The Drive-Up Window is My Archnemesis

29 04 2010

My pharmacy has a drive-up window. As you may have inferred from the title of this post, I hate it with the passion of a thousand fiery suns.

Satan's Preferred Transportation System

Today, for your reading enjoyment, I present:

Drive-Up Etiquette (or, Why You’re Lucky I Can’t Reach Out and Stab You in the Eye)

1. Get. Off. Your. Phone. Seriously. If you want us to help you, stop talking to your spouse/boyfriend/kid/baby daddy/drug dealer and pay attention to the person trying to give you (legal) drugs.

2. Press the call button once. We know you can’t hear it ding, but we can. When you press it 5 times in 10 seconds, we have the overwhelming urge to make you wait…just because we can.

3. If we ask for your picture ID, just send it. You have no idea how tempted we are to call the cops when you claim you have no ID with you. You drove here.

4. If you’re picking up a large prescription–nebulizer solutions, a giant bottle of Miralax, insulin syringes (to name a few)–don’t come to the drive-up. They don’t fit in the tube, and we’re not going to run them out to your car. We also prefer you not use the drive-up if you have 20 prescriptions.

5. If we tell you it will be ready in 15 minutes, don’t come back in 5 minutes and park yourself in the drive-up. Chances are your prescription isn’t finished, and you’re not our only customer.

6. When we ask if you need anything else, don’t say, “Yeah, an order of fries.” It’s not funny. It wasn’t funny the first time we heard it, and it certainly isn’t any better the 5,892th time.

7. If you’re the passenger in the car, please have the driver do the talking. As much as we enjoy trying to lip-read through the surveillance camera, it simplifies things to have the driver actually speak into the microphone. I realize it isn’t his or her prescription, but if you don’t trust a person to ask for your pills, you probably ought not trust that person to drive you around.

8. If you’re driving a diesel truck, turn off your engine. See above item about lip reading.

I know there are more things that bug me (When are there not?), but I have to go to bed at a reasonable time tonight. Tomorrow I get to spend seven hours being annoyed by people at the drive-up. Whee!

*Also? I have strep throat. And it sucks. Yes, that means I’m spending tomorrow spreading strep to all our pharmacy customers. I figure they gave it to me, so it’s karma.

**Shut up, WordPress. Whee is a totally legitimate word.


Get Off My Lawn!

26 04 2010

In case you’re wondering, I am wearing pants tonight. I’m sure you’re all kinds of relieved.

I live across the street from a high school.  Today, as I pulled weeds (I know! I think I have some kind of neurological condition that’s completely changing my personality.), I took a moment to observe the high school kids across the street and spent the rest of the day humming “I’m Glad I’m Not Young Anymore.” (It’s from Gigi, people. If you didn’t know that, it’s time to brush up on your 1950s musicals. Also? Stop judging me.)

The one thing I hate about living across the street from the high school is the amount of trash that blows into our yard. Apparently none of the students understand the purpose of a garbage can, which brings me to the moment I realized I’m an old fart: I actually considered collected all the garbage from my yard for a month and taking it to the high school administration.

Holy crap. I’m pretty sure the next step is to start spraying kids with a hose every time they pass my house. That actually sounds kind of awesome. I might just enjoy this whole “getting old” thing.

*Even WordPress knows Gigi. Is WordPress smarter than you?

I Can’t Find My Pants

25 04 2010

Seriously. I think they’re in the laundry but I’m too lazy to go look, so I’m blogging with no pants. I am wearing underwear, though. I don’t want you thinking I blog commando, because…eww. Of course, now you’ve all stopped reading because you’re too busy vomiting. Let me know when you’re back.

Okay, then! Let’s move on (even though I’m still not wearing pants). Today I’d like to you to take a gander at a sign I photographed for you last week.

Let’s review, shall we?

Am I missing something?

Prostituting Yourself the Morgan Jewelers Way!

21 04 2010

I’m annoyed. I keep hearing a radio commercial for Morgan Jewelers, and it’s seriously harshing my mellow. Sadly, I couldn’t find the audio online. I know! How are there still things I can’t find online? This video has a similar message, but it’s nowhere near as retch-inducing.

In the radio commercial, a man is proposing to his…girlfriend? It’s hard to tell, because she obviously has no affection for him. She informs him of her “engagement ring graveyard”–the rings from men she rejected. Did she reject them because she didn’t love them? Were they jerks? Did they beat her? Oh, no. They just didn’t buy the perfect ring. So her current beau produces a ring from (da-da-da-DA!) Morgan Jewelers, and she says, “I love it! I mean…you!” He says, “I’m so glad you like it. I mean…me.

Hopefully this ad is tongue-in-cheek, but come on. Why are advertisers still perpetuating (even in a humorous manner) the myth that if a man doesn’t buy the perfect ring, his girlfriend will reject his proposal? I suppose there are women who would consider a lousy ring a deal-breaker, but these women don’t actually deserve happiness. (Ha! I kid! Sort of. They might deserve happiness, but if they’re basing marriage on a ring, I doubt they’ll be finding it anytime soon.)

Maybe it’s just my world, but I’m pretty sure trading affection for monetary benefit is prostitution. Isn’t it funny to do a commercial that shows what whores women are when it comes to diamonds? HA! See, ’cause they’re materialistic like that! They couldn’t care less how a man treats them–they just want a big flashy diamond!

I’m fortunate enough to have a lovely ring. It’s my second ring, because I lost my first (insured, thank goodness) wedding ring. Don’t you judge me. Car lost his ring too. Admittedly, it was worth several thousand dollars less than mine, but it wasn’t insured! So really, I totally win that one.

My point? I love my ring, but I love the man more. Rings can be lost, pawned, traded, upgraded…but Car? He’s here to stay. So just stop it, Morgan Jewelers. It’s not like the women who want the ginormous rings are going to shop at your store anyway.


*If I seem a little off my game tonight, please forgive me. I’m staying at my parents’ house while Car is away, plus I’ve got a few hefty things weighing on my mind. I’m sure I’ll be blogging about them soon.

How Do You Sizzler?

19 04 2010

Before I get started, I just have to say how much I love you guys. You have no idea what your comments mean to me. (If I actually replied to comments, you might have an idea, but this is a lot easier.) I’m happy to report that today is a much better day. I also have an appointment with my therapist next week. Hurrah!

There’s a billboard I’ve seen several times that annoys me on many levels. Take a gander:

There are so many problems here I barely know where to start. No, that’s not true–let’s start with Sizzler is not a verb. Sizzler will never be a verb. When I see Sizzler used as a verb, I feel like I’m looking at the Engrish website.

Also? This guy used to Sizzler with his dad? If Sizzler were a verb, I don’t think it would be something you’d want to do with your dad.

Then there’s the superfluous ellipsis. Oh, superfluous ellipsis, how I love thee. You make every sentence wonderful! Whenever I use you, I feel like a teenage girl again. A teenage girl with a cell phone and a twitter account. (OMG…@JustinBieber…ur so hott…cu l8r!)

Seriously. What purpose does this ellipse serve? Is it building suspense? He Sizzlered* with his dad and now his…therapist’s kids are attending Ivy League schools?

I have a better idea:

Don't try to steal this. I will totally Sizzler you.

Yes, I did spend an hour learning Gimp just so I could doctor that photo for you. I wanted to add in a mutant baby peeking over the guy’s shoulder, but it’s 2 a.m. and I need my beauty sleep. FYI, do yourself a favor and never do a Google image search for mutant baby.

*The only thing better than a fake verb? A fake verb in the past tense!
**The only thing better than the past tense of a fake verb? The WordPress editor’s suggestions for an alternative. It’s like reading the lyrics to a Snoop Dogg song!

Boggle Has a Dirty Mind

13 04 2010

I was going to make today’s post all about my even more traumatic second pregnancy, but I haven’t received any sudden blows to the head that made me lose my sense of humor. I cried over yesterday’s post, so today’s serves no purpose but to make me laugh. I’m not entirely sure it makes sense, and I’m relatively certain I’m going to get some frightening search terms and spammers based on the content…but I’m giggling, and that’s all that matters.

Hi. My name is Jenny, and I’m a Boggle addict.

It used to be TextTwist, but I overcame that addiction…and found something far more insidious. See, I think I’m just going to play one or two games, but then I get a “low score.” I’m putting that in quotes, because according to my family, my low score is an amazing score for any normal person. The only way they’ll even play Boggle in person with me is to give me a significant handicap.

I have a Boggle app on my Pixi. I paid $4.99 for this app, and it’s worth every penny.

When I get really stressed, I play Boggle in my head. I know you think I’m making that up, but it’s true. My brain is a scary, scary place.

All of this is completely irrelevant to the topic I’m addressing tonight.

I was playing a round of Boggle on my Pixi, which included the “Qu” cube. Lucky me, I could make the word queen! And queer! Or…not.

Apparently the word “queer” is on the list of banned words.

I understand the need for banned words. After all, you can’t just release a game willy-nilly if it’s going to let somebody type swears! (Although I do believe an exception should be made for “ass” since it’s an animal as well as a swear. Plus, it’s in the Bible!) But some of the “illegal” words are simply ridiculous. Here’s what I’ve run across so far:

Tits (I only mention this last one because I can use the word “tit,” but once it’s pluralized, it becomes dirty.)

I can, however, use the word anus*. Thank goodness. I’d about lost hope that I’d ever be able to giggle over a Boggle word again.

Having re-read the above list, I’m now wondering if all sex-trade identifiers are off-limits, or if it only applies to female roles. Is gigolo** a no-no? And if I can use the word anus, would other anatomically correct labels be allowable?

I guess I’ll have to play some more Boggle. For research purposes, of course.

*I don’t care that it’s juvenile. The word anus is funny. If you don’t agree, you’re probably a proctologist. Which is also funny.

**The WordPress dictionary doesn’t have the word gigolo. I thought you’d want to know.

Easter Bunny Angst

3 04 2010

A few people have been shocked that I don’t do the whole Easter Bunny thing. I hide eggs, do candy, etc. but I don’t claim it’s from anyone but mom and dad. Here’s my big secret: I hate the Easter Bunny.

I admit, I have a few religious objections. I don’t lean to the right politically and I’m not a nutjob (at least, not concerning religion), but we celebrate Easter as a religious holiday rather than the start of spring, and the Easter Bunny seems to detract from that.

So that’s my holier-than-thou version of why I eschew the Easter Bunny. But really? He freaks me out. Behold:

"What's he do? Nibble your bum?"

Okay, seriously? I’m going to tell my kids that sneaks into our yard while they’re asleep? Look at his soulless eyes! His nasty, big, pointy teeth! Those paws reaching toward you as you desperately try to escape! Run away! Run Away!
But even if he didn’t look like the result of genetic engineering gone so very wrong, the whole concept of the Easter Bunny is creepy. I don’t particularly want any large animal skulking around my yard with a basket full of eggs, even if they are filled with delicious chocolatey goodness which he uses to lull you into complacency. It’s just not right.
To make matters worse, while looking for photos of the Easter Bunny, I ran across this gem:

"Oh, it's just a harmless little bunny, isn't it?"

It’s like somebody dressed as a bunny escaped from a psychiatric facility. This horror came from a website that offers singing telegrams and balloon deliveries. “The Easter Bunny will bring a full basket of Easter Treats for your kids, spouse or special friends along with Magic, singing, stories, and optional musical accompaniments.” And a lifetime of therapy. And I just noticed that Magic is capitalized, so now I’m thinking she brings a box full of Magic: The Gathering cards with her, which catapults the whole experience into something truly surreal.

I’m not a total ogre. I’ll do the Santa thing and probably end up playing the tooth fairy. But giant empty-eyed, egg-bringing bunnies? A girl’s gotta draw the line somewhere.