Know What I Hate?

I hate when being out in the garden center means I miss all the interesting stuff at work.

Like the woman who, built like a brick shithouse (Sweetie's term, not mine) goes and has improvement surgery. I can't imagine how she stays upright if they're bigger than they were.

I have it on fairly accurate authority that they are, indeed, bigger. Was a steel rod implanted along her spine to keep her upright?

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to see them flopping out-and-about (as we are all afraid will happen with someone else). But like rubbernecking at a trainwreck--or in the wake of Cry Me A River's latest drama--I can't help but want to have a good look at 'em.

Oops! I Forgot!

The Cry-Me-A-River update:

A week or so ago, she was in to the store on her day off. Of course, she brought her spawn, and probably hung out in the breakroom with them for at least an hour.

Anyway, when she left, she was following another employee out of the parking lot. The light was red, but he did the smart thing: he stopped, looked, then made his right hand turn. CMAR? She just followed him out. Never looked at the light, never bothered to stop, didn't even expend the effort to LOOK to see if anything was coming.

She got T-boned (yes, kids in the car.) Oh the DRAMA! She did break her arm and of course, an ambulance was called. Kids were A-OK, because God watches over fools and little children.

The kicker? Turns out she doesn't have a license, either.

Rainbows and Boobsies

Sing it to the tune of "Raindrops on Roses" from the Sound of Music.

As we all know by now, it's Spring, and of course, we have a new crop of doosies at work.

Rainbow Brite: the hair color alone is enough to make your eyes water, but the her wardrobe! Oh. Em. Gee. It's like a really bad acid trip--the COLORS! THE COLORS! She matches up her not-occuring-in-nature Gawd Awful Red hair dye with light blue glowing shoes and a lovely shade of kelly green pants. Add the company issued vest in bright red and blue, and you've got yourself one eye-watering, migraine-inducing ensemble.

We also have Cry-Me-A-River Junior: She's pregnant, dopey, and lazy. Has nothing to talk about except the kids. Oh, and sooner or later, one of those cantaloupes is gonna burst forth outta that low buttoned blouse of hers and just roll all up and down the aisles. What kills me is that her tits are about as appealling as the Hag's ass cleavage...and yet, there it is, and there it will stay. Management is so myopic that they can't see it unless you point it out to them.

Oh, and Cry-Me-A-River? She thinks she's pregnant again!

More Than Enough

There's more than enough weirdness floating about for a 2nd full moon.

Seriously. Full moons mean weirdness--happy weirdness, but weirdness just the same. New moons generally mean grumpy weirdness, sometimes out-and-out mean weirdness.

But, aside from that summary of a years-long study in human behavior in public places, currently, the weirdness factor around me has increased for no discernable reason. Dunno why. If you do know why, please let me know.

Case in point: yesterday, I had to type in a customer's credit card number. Part of that process, for the card holder's security, is that we are to also type in the zip code on the account, and the security code on the back of the card. Normally, this is no problem, because you ask the person for the zip code on the account, and they simply rattle off their phone number, then realize what you asked and they tell you their zip code. Yesterday's dude grunts at me, "Same as yers." I asked around: everyone else thought that was weird, too.

Today's case in point: My Sweetie's personal use cellphone rang (he doesn't take it with him while he's working) Voice says, "Hey, dooya know who tis is?"

I reply: No

Voice: You mean you don't recgehnize me?

Me: No

Voice: mumbly sorts of sounds that may be a person's name

Me: WHO?

Voice: mumbly sorts of sounds that may be a person's name

Me: I do not know you.

Voice: *laughs* sure sure. mumbly some more

Me: I do not know you.

Voice: you mean you don' rememer mumbly sounds that may be someone else's name

Me: No. I do not know them either.

Voice: you sure?

Me: I do not know you, or them.

Voice: What about Fred Shoemaker?

Me: No. I do not know him

Voice: Who is this?!

Me: NOT WHO YOU ARE CALLING.

Voice: mumble sorry mumble

*click*

The phone rings 2 minutes later, or the equivalent amount of time it takes for Mrs Mumbly Voice to tell him what an idiot he is and redial the wrong number.

In a flash of postively psychic foreknowledge, I answer: Hello?

Mrs Voice: Is this FRED SHOEMAKER?

Me: No. Not even close.

*click*

For the record, we've had this number for over a year. And a final note: Angie, I didn't know you two years ago when you started texting me, I still don't know you...and quite frankly, if you're too stupid to STOP TEXTING ME when I FINALLY break down and send you a message back that I am not who you think you are texting please check the number!!!!! (yes, readers, I spelled every blessed word out to be sure she didn't use the wrong vowels and screw up the message) don't desist for 10 months then start texting me again. I am not amused, and you're gonna cry soon if you don't take the hint.

Cryptic

We got home from visiting the Sweetie Fam for the holiday, to find a cryptic message from my sister:

Light Bulb blew
Sat. 11PM 4-3-10

Apparently, it was up to us to figure out which one it was to replace it.