Because everyone should have a little funny this weekend, including me, who had a stupid car accident yesterday– I’m fine but my car? Not so much, it’s off at the body shop for a new front bumper– a link to a very, very funny musical/comedy/drama streaming video up over at Hulu, Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog.
“Aspiring super-villain Dr. Horrible (Neil Patrick Harris) wants to join the Evil League of Evil and win the girl of his dreams, but his nemesis, Captain Hammer (Nathan Fillion), stops him at every turn in this three-part musical.”
I do love me a musical, and I especially love me some
Neil Patrick Harris. Add the delectable
Nathan Fillion of Firefly, Serenity, and Waitress fame, as well, and well, it’s great acting and singing, eye candy, and so much silliness you’ll be wheezing with belly laughs, giggles, and guffaws.
This video is not recommended for anyone wishing to cherish their cranky.
Dear Sandwich-Making Guy at the Quizno’s Near Work:
When I tell you which sandwich I want, naming it by the full name assigned by your store, the correct response is “Everything on that?,” meaning, of course, that you want to know if I want everything listed on the signboard as being included in the sandwich. (Although, I suppose it would be more reasonable for me to say “no onions” or whatever, if I didn’t want the sandwich as ordered.)
But when you listed off half the ingredients in the sandwich to me in response, you confused me. See, now I think maybe the mustard’s extra? I don’t know. I thought I made a reasonable response when I said, “everything that it usually comes with.” But apparently not, because then you repeated back two thirds of the ingredients to me, confusing me even further. “I just want what it says on the sign,” I said, pointing. And then, God help me, you looked over your shoulder as if to say, “There’s a sign up there? Wow.”
The fact that I had to repeat “everything” twice more before you said “Got it?” Well, that’s the optional mustard, I guess.
With a deep and confused sigh,
BLC
(And yes, I shouldn’t expect much of a chain anyway, but the area right around work is a food wasteland. Even deeper sigh.)
Lawyers like to argue; when there aren’t opposing counsel or ornery clients to argue with, they argue amongst their own colleagues. Partners, especially– they get paid a lot to argue, so they argue a lot, to earn their salary.
Which would have been fine, except that they were arguing over punctuation, syntax, and word choice in a brief already approved by the client, that needed to be filed for the end of the day, or miss a very important deadline that would foreclose further appeal.
So, the argument over each i, t, comma, and semicolon was a little frustrating, for THREE HOURS. Agh. My hair will be grey by the end of the month.
But the case itself? Hella interesting, in the way that only extremely geeky federalism questions can be. I’ll tell you all about it when it’s resolved.
I knew my parents were getting older. But every once in a while, something beyond the greying hair and the slowed pace imposed by arthritis takes me aback. Yesterday, it was my dad’s increasing dithering. He’d asked me to lend him my car, since his own was in the shop and he’s got a drive to work that doesn’t allow for taking the T, like me. I was glad to, and drove over. I was perfectly happy for him to drive me to the local train station– it’s on the same line as the one I live near, and it wouldn’t have taken me any more time to get home than if he’d driven me all the way back home, while saving him the extra half hour returning. I guess it’s a generational thing– the car is always the preferred method of transportation for him, and I honestly don’t mind the public transit system. It’s quiet time for me to read, or write, to observe, or to just be alone with my thoughts.
But he insisted on driving me home. And I knew it was a somewhat good idea, since he rarely drives my car, and might have questions. I was ready to scream, though, by the second stoplight. He drives a stick, and I have an automatic, so he kept putting it in neutral or park, and then getting confused when the car wouldn’t roll forward as he took his foot off the brake. (Don’t even get me going on the way he drives his stick.) The ride home was quite a trip. He almost ran a red light, fumbling with the overhead visor, and downshifted the car needlessly several more times. I snapped at him once or twice, feeling bad, but I couldn’t really help myself. When we got back to my place, he wanted help with putting cash on his Charlie card (the transit system ticket card), which engendered some more dithering and my getting impatient and taking it away from him.
I felt awful after he left. It really wasn’t a big deal, he’d wanted to do the nice thing and drive me home, and had wanted to spend the time with me in the car. I realized that part of my impatience was due to my own discomfort with this sign of age on his part. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still totally with it. But the absentmindedness can’t be chalked up just to not enough blood pressure medication.
So now, I’m working on shoring up my patience, as well as my heart, since time will go on.
Dear Redwood Credit Union at 241 California Street, San Francisco:
I wish that the guy at your 800 number, who I spoke with on Saturday, had told me that your ATM machines automatically shred every card that they eat (for no good reason, by the way, since I had money in the account and the BH’s card worked fine for the rest of the weekend), so that I didn’t have to wait until Monday to find out in person from the teller at the branch. I could’ve gotten a two day start on a new ATM card. I hope she called you to tell you that you should know that about your own ATMs.
Grumblingly yours,
BLC
