This particular Did this really just happen? moment is one I am sure everyone can relate to. There was a time that the only automated voice you could expect to hear on the other side of a phone call was the time and temperature lady. Now, everything you call is automated. Having suffered the frustration more than once myself, I can say I understand the pain. The particular call I am about to relate was by far the worst/best example (depending on how you look at it) I have ever witnessed.
Recently, I was privy to this call:
Senior Citizen: Three attempts at dialing the correct number and then success! at last.
Disembodied Voice: Welcome! greeting, followed by list of options and a notification to speak your answers clearly.
SC: Three.
DV: Welcome to the information center. First, in order to access your information, I will need to ask you some questions in order to verify your identity. You may speak your answers. May I have your FIRST name.
SC: Senior.
DV: I will- I'm sorry. I didn't get that. Welcome to the information center. First, in order to access your information, I will need to ask you some questions in order to verify your identity. You may speak your answers. May I have your FIRST name. I will-
SC: SENIOR.
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. Welcome to the information center. First-
SC: Indistinguishable mutters and curses. (As you can see, this is already going rapidly down hill.)
DV: May I have your FIRST name. I will need you to speak your name clearly and then spell it. For example-
SC: Senior. S-e-
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. Welcome to the-
SC: Veins are beginning to bulge on the sides of his temples, a sheen of sweat is forming over his brow, and he is searching through his meds for a nerve pill.
DV: I will need you to speak your name clearly and then spell it. For example: if your name is John, you would say, 'John, J-o-h-n.' You may begin now.
SC: Having finally caught on, he is waiting to see if there is anything more before he speaks.
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. You must first speak your name clearly and then spell it. For example: if your name is Irene, you would say, 'Irene, I-r-e-n-e.' You may begin now.
(Yes, she gave different examples each time, way to invest the tax payer's money.)
SC: Senior. S-e-n-i-o-r.
DV: I heard, 'Senior, S-e-n-i-o-r.' Is that right?
SC: Yes.
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. I heard, 'Senior, S-e-n-i-o-r.' Is that right?
SC: YES!
DV: Okay, Senior. Now I will need you to speak your LAST name and then spell it. For example-
SC: Citizen. C-i-t-i-z-e-n.
DV: If your- I'm sorry. I didn't get that.
SC: More cursing.
DV: Now I will need you to speak your LAST name and then spell it. For example, if your last name is Barrett, you would say, 'Barrett. B-a-r-r-e-t-t.' You may begin now.
(Does anyone REALLY NEED an example of how to spell their own name???)
CS: Citizen. C-i-t-i-z-e-n.
DV: I heard, Cititen, C-i-t-i-t-e-n. Is that right?
CS: No.
DV: I'm sorry. Let's try this again. You must speak your LAST name and then spell it-
(At this point I am starting to feel his aneurism. He is more than ten minutes into the phone call, and thanks to Miss Gabby-pants Auto-speak, he hasn't even gotten his name out yet.)
DV: You may begin now.
CS: Citizen. C-i-t-i-Z-e-n.
(Thank God his name isn't Ptolemy..... we'd be here until the next century.)
DV: I heard, 'Citizen, C-i-t-i-z-e-n.' Is that right?
CS: Yes.
DV: All right. We are halfway there.
(Halfway? You have a NAME and we are HALF way? Really??? You won't be asking much then will you?)
DV: Next, I will need your Social Security number. You may speak or dial the number in. You may begin now.
CS: Smartly chose the second option.
DV: All right. I have found you in our database. I will need to ask you a security question in order to verify your identity. You may speak the answer. What is your mother's maiden name? That means-
CS: Doe.
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. Let me return you to the main menu.
CS: NO, NO, NO!!!
(Apparently, there is a three strike rule. And he was outta there!)
CS: DISTINGUISHABLE cursing.
DV: Welcome, greeting, options list.
CS: Three.
(He's starting to sound a little weaker now. I think she broke him.)
DV: Blah, blah, blah, first name.
CS: (Very cautiously playing by the rules, he's already had his knuckles cracked once by the ruler toting nun of an automated voice.) Senior, S-e-n-i-o-r.
DV: (Sounding happier, bubbly even. I know it's a robot, but I would swear she is thrilled to have him so cowed.) Blah, blah, blah, last name.
CS: (Still not taking any chances.) Citizen. C-i-t-i-z-e-n.
DV: Blah, blah, blah. What is your mother's maiden name? That means the name she had BEFORE she was married.
(REALLY? I did NOT know that. These examples are soooo helpful. I have to send them an e-mail and tell them to keep up the good work!)
DV: For example: if her name was Martin, you would say, 'Martin. M-a-r-t-i-n.' You may begin now.
CS: (Pause. Waiting. Okay, jumping in with both feet.) Doe. D-o-e.
DV: I heard, 'Doe, D-o-e.' Is that right?
CS: Yes. Yes, thank God, YES!
DV: All right, now we have accessed your vital information, let's begin. What can I do for you today?
(Let's begin? BEGIN??)
CS: I've forgotten why I called.
DV: Do you want the main menu?
(I know it's a robot, I KNOW, but I SWEAR, it was a threat akin to, 'Do you want to go to your room without dinner, mister?')
CS: No, no, dear God, for the love of all that is holy and good, NOOOOOOOO!!
DV: All right. What can I do for you today?
CS: Change of address.
DV: All right. First I will need to verify your old address.
(Let me just break in here to point out that at this point Senior had already invested more than twenty minutes into this phone call, the sole purpose of which was to change his address. He was now beginning to realize that it would have been simpler to fly to his old home and get his mail.)
CS: verifies old address, which surprisingly went very well
DV: All right. Now, I will need you to speak your new address. Blah, blah, blah, you may begin now.
(Again I must break in to tell you that in Indiana many addresses are directional. We have the distinct misfortune of having one of these.)
CS: 123 West, 456 South.
DV: I heard, '123 West Union Street Suite B?' Is that right?
CS: No.
DV: Okay. Let's try again. Blah, blah, blah, you may begin now.
CS: 123 West, 456 South.
DV: I heard, '123 West Union Street Suite B.' Is that right?
CS: NO.
DV: Okay. Let's try again. Blah, blah, blah, you may begin now.
CS: 123 W, 456 S. (Which is how it is printed for mailing purposes, a last ditch effort on his part. It didn't work.)
DV: I'm sorry. I don't understand you. Please return to the main menu. Pause. Welcome.
CS: AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!
(Not sure which one of us stroked out there, but after some time we realized there was a dial tone coming from his phone.) Senior popped a few nerve pills, beat his head into the end table repeatedly, then sat babbling in a corner. I joined him.
My husband, my knight in shining armor, rode to the rescue. Within seconds he had hopped online, and with the flourish of the mouse and a couple of clicks, he had changed the address. It took about one and a half minutes. Not even once was he sent back to the main menu.
Here's a BIG (y) Potty-con to you hubby, you earned it!!
Monday, February 20, 2012
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
A Tale of Two Kitties
The one thing that is certain, is that if you know me, there is a very great likelihood that you will inevitably be written about in this blog. Having forewarned you, I will continue. One of the things that has been on my mind lately, are those 'Did this really just happen,' moments that make me laugh. Such as this one. What follows is an absolutely true story, in which I will change the names to protect the identity of everyone involved. However, suffice it to say, I am not exaggerating in any way. But this made me laugh when it happened, and I still laugh about it years later.
There was a woman, who I will call Nan. Nan was an older woman, in her seventies at the time. She was asked to 'cat sit' while the owners of some particularly obnoxious cats went on vacation. Now when I say obnoxious, I mean these cats, if they were human, would make the Kardashians, the "real Housewives' and Nancy Grace far more tolerable people in retrospect.
The first cat, the eldest, I shall call Hilton, since she has the same frail, emaciated physique of Paris Hilton and all of her endearing qualities to boot. Come on, who doesn't love Paris Hilton? The cat flounces (arthritically) around the house as if she owns the joint, and if she deigns to look your way it is with such derision that you actually feel guilty for having intruded upon her royal presence.
The second cat, now that's the one you want to watch out for. That cat, who I shall call Falco, (the birth name of David Berkowitz, Son of Sam), has all the same qualities of a serial killer. This particular cat likes to lay in wait of any unsuspecting visitors in the house. At any given opportunity, Falco will attack for no apparent reason, (aside from the sheer joy she derives from disemboweling her victim), and she becomes a feral thing, all teeth and claws and spit and yowls. It's so much fun. Tee fricken hee.
Personally, I believe every person who enters that particular home should be outfitted with a full out hockey goalie uniform. And a can of mace.
Just saying.
So anyway, Nan, who, even at her age was as tough as nails and could take on a band of terrorists single-handedly and come out on top, agreed to take on this perilous appointment, though with some reservations.
Now, just put aside for the time being, that there is a killer cat on the loose, stalking Nan's every move (if you can anyway), and take this in. As if things weren't difficult enough, having to avoid one cat outfitted like Rambo in the jungles of Vietnam who wants you dead, dead, dead, skewered on the ends of her claws and dead, (I can't possibly make this any clearer), (and yes I know this is a run on sentence getting longer by the minute), while at the same time suffering the disdain of the decrepit one who looks like she might keel over any second, (someone give her a burger please!), on top of all of that, these two cats had particular nutritional needs besides. For this reason, the two cats had to be fed separately. Falco received her kitty kibble in the kitchen, while Hilton's elderly kitty mush was delivered to the bathroom for her supreme highness's approval. There she would sit and stare at the bowl as if deciding it's worthiness of her consumption. And often, true fact, her 'mother' would hand feed it to her. (Something Nan refused to do. Right there witcha, Nan!)
Now, as much as Hilton had to be convinced, cajoled, connived and coddled into eating, Falco had no such reservations. Given the opportunity, she would race into the bathroom and bolt the mush down as if it were goose liver pâté and caviar (which it might have been for all I know). If Falco had had her way, Hilton's death by starvation would have been accomplished some time ago.
Okay, now you've got the set up. On with the Tale of Two Kitties.(Ha ha- couldn't resist!)
The first morning, Nan let herself into the home with her key and set about feeding Falco first. Smart move on her part, distracting Falco with food whilst she made her escape. She should have put a little Ambian in it. She would have had all the time in the world to get away while Falco was snoozing, dreaming little kitty dreams of gutting Nan like a fish.
But alas, kitty was no where to be found. All the 'here kitty kitty's' in the world weren't bringing her to ground. So Nan set about feeding kitty number two. She headed for the bathroom to prepare Hilton's mush, and there she found Falco laying in wait. Literally.
You see, there was a shelf in that bathroom where Hilton ate. And Falco was sitting on it.
Falco eyed Nan. Nan eyed Falco. They were measuring each other up. Falco found Nan wanting. Nan was pretty sure she could take Falco.
Hilton was sitting in the hallway taking it all in. No doubt wondering if it would be mush on the menu or entrails.
Nan ordered Falco sternly out of the room. Falco squinted her eyes at Nan. Nan ordered her again. Falco hissed. Nan reached a hand out to nudge Falco.
Now I have to say, with any ordinary cat this might work. But we are talking about Falco. She has notches in her gun belt that even she can't remember who she killed to get them. A cat like this, a friendly nudge just ain't gonna cut it. Not unless you're delivering it with a wrecking ball. Even then I have my doubts.
Naturally, Falco took this as a challenge and the fight was on. She reared back and delivered her first blow, complete with an ear-shattering howl. Five claws raked down the side of Nan's arm actually tearing through her shirt and the thermal one underneath. Had she not been thus armored, she would certainly have been visiting the ER for some brandy-spankin' new stitches. Luckily for her, the gods were on her side. And the ball was now in her court.
She grabbed the first thing she saw, a book on the back of the toilet, and whomped Falco a good one, knocking her off the shelf.
Falco, stunned and defeated, flew from the bathroom still hissing and spitting, but determined to live to fight another day.
Shaken, Nan sat on the toilet, and for the first time read the cover of the book.
'Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover's Soul.'
Somehow we don't think her story will make the book. But it made the blog!
There was a woman, who I will call Nan. Nan was an older woman, in her seventies at the time. She was asked to 'cat sit' while the owners of some particularly obnoxious cats went on vacation. Now when I say obnoxious, I mean these cats, if they were human, would make the Kardashians, the "real Housewives' and Nancy Grace far more tolerable people in retrospect.
The first cat, the eldest, I shall call Hilton, since she has the same frail, emaciated physique of Paris Hilton and all of her endearing qualities to boot. Come on, who doesn't love Paris Hilton? The cat flounces (arthritically) around the house as if she owns the joint, and if she deigns to look your way it is with such derision that you actually feel guilty for having intruded upon her royal presence.
The second cat, now that's the one you want to watch out for. That cat, who I shall call Falco, (the birth name of David Berkowitz, Son of Sam), has all the same qualities of a serial killer. This particular cat likes to lay in wait of any unsuspecting visitors in the house. At any given opportunity, Falco will attack for no apparent reason, (aside from the sheer joy she derives from disemboweling her victim), and she becomes a feral thing, all teeth and claws and spit and yowls. It's so much fun. Tee fricken hee.
Personally, I believe every person who enters that particular home should be outfitted with a full out hockey goalie uniform. And a can of mace.
Just saying.
So anyway, Nan, who, even at her age was as tough as nails and could take on a band of terrorists single-handedly and come out on top, agreed to take on this perilous appointment, though with some reservations.
Now, just put aside for the time being, that there is a killer cat on the loose, stalking Nan's every move (if you can anyway), and take this in. As if things weren't difficult enough, having to avoid one cat outfitted like Rambo in the jungles of Vietnam who wants you dead, dead, dead, skewered on the ends of her claws and dead, (I can't possibly make this any clearer), (and yes I know this is a run on sentence getting longer by the minute), while at the same time suffering the disdain of the decrepit one who looks like she might keel over any second, (someone give her a burger please!), on top of all of that, these two cats had particular nutritional needs besides. For this reason, the two cats had to be fed separately. Falco received her kitty kibble in the kitchen, while Hilton's elderly kitty mush was delivered to the bathroom for her supreme highness's approval. There she would sit and stare at the bowl as if deciding it's worthiness of her consumption. And often, true fact, her 'mother' would hand feed it to her. (Something Nan refused to do. Right there witcha, Nan!)
Now, as much as Hilton had to be convinced, cajoled, connived and coddled into eating, Falco had no such reservations. Given the opportunity, she would race into the bathroom and bolt the mush down as if it were goose liver pâté and caviar (which it might have been for all I know). If Falco had had her way, Hilton's death by starvation would have been accomplished some time ago.
Okay, now you've got the set up. On with the Tale of Two Kitties.(Ha ha- couldn't resist!)
The first morning, Nan let herself into the home with her key and set about feeding Falco first. Smart move on her part, distracting Falco with food whilst she made her escape. She should have put a little Ambian in it. She would have had all the time in the world to get away while Falco was snoozing, dreaming little kitty dreams of gutting Nan like a fish.
But alas, kitty was no where to be found. All the 'here kitty kitty's' in the world weren't bringing her to ground. So Nan set about feeding kitty number two. She headed for the bathroom to prepare Hilton's mush, and there she found Falco laying in wait. Literally.
You see, there was a shelf in that bathroom where Hilton ate. And Falco was sitting on it.
Falco eyed Nan. Nan eyed Falco. They were measuring each other up. Falco found Nan wanting. Nan was pretty sure she could take Falco.
Hilton was sitting in the hallway taking it all in. No doubt wondering if it would be mush on the menu or entrails.
Nan ordered Falco sternly out of the room. Falco squinted her eyes at Nan. Nan ordered her again. Falco hissed. Nan reached a hand out to nudge Falco.
Now I have to say, with any ordinary cat this might work. But we are talking about Falco. She has notches in her gun belt that even she can't remember who she killed to get them. A cat like this, a friendly nudge just ain't gonna cut it. Not unless you're delivering it with a wrecking ball. Even then I have my doubts.
Naturally, Falco took this as a challenge and the fight was on. She reared back and delivered her first blow, complete with an ear-shattering howl. Five claws raked down the side of Nan's arm actually tearing through her shirt and the thermal one underneath. Had she not been thus armored, she would certainly have been visiting the ER for some brandy-spankin' new stitches. Luckily for her, the gods were on her side. And the ball was now in her court.
She grabbed the first thing she saw, a book on the back of the toilet, and whomped Falco a good one, knocking her off the shelf.
Falco, stunned and defeated, flew from the bathroom still hissing and spitting, but determined to live to fight another day.
Shaken, Nan sat on the toilet, and for the first time read the cover of the book.
'Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover's Soul.'
Somehow we don't think her story will make the book. But it made the blog!
Saturday, February 4, 2012
STOOP Rant
Dear STOOP, (Shopper Totally Oblivious of Other People),
I know you. I remember you from the parking lot. When I was sitting there for seven solid minutes, with my blinker ticking merrily away, patiently waiting for the little old lady to perform a perfect eighteen point turn in order to extricate her pint-sized vehicle from its better than average parking spot. And then you, Stoop, you came out of nowhere, and before her tailpipe had fully exited the spot, you had swooped in, taking my spot right out from under me.
Then you had the audacity to look surprised as you exited your own car and pretended to see me for the first time. There I was, stunned myself, still sitting there, blinker ticking rhythmically away. Not so merrily now. More like the sound of a time bomb. And you were shocked.
Shocked? Really? Why were you shocked? Were you suddenly struck by some kind of reverse tunnel vision, where you could only see peripherally, while anything that was dead ahead was swallowed in blinding darkness? Or had I accidentally forgotten to take down my Invisibility Shield? What exactly was it that had caused you to miss my OBVIOUS presence?
But, I decided to let bygones be bygones, and as I slogged the two slushy miles from my new, far less convenient parking spot, I was determined not to hold a grudge. I decided you must have needed that spot more than me for reasons I didn't know.
Okay, I will admit that the thought crossed my mind that fate was saving me from some unforeseen doom. Like space junk suddenly falling out of the sky and landing on exactly that spot, crushing your vehicle to smithereens. What? It's not unheard of.
Then, just when I had finally forgiven you, (not forgiven exactly, but at least I was no longer daydreaming about your car squashed and fully engulfed in a fiery inferno), there you were. Ten feet from the check out lane. The twelve items or less check out. And there I was, five feet away and carrying one measly little gallon of milk. No bread. No eggs. Just one little item. While you were pushing a cart loaded down with no less than twenty things, and one small child.
Our eyes met. The gauntlet was thrown. I picked up my pace. You threw on the afterburners. And somehow, SOMEHOW, you got there before me. Though there was some collateral damage. Your eggs were crushed when half a dozen soup cans fell on top of them. The bread too.
You positioned your cart as if nothing untoward had happened and began to unload, carefully avoiding my gaze until the crucial moment when your first item was placed on the belt, thus claiming it as your own. And then you had the nerve, the gall, the chutzpah to shoot me that same look of innocent shock from the parking lot. Your face says, "Oh my, did I just cut you off? I am so terribly sorry!" While your brain says, "Ha! Beat ya to it beyotch!"
Yeah. I got your number. And your number, (since I AM counting), is twenty-one. Twenty-one items in the twelve or less. I don't care if two of them are loaves of bread and six are cans of soup. Like items do not combine to make one, or the sign would read 12 Items or Less, OR 21 Like Items or Less. It doesn't.
Then I waited while someone was sent to retrieve a new, unbroken dozen of eggs.
And if that wasn't enough, instead of cash, or a credit card, or a debit card, (all perfectly reasonable forms of payment in an express lane), you pulled out a check book. A check book?! And started, I can't reiterate this enough, STARTED, to write a check.
Now if it was me, and I was planning on using the express lane to check out, and was planning on writing a check (really???), I would at least have all but the amount filled out. But no. Not you, Stoop. For you these measures are unnecessary.
I won't even further the rant by mentioning how you acted at the gas station. Oh, who am I kidding, yes, I most certainly will. You pulled up to the first pump (instead of pulling through to the second like anyone with an ounce of sense would do), leaving me to wait while you pumped your gas, and then went inside to pay. And use the bathroom. And purchase a cappuccino. And possibly make one or two phone calls. Maybe even restock their shelves for them. Generous spirit that you are. Either way, by the time you returned to your car, the gas price had changed twice and I had forgotten why I was there in the first place.
My point is, I live in a different world. I actually suffer from a guilty conscience when I inconvenience someone. And I go out of my way to try to avoid it. Not just because I hate to feel ashamed. But because it's the right thing to do.
And so, in all fairness, I am writing you this letter. Not to complain, whine, or bemoan the incidents of our past, but because, I feel obliged as a fellow human being, not to inconvenience you in any manner. And so, I'm letting you know, I will be shopping today. I'm not stopping for gas and I don't care where I park. I have only one item on my list. It is Midol. Today is a BAD day to write a check. Just thought you should know.
I know you. I remember you from the parking lot. When I was sitting there for seven solid minutes, with my blinker ticking merrily away, patiently waiting for the little old lady to perform a perfect eighteen point turn in order to extricate her pint-sized vehicle from its better than average parking spot. And then you, Stoop, you came out of nowhere, and before her tailpipe had fully exited the spot, you had swooped in, taking my spot right out from under me.
Then you had the audacity to look surprised as you exited your own car and pretended to see me for the first time. There I was, stunned myself, still sitting there, blinker ticking rhythmically away. Not so merrily now. More like the sound of a time bomb. And you were shocked.
Shocked? Really? Why were you shocked? Were you suddenly struck by some kind of reverse tunnel vision, where you could only see peripherally, while anything that was dead ahead was swallowed in blinding darkness? Or had I accidentally forgotten to take down my Invisibility Shield? What exactly was it that had caused you to miss my OBVIOUS presence?
But, I decided to let bygones be bygones, and as I slogged the two slushy miles from my new, far less convenient parking spot, I was determined not to hold a grudge. I decided you must have needed that spot more than me for reasons I didn't know.
Okay, I will admit that the thought crossed my mind that fate was saving me from some unforeseen doom. Like space junk suddenly falling out of the sky and landing on exactly that spot, crushing your vehicle to smithereens. What? It's not unheard of.
Then, just when I had finally forgiven you, (not forgiven exactly, but at least I was no longer daydreaming about your car squashed and fully engulfed in a fiery inferno), there you were. Ten feet from the check out lane. The twelve items or less check out. And there I was, five feet away and carrying one measly little gallon of milk. No bread. No eggs. Just one little item. While you were pushing a cart loaded down with no less than twenty things, and one small child.
Our eyes met. The gauntlet was thrown. I picked up my pace. You threw on the afterburners. And somehow, SOMEHOW, you got there before me. Though there was some collateral damage. Your eggs were crushed when half a dozen soup cans fell on top of them. The bread too.
You positioned your cart as if nothing untoward had happened and began to unload, carefully avoiding my gaze until the crucial moment when your first item was placed on the belt, thus claiming it as your own. And then you had the nerve, the gall, the chutzpah to shoot me that same look of innocent shock from the parking lot. Your face says, "Oh my, did I just cut you off? I am so terribly sorry!" While your brain says, "Ha! Beat ya to it beyotch!"
Yeah. I got your number. And your number, (since I AM counting), is twenty-one. Twenty-one items in the twelve or less. I don't care if two of them are loaves of bread and six are cans of soup. Like items do not combine to make one, or the sign would read 12 Items or Less, OR 21 Like Items or Less. It doesn't.
Then I waited while someone was sent to retrieve a new, unbroken dozen of eggs.
And if that wasn't enough, instead of cash, or a credit card, or a debit card, (all perfectly reasonable forms of payment in an express lane), you pulled out a check book. A check book?! And started, I can't reiterate this enough, STARTED, to write a check.
Now if it was me, and I was planning on using the express lane to check out, and was planning on writing a check (really???), I would at least have all but the amount filled out. But no. Not you, Stoop. For you these measures are unnecessary.
I won't even further the rant by mentioning how you acted at the gas station. Oh, who am I kidding, yes, I most certainly will. You pulled up to the first pump (instead of pulling through to the second like anyone with an ounce of sense would do), leaving me to wait while you pumped your gas, and then went inside to pay. And use the bathroom. And purchase a cappuccino. And possibly make one or two phone calls. Maybe even restock their shelves for them. Generous spirit that you are. Either way, by the time you returned to your car, the gas price had changed twice and I had forgotten why I was there in the first place.
My point is, I live in a different world. I actually suffer from a guilty conscience when I inconvenience someone. And I go out of my way to try to avoid it. Not just because I hate to feel ashamed. But because it's the right thing to do.
And so, in all fairness, I am writing you this letter. Not to complain, whine, or bemoan the incidents of our past, but because, I feel obliged as a fellow human being, not to inconvenience you in any manner. And so, I'm letting you know, I will be shopping today. I'm not stopping for gas and I don't care where I park. I have only one item on my list. It is Midol. Today is a BAD day to write a check. Just thought you should know.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)