Friday, September 21, 2012

Five Step Program

1.  I got a marketing letter, you know, like an ad, in the mail, from my wireless phone carrier, which I'll call AT&T, here, since, you know, that's what they call themselves.

Here's what it looked like:
They used my correct address.  Look at my name.  LOOK AT MY NAME.

"Dear Sexy Mamma" was my favorite thing all week.  Also, I spell it "Mama."  Also, What the fuck is going on, here??

I called AT&T, to let them know that they had mis-spelled my name.  Fuckers.  The girl on the phone was terribly embarrassed, and I let her know that I was HIGHLY OFFENDED and a GOD-FEARING-CHRISTIAN WOMAN and WHAT-IF-MY-FIRST-GRADER-SAW-THIS and so on.  And I didn't laugh, although OMG it was hard to not laugh.  After apologizing profusely, the girl had me fax this to her attention.  That was a very, very good time.

2.  I know you have laughed at auto-corrects before, as have I, because they are funny.  I did suspect they were likely fake, at least largely, but one happened to me here, and I have to share it.  (Incidentally, once, I tried to text my friend Katie that I loved her "whole bunches," but my phone changed it to "hole punches," and so we now love each other hole punches.  How cute is that, eh?)

This is less cute, but way funnier:

 3.  First soccer game of the year.  He maybe kicked the ball twice.  They did not win.  I'm going to have to develop a taste for cat food if my retirement plans depend on his athleticism.  It's nice in theory.  Sigh.

4.  Everybody knows I like a good steak.  If you don't like steak, you should move somewhere.  I'd suggest maybe Vermont.  Not a lot of cows like the cold.  Right?  I honestly really just made that up.  I have no idea what cows like.  Milk.  Cows like milk.  I'd assume.

Anyway, but Winn-Dixie apparently thinks that all steaks should be grotesquely rare.  And so they put a picture of one with a tiny fat-blob, too - on their truck.  Grrrrrrosssssss...

5.  I went to a meeting in a little town called "Amite" the other day, for a Fema thing, for work.  It was a good meeting, very informative.  It was held in the city council chambers, which was kind of like a courtroom or something, with kind of a panel at the front, in a semi-circle of chairs, and then chairs for the non-council members, or, in this case, people like me.  A professional, fairly nice building, especially (from what I can tell) for Amite's standards.  

After the meeting, I needed to go potty, as I occasionally do.  On the way out of the restroom, I encountered the following sign on the door.  Because, apparently, Amite's council consists of six-year-old-boys, who may or may not be my sons...

It's been a good week here in neverland, where I think I must live, or some such.  Tonight I'm going to the high school football game, and then I'm starting a new quilt tomorrow.  Because I am the Best Grandma EVER, that's why.

Happy weekend!

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Dancing, drinking Milf Toast

Two stories for you.

1)  Today, we went, as we do almost every day, out to grab lunch through a drive-thru.  Today's choice was Wendy's.  No, I'm not going to bother to couch that and make this less-searchable.  Fuck Wendy's.

Anyway, so here's what happened when we got to the order place:

Dude:  "HI!  We are so glad you came to visit us at Wendy's, would you like to try a baconator today?"

Me:  "No, thank you, but thanks for being so excited to have us here!  I have two orders.  The first one is a kid's meal with a burger only ketchup and mustard, and add bacon, and a Large Diet Coke to drink..."

Dude:  "Oh, I'm sorry, we can't upsize your drink like that..."

Me:  "..."

Well, fuck that stupid rule.

So I changed my whole order, ordered the second one, and drove up to issue my complaint.

They were all, yeah, no, fuck you, you can't have a large diet coke.  Assholes.  I said, "that's ok, I'll call the number..."

Hadn't even picked up our (I'm sure, spit-filled, by this point) food yet, and I called the 800 number.  The girl was very friendly.  Very apologetic.  I told her that, since I was kind of a little person, I needed to get happy meals* but that I wanted a large diet coke, because I don't want a lot of calories, you know?  And she was all, yeah, I get it.  And then she asked if I spell my name with an "h", and I go "YES!  Thanks for ASKING!"

Anyway, so she said she'd call in my complaint and see what they can do, and I'm thinking WORD UP I'm getting coupons for this.

A few minutes ago, my cell phone rang, and it was the Big Mr. Manager from Wendy's.

"OH, HI!" I said.  "Can I call you Mr. Wendy?"

He said no.

And then he explained that I can get a kids meal and also a - get this - 32 oz medium drink, and then they could put them together in a 40 oz cup, and the kids meal drink is a 12 oz, so...  And I'm just thinking, a) I am mathy, and this is shit, because that's 44 oz of diet coke I'd be paying for (NOT TO MENTION THE CUPS) and I would get, at most 40 oz, but probably less, even, because of ice, you know...

and also, b) why wouldn't he let me call him Mr. Wendy?

and also, c) McDonald's makes this place look full on trashy.

And guess what???  Mr. Wendy did not even give me a coupon.  WHAT A JERK.

Here's the second story:

I went out with the girlies this weekend, for a "girl's night" in New Orleans, the kind of thing with dancing until your feet REALLY hurt and then obnoxiously buying flip flops and using your new bff, the lady that works in the bathroom at the Cat's Meow, to get a discount on the flip flops, because really, $16.00 for flip flops is a bit absurd.

It was glorious.

I danced.  Oh, yes, I danced.

Anyway, I had recently encountered this term from the Urban Dictionary, which is to say, "TOAST", which stands for Tits On A STick.  I'm going to tell you right now, I'm thinner than I've been since college, and I look mighty fine in my size six jeans that are a little too big for me, and that night I wore, too, a MEDIUM shirt, which, over this rack, was... snug.  Because I'm a chesty girl.  So there.  I'm a TOAST.  Clearly.

And I'm a milf.

Which...  makes me...

A milftoast.

God DAMN don't you wish you could go to Wendy's with me tomorrow?  I'm totally telling them that Mr. Wendy himself called me.  You don't mess with a milftoast.

*yes, I know, it's only called a "happy meal" at McDonald's, but I was really enjoying being extra obnoxious to that lady today.  It's my only joy.  Leave me alone.