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Does This Mean History Class Should Be Marked with a Spoiler Warning?

Patricia: I miss Anne Boleyn on The Tudors.
Me: Guess her character was kinda temporary, huh?
Patricia: Hopefully the new wife will last?
Me: I don’t want to spoil the ending for you.
Patricia: Shhhh.

I Think I’ll Call Him ‘Lunch’

So I walk into my room, like I do sometimes, but something’s different. Something…squeakily different, actually.

A mouse in a plastic box chillaxing on my great-grandmother’s little red table, to be more specific.

Cue shouts of my brother’s name combined with, “WHY IS THERE A MOUSE IN MY ROOM?!”

Apparently two mice were bought to be my brother’s python’s dinner. But Monty happened to die unexpectedly from unknown causes that day. Very unfortunate for Monty, but uber-lucky for the mice.

My brother apparently doesn’t like this one, but I can’t understand why.

It’s absolutely adorable. You should see the nose thing. The nose thing kills me.

Update: I know why. This mouse is a fucking ninja. A g-ddamn skydiving escape artist.

Starting Over

So, I’ve been spending time trying to get my life on track. There’s a lot I want to change about myself and my life, but I’m a huge procrastinator.

But I took the first step today! I’m finally going back to school. I just finished registering. Big step number one! Yay!

I’ve been avoiding taking English 101 for a very, very long time because, despite the fact I read about 200 books in 2007 and 150 books in 2008, I’ve always loathed English classes. They suck all the joy out of the subject for me.

And now I’m taking two English classes. Lord help me.

Granted, one is English 101. I’ve registered for it twice previously and dropped it both times. I know, terrible, but I’ve resolved to finish it, finally. Particularly since, you know, it’s a degree requirement. I decided on my new English 101 instructor purely because word around RateMyProfessors.com is that he brings cookies on Fridays and I think that says a lot about the sort of teacher he’ll end up being.

My first English 101 professor was always completely stoned and talked about Shrek in class a lot and how ogres are like onions, but he didn’t bring cookies so that was a deal-breaker. What self-respecting stoner doesn’t bring cookies?

Seriously. This college has the strangest people teaching English classes, I swear to you. It feels a little like elementary school with more homework. Then you go take any other classes (besides astronomy) and you’re in for a rude awakening when the professors kick your ass and laugh whilst doing it. But I like it, I do. I respond to ass-kicking as motivation. As much as I love it, I don’t respond to Shrek.

And yet I still signed up for World Literature III with the Shrek-referencing stoner teacher. Who, incidentally, came through my line at my job the other day with his child. Still as baked as he ever was.

Then I’m also taking math because, well, I need to improve my math skills as I haven’t taken a class since the 10th grade. I don’t want to know how long ago that was. It’ll just depress me.

All in all, I’m excited, but scared that I’ll screw it up like I have in the past.

Anybody else sort of fell off the wagon and taken ages to actually get their life back on track? I’m having a time of it, let me tell you, but I’m sick of waiting so I’m just going to hop right in rather than wait another three months or two years or whatever.

When Ladybugs Attack

So this morning I woke up.

I know, this is an enthralling tale already. You can hardly contain yourself, you know it. Just wait, it gets even more action-packed.

I roll out of bed and nearly kill myself with all the crap that’s on my floor that’s left over from that time I started cleaning and then stopped, thus leaving it messier than it had been before I tried to tidy.

Anyway, after finally locating my bag of clean clothes, I try to get dressed. This includes putting on my bra, right?

NO.

I go to grab my bra and there’s an effing ladybug crawling over it.

What the hell? It’s nearly February in Seattle and it’s cold.

Oh, and the other day I hopped out of the shower¹ and went to put on my jeans and there was a ladybug clinging to those too. What the hell is going on with the ladybugs?

Now I’m afraid of clothing and I don’t particularly want to be a nudist. Ladybugs were cool when I was eight, but I don’t want them crawling over my boobs, quite frankly.

1. Not literally because I would die. I’m too uncoordinated. ↩

Customers Suck

Okay, I understand people find the holiday season stressful. I also understand that people find the prospect of being snowed in stressful.

However, this does not mean you can throw a shopping basket at me when I tell you that the Transformers DVD that is on sale today (or, rather, Saturday when this happened) will not be on sale tomorrow, even if you put it on hold at guest services.

Yes, I’m serious. A “guest” threw a shopping basket at me because he was supposedly freaking out whilst trying to find provisions, but apparently had enough time to pick out a Transformers DVD set.

Everybody is freaking out because they think they’re going to lose power. Everybody is foraging for food. You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake.

After I told him he wouldn’t get the sales price, he started going off and spewing a bunch of nonsensical bullshit:

1. “I’ve been living here for 30 years and…” (So what? My store hasn’t even been there for 35 years.)
2. “I’m ex-military and…” (Is that a threat?)
3. “I’ve been to three stores trying to get provisions and I don’t need this right now!” (Dude, you’re buying ping pong balls. How is that helping your search?)

Then he threw the basket at me. I backed up into the corner of my little register section and he began yelling at me to not freak out on him because he “doesn’t need this right now.”

I informed him he couldn’t attack me and that pissed him off. He said he wasn’t attacking me, to get better customer service skills, and that his generation had to deal with “it” and so I have to as well.

Excuse me? Your generation wasn’t typically known for throwing things at shop girls.

After I give him his receipt and run away, I get sort of freaked out. When someone’s in my face, I don’t really back down. I finally found my manager, who I normally hate, and she went over with security and kicked him out of the store.

This is where it got interesting: He started rambling about being ex-military and war and some incident in Germany and whatnot.

Here’s the thing: he was only about 35, max. There is no way he was ever in a war in Germany. And again I say, so what? What does Germany have to do with throwing a basket at me?

Bastard.

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