder: why did I clip them to begin with?
5. Recipes. From soup to bread to desserts and beyond. I even have one buried somewhere that tells me how to boil eggs properly. If I made one recipe a day from the pile, I'd die trying.
I could go on naming the rest of my piles, but, frankly, I need the time to actually try to get them where they rightfully belong.
Seems to me there is a 50's-era-horror-story-"B"-movie wrapped up in my piles. They are big. They are prevalent. And they seem to be prolific. Kind of like too many rabbits in too small a cage with intense hormones and no supervision.
I'll get working on the manuscript right after I work on roping in this problem. But, before the piles take over this house and, ultimately, the planet.
How does the title "Bunny Piles from Beyond" work for ya?
*Index cards in a box.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Dog in a Bag
Dear Lady, who thought it appropriate to bring your dog INTO my son's school on the first day,
As a rule, dogs are considered a pet, not a child. Considering you have four children of your own, I should hope you can appreciate the difference.
In case you can't:
a. a dog has fur. Your children don't, as a rule, unless they develop the unfortunate werewolf syndrome. In which case, you'll need to invest in a good vacuum cleaner. And a psychologist. For the dog. Who will be totally freaked out.
b. a dog barks. Yes, your children probably do this, too, at times. But, they, unlike the dog, yap in English. If you feel you "understand" what your dog is saying, thinking or doing, please make an appointment for both yourself AND the dog to see a shrink.
c. a dog is indiscriminate about where it potties. I'm hopeful that your kids, being of school-age, know where/what is appropriate. If not, hook them up with the shrink, too.
d. a dog is considered a health hazard in restaurants. Your children aren't, I hope.
When you arrived in the classroom, with your dog in a designer bag specifically for spoiled rotten "wittlewumpsofwove", you broke so many rules I can't even begin to count. The Mom who commented to you "I don't think they allow dogs in the school" spoke for all of us.
PLEASE. I beg you. Next year, take your dog, pay the $35 fee with your American Express card, and leave it in "doggy daycare" for the morning. Because we really don't need the kids jumping up out of their seats to come pet your "sweetums". It belongs with the other, pampered doggies of the world.
Thank you for understanding that we all saw through this little attempt of a power-grab on day one and that, yes, we all noticed you. Next year, please just volunteer to be room Mom. It would be so much less obvious.
Now that you've accomplished your goal, please let that dog out of it's bag before it poos all over the interior. Try as I might, I can't find anyone in the Yellow Pages in the Park Cities who will clean THAT up.
Most respectfully,
The other parents at the school
As a rule, dogs are considered a pet, not a child. Considering you have four children of your own, I should hope you can appreciate the difference.
In case you can't:
a. a dog has fur. Your children don't, as a rule, unless they develop the unfortunate werewolf syndrome. In which case, you'll need to invest in a good vacuum cleaner. And a psychologist. For the dog. Who will be totally freaked out.
b. a dog barks. Yes, your children probably do this, too, at times. But, they, unlike the dog, yap in English. If you feel you "understand" what your dog is saying, thinking or doing, please make an appointment for both yourself AND the dog to see a shrink.
c. a dog is indiscriminate about where it potties. I'm hopeful that your kids, being of school-age, know where/what is appropriate. If not, hook them up with the shrink, too.
d. a dog is considered a health hazard in restaurants. Your children aren't, I hope.
When you arrived in the classroom, with your dog in a designer bag specifically for spoiled rotten "wittlewumpsofwove", you broke so many rules I can't even begin to count. The Mom who commented to you "I don't think they allow dogs in the school" spoke for all of us.
PLEASE. I beg you. Next year, take your dog, pay the $35 fee with your American Express card, and leave it in "doggy daycare" for the morning. Because we really don't need the kids jumping up out of their seats to come pet your "sweetums". It belongs with the other, pampered doggies of the world.
Thank you for understanding that we all saw through this little attempt of a power-grab on day one and that, yes, we all noticed you. Next year, please just volunteer to be room Mom. It would be so much less obvious.
Now that you've accomplished your goal, please let that dog out of it's bag before it poos all over the interior. Try as I might, I can't find anyone in the Yellow Pages in the Park Cities who will clean THAT up.
Most respectfully,
The other parents at the school
Thursday, August 13, 2009
The restaurant with the MOSTEST
While I was in Houston a couple of weeks ago, I passed by a restaurant named "The Brick House". Of course, being a child of the 70's and 80's, I wanted to break into the old Commodores song of the same title. However, hearkening back to my Helen Reddy fiasco just days before, and wanting to spare the ears of those in the car with me, I refrained.
That didn't stop my brain from moving forward, though. ADD in full-steam-ahead, my brain went "WAIT JUST ONE COTTON-PICKIN' MINUTE! Is that "Shake it down shake it down Shake it down shake it down now" and "thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six"*? Must that mean that this state has another "men only" restaurant to join Hooters and Twin Peaks?"
I consulted someone I trust implicitly, and she admitted that, years ago, she and her sister had accidentally ended up in one of these charming establishments in another state. Basically, these two gals walked in blind, were STARVING, and weren't in the mood to get back in the car. So they sucked it up and forged forward.
Their first clue that something was amiss? The sign above the door at the entrance said "Welcome to the Man Cave".
It got a little better when they were seated in Barcaloungers with flip up TV trays to complement the flat screen that was attached to EACH recliner. Yes, friends, even a GIRL can appreciate that.
Bottom line?** If you love the idea of Double D Cup cakes*** and Submissive Baked Potato Soup, you have found the dive for VOUS!
So, I started thinking.**** If restaurant designers were to come up with a "ladies only" restaurant, what would it be like? Here's my list, forward-looking entrepreneurs with some extra coin to spend:
1. When you enter, a man, fully clothed in a Versace suit, and straight off the cover of a romance novel, greets you with a cocktail; your choice of cocktail was prearranged when you made the reservation. You sit in a quiet waiting area with a water feature, soothing music, and as much Godiva chocolate as you can down. If you so desire, comfy, soft slippers and bathrobes are available. For the ultimate relaxation, throw your feet up on a just-the-right-height-for-a-woman's-legs ottoman. Scrap that: ottoWOman.
2. When you've finished your cocktail, Mr. Novel returns with a slightly worried look, gets down on his knees to face you, eye-to-eye, and says "You look like you've had a rough day. Why don't you lie down for a short nap?" He ushers you to a room with a King size bed, complete with silk sheets, a blankie as soft as a baby's butt, and chocolates on the pillow. The sound machine is preset before you arrive and the overhead lights are lowered to the perfect not-too-bright, not-too-dim level. You sleep as long as you want.
3. Upon waking, you press a button beside the bed to alert your cabana boy***** that you are ready for dinner. Within seconds, a sophisticated hospital tray like contraption arrives, complete with the first course of your pre-ordered meal. Every time you finish a course, a new, modelesquely beautiful man enters the room and says "I'll do the dishes, honey. You just relax." Then, he drops a piece of chocolate in your palm and leaves with the dishes! In the event you feel like conversing at dinner, a table big enough for your all your girlfriends is available. When your BFF's join you, their personal chocolate-dropping cabana boys****** are in tow, so as not to take away from YOUR personal service.
4. After you've consumed just short of your yearly intake of calories and taken the needed potty break in your private restroom*******, a new sweetie-pie comes to tuck you in. He is tastefully dressed in Ralph Lauren; just the right mix of casual and cute. You are handed warm, liquid chocolate to drink before you fall asleep AGAIN.
5. One hour later, you are awoken by yet another lovely, who compliments you on how gorgeous you look after your "beauty sleep" and offers you a pound of chocolates as your parting gift.
You feel satisfied, beautiful, and pampered. And, you never see a bill. This whole adventure is charged to your husband's credit card as "groceries", so you never hear the griping that comes along with doing something for yourself.
Investors: Hurry! Call now! This proposal won't last! I'm taking offers to start this business, pronto.
Just remember, since I came up with the concept, I'm in charge of hiring, testing the chocolate, and sleeping.
*A figure which can only be achieved by copious amounts of caffeine, cigarettes and vomiting. How'd you like to kiss that at night? EW.
**If you thought I was making a pun, you outed yourself. I now know you've been to some men-only hideaway. And don't give me the sorry line "But, the wings are SOOOO good." Your Mother would be ashamed.
***A real dessert on the menu. Double EW.
****Always a dangerous proposition.
*****He arrives, fully clothed, in a Tommy Bahama outfit, barefoot.
******Though each man is wearing the same designer's clothes, none of the outfits "match", ruling out being served by anything but missionary-position loving men--though your reason for being at such a place has NOTHING to do with that line of thought. You're here for the lack of whiney children, dirty dishes and the abundance of chocolate. OH, the chocolate.
*******Which is devoid of boy urine.
That didn't stop my brain from moving forward, though. ADD in full-steam-ahead, my brain went "WAIT JUST ONE COTTON-PICKIN' MINUTE! Is that "Shake it down shake it down Shake it down shake it down now" and "thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six"*? Must that mean that this state has another "men only" restaurant to join Hooters and Twin Peaks?"
I consulted someone I trust implicitly, and she admitted that, years ago, she and her sister had accidentally ended up in one of these charming establishments in another state. Basically, these two gals walked in blind, were STARVING, and weren't in the mood to get back in the car. So they sucked it up and forged forward.
Their first clue that something was amiss? The sign above the door at the entrance said "Welcome to the Man Cave".
It got a little better when they were seated in Barcaloungers with flip up TV trays to complement the flat screen that was attached to EACH recliner. Yes, friends, even a GIRL can appreciate that.
Bottom line?** If you love the idea of Double D Cup cakes*** and Submissive Baked Potato Soup, you have found the dive for VOUS!
So, I started thinking.**** If restaurant designers were to come up with a "ladies only" restaurant, what would it be like? Here's my list, forward-looking entrepreneurs with some extra coin to spend:
1. When you enter, a man, fully clothed in a Versace suit, and straight off the cover of a romance novel, greets you with a cocktail; your choice of cocktail was prearranged when you made the reservation. You sit in a quiet waiting area with a water feature, soothing music, and as much Godiva chocolate as you can down. If you so desire, comfy, soft slippers and bathrobes are available. For the ultimate relaxation, throw your feet up on a just-the-right-height-for-a-woman's-legs ottoman. Scrap that: ottoWOman.
2. When you've finished your cocktail, Mr. Novel returns with a slightly worried look, gets down on his knees to face you, eye-to-eye, and says "You look like you've had a rough day. Why don't you lie down for a short nap?" He ushers you to a room with a King size bed, complete with silk sheets, a blankie as soft as a baby's butt, and chocolates on the pillow. The sound machine is preset before you arrive and the overhead lights are lowered to the perfect not-too-bright, not-too-dim level. You sleep as long as you want.
3. Upon waking, you press a button beside the bed to alert your cabana boy***** that you are ready for dinner. Within seconds, a sophisticated hospital tray like contraption arrives, complete with the first course of your pre-ordered meal. Every time you finish a course, a new, modelesquely beautiful man enters the room and says "I'll do the dishes, honey. You just relax." Then, he drops a piece of chocolate in your palm and leaves with the dishes! In the event you feel like conversing at dinner, a table big enough for your all your girlfriends is available. When your BFF's join you, their personal chocolate-dropping cabana boys****** are in tow, so as not to take away from YOUR personal service.
4. After you've consumed just short of your yearly intake of calories and taken the needed potty break in your private restroom*******, a new sweetie-pie comes to tuck you in. He is tastefully dressed in Ralph Lauren; just the right mix of casual and cute. You are handed warm, liquid chocolate to drink before you fall asleep AGAIN.
5. One hour later, you are awoken by yet another lovely, who compliments you on how gorgeous you look after your "beauty sleep" and offers you a pound of chocolates as your parting gift.
You feel satisfied, beautiful, and pampered. And, you never see a bill. This whole adventure is charged to your husband's credit card as "groceries", so you never hear the griping that comes along with doing something for yourself.
Investors: Hurry! Call now! This proposal won't last! I'm taking offers to start this business, pronto.
Just remember, since I came up with the concept, I'm in charge of hiring, testing the chocolate, and sleeping.
*A figure which can only be achieved by copious amounts of caffeine, cigarettes and vomiting. How'd you like to kiss that at night? EW.
**If you thought I was making a pun, you outed yourself. I now know you've been to some men-only hideaway. And don't give me the sorry line "But, the wings are SOOOO good." Your Mother would be ashamed.
***A real dessert on the menu. Double EW.
****Always a dangerous proposition.
*****He arrives, fully clothed, in a Tommy Bahama outfit, barefoot.
******Though each man is wearing the same designer's clothes, none of the outfits "match", ruling out being served by anything but missionary-position loving men--though your reason for being at such a place has NOTHING to do with that line of thought. You're here for the lack of whiney children, dirty dishes and the abundance of chocolate. OH, the chocolate.
*******Which is devoid of boy urine.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Anal Retentive--who, ME?
When you've determined to run the destiny of your financial life by making Abraham Lincoln scream in pain*, you become a bit, shall we say, ANAL, about money, long after you've decided that you can ease up a bit**.
Which brings me to tonight, the night I've designated as BUDGET NIGHT. Actually, this piece de resistance started well into the afternoon, 2ish, to be more exact, and has continued to about 11pm. And, I'm not done.
But, in nine hours, I've discovered at least one thing: I've lost more than a few receipts from this past month. And it is making me crazy.
Over the years, you must know, we've been determined to track every penny that goes through this house. I mean that literally. Every penny. We save each and every receipt, know when "kids get in free" from Harlingen to Amarillo, and have moved our insurance deductibles so high that even State Farm raises an eyebrow at us. Yet, all this tracking/raising/saving has made us happy.
Yes, folks, a bit of a clue to our shared insanity: we are HAPPY when we know where our money goes, even if it takes queeny a thousand years to figure out.***
So, tonight, I'm running through our credit card bill. Keep this concept in your working memory: we run EVERYTHING through this credit card. I'm looking at multiple entries for $1.08****. I've been known to charge a Slurpee to this card. Basically, if you want a snapshot of our life, check out our monthly statement and you'll see the facts: we make some really moronic decisions. And LOTS of them.
I count no less than seven McDonald's entries. Twelve stops at Exxon for coffee.***** I'll even embarrass myself with the total number of fast food entries: Twenty-three. In 31 days!!******
So, with all these entries, I am in desperate need of receipts, lest they go unaccounted for and I have a heart attack, bad cholesterol withstanding, because I can't find them.
You see, for each entry, I have a compulsive need to match the statement with the receipt. In case you really think I'm looney-tunes, consider this: last month, I had my "Summer pedicure". The bill was $19. I tipped the fine woman $3.80.******* When the bill appeared on the statement? $49.80. Wow. A $30.80 tip! Was I so high on nail polish fumes that I forgot my pedicure came with champagne and chocolates?
So, you see where my cheap meets my anal. They work together nicely. And, we're all happy.
But, tomorrow, I must admit, I'll be at Exxon for their divine 24 ounces of steaming coffee goodness because, without it, I won't be worth a flip. And, darn it, next month I'll resolve again to cut back on the coffee after I see "Exxon--$1.08" at least a dozen times.
But, hey, at least I'll have a receipt. And it won't say, "Starbucks--$4.33"
*Work with me people. Think. Pinching pennies. Get it?
**Abraham only whimpers now when I pick him up off the parking lot of Walmart. Did you doubt I did THAT?
***Of course, the king often "pays" for these long nights by getting a little royal backlash, in the form of yelling, in the days after. A royal pity, if I do say so myself.
****Our Redbox habit. Maybe OBSESSION would be a better word.
*****Did I mention I decided to give up my daily habit of buying coffee? I'm not winning the battle. But, true to form, it's CHEAP coffee!
******When I finally make it to the doctor after the kids are back at school, I fully expect to hear "Good gracious, nurse. Her cholesterol is 563. Rush her to the ER. Stat."
*******Yes, a 20% tip. I said I was CHEAP, not a cheapskate.
Which brings me to tonight, the night I've designated as BUDGET NIGHT. Actually, this piece de resistance started well into the afternoon, 2ish, to be more exact, and has continued to about 11pm. And, I'm not done.
But, in nine hours, I've discovered at least one thing: I've lost more than a few receipts from this past month. And it is making me crazy.
Over the years, you must know, we've been determined to track every penny that goes through this house. I mean that literally. Every penny. We save each and every receipt, know when "kids get in free" from Harlingen to Amarillo, and have moved our insurance deductibles so high that even State Farm raises an eyebrow at us. Yet, all this tracking/raising/saving has made us happy.
Yes, folks, a bit of a clue to our shared insanity: we are HAPPY when we know where our money goes, even if it takes queeny a thousand years to figure out.***
So, tonight, I'm running through our credit card bill. Keep this concept in your working memory: we run EVERYTHING through this credit card. I'm looking at multiple entries for $1.08****. I've been known to charge a Slurpee to this card. Basically, if you want a snapshot of our life, check out our monthly statement and you'll see the facts: we make some really moronic decisions. And LOTS of them.
I count no less than seven McDonald's entries. Twelve stops at Exxon for coffee.***** I'll even embarrass myself with the total number of fast food entries: Twenty-three. In 31 days!!******
So, with all these entries, I am in desperate need of receipts, lest they go unaccounted for and I have a heart attack, bad cholesterol withstanding, because I can't find them.
You see, for each entry, I have a compulsive need to match the statement with the receipt. In case you really think I'm looney-tunes, consider this: last month, I had my "Summer pedicure". The bill was $19. I tipped the fine woman $3.80.******* When the bill appeared on the statement? $49.80. Wow. A $30.80 tip! Was I so high on nail polish fumes that I forgot my pedicure came with champagne and chocolates?
So, you see where my cheap meets my anal. They work together nicely. And, we're all happy.
But, tomorrow, I must admit, I'll be at Exxon for their divine 24 ounces of steaming coffee goodness because, without it, I won't be worth a flip. And, darn it, next month I'll resolve again to cut back on the coffee after I see "Exxon--$1.08" at least a dozen times.
But, hey, at least I'll have a receipt. And it won't say, "Starbucks--$4.33"
*Work with me people. Think. Pinching pennies. Get it?
**Abraham only whimpers now when I pick him up off the parking lot of Walmart. Did you doubt I did THAT?
***Of course, the king often "pays" for these long nights by getting a little royal backlash, in the form of yelling, in the days after. A royal pity, if I do say so myself.
****Our Redbox habit. Maybe OBSESSION would be a better word.
*****Did I mention I decided to give up my daily habit of buying coffee? I'm not winning the battle. But, true to form, it's CHEAP coffee!
******When I finally make it to the doctor after the kids are back at school, I fully expect to hear "Good gracious, nurse. Her cholesterol is 563. Rush her to the ER. Stat."
*******Yes, a 20% tip. I said I was CHEAP, not a cheapskate.
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