Ahhh, Another Day...

...another lesson from a grocery store bagger about his bagging technique. (In case you're curious, this one's was more of a "crush everything indiscriminately" tactic, although he'd have you believe it was the "conservation of resources" approach).

Before going to get groceries, I first went to the office (and by office I mean home, and by home I mean hoarder's delight bordering on bona fide hovel) of the woman I picked randomly from the alterations listings in the phone book to alter my bridesmaid's dress for Kathy's wedding. When I first entered I immediately noticed an errant child asleep on the living room couch, followed by two empty baby carriers (car seats? whatever they're called when they're not strapped into the car) with no sign of actual infants in sight. It's possible she's running a baby mill in addition to her prolific alteration business, but I'll have to do more research and get back to you.

I followed her through her living room into her "kitchen," which is in quotes because I swear to you all that could be seen in the entire room to identify it as a kitchen was the faucet peeking out from a stack of odds and ends, catalogs, and god knows what other crap. "Oh this is promising," I thought to myself as I rounded the corner into the main part of the room and walked into a man with a full-fledged, four-alarm mullet dressed head to toe in NASCAR merchandise. (In case you're wondering, he's a big fan of whoever drives the Home Depot car. I'd look it up, but I'm trying to protect what's left of my precariously dangling IQ until I can secure a full-time teaching job.) "Hellooooo to you," I said to him. "How's it goin?" he grunted in reply. Never been better. Never been better, indeeeeeeed.

She led me into a room that appeared to be the center of operations for her alterations business. She left me there to change into my dress, and while she was gone I couldn't help but notice her personal library in the room, which consisted largely of books espousing the indisputable fact of Creationism and of the best ways to evangelize to nonbelievers. (Interjection: I'm glad I at least have found the target market for Fun Bible Sudoku. Now I can go on living.) There was also a book titled FOOD right in the middle of all of her religious zealotry paraphernalia, which seemed strange, but it was clear that I was half naked in a stranger's house at this point and not in a position to ask questions.

The fitting itself went ok, and she's only charging me $30 to alter it (although she claims she's never worked with this kind of material before, so that could make things interesting), so that's probably a fair exchange for her bizarre library, creepy mulleted husband, and baby mill. Cross your fingers.

As of right now, I've not heard back yet from the tutoring company about whether or not they want me. The interview on Monday was promising (that is, I made less of an ass out of myself than one would expect) and the owner told me she really liked me but wanted to think it over for a day or two to make sure it was right. So today is the second day, and so far I've not heard anything from her but I'm trying not to let my pessimism take over. (Okay, that's a lie. My pessimism is totally starting to take over, but fear not....I will update with my good news or shame--probably my shame--either way.)

Looks like that's about it for now. Today's quote of the day comes from our mailman, who clearly has an anger management problem. (To help you visualize, he looks like Kenny Rogers before his bad plastic surgery.) One day last summer when we first moved my husband into this house, I was sitting in the living room when the mailman came, and at that moment someone honked their car horn repeatedly. The mailman, overcome with a flash of anger, started yelling, "WHAT IS WITH THE HONKING?! JESUS CHRIST!!!!" My eyes widened in delight at knowing this man was going to be my source of rage-filled joy for as long as we live here. Anyway, fast forward to this morning. Our mailbox is what you might call "broken." The little plastic bar doodads that hold the opening flap onto the main box fell off right about the time we moved in, so my husband fixed it the best way he could--with tightly knotted strings through the holes. (Hey, we don't own this house so we're not putting the money into actually fixing things.) Now, when you close the mailbox, you have to line it up right so it stays closed. It's not really that big of a deal....takes maybe an extra one or two seconds to close it. Well, apparently the mailman wasn't having it this morning. Once again, I was sitting in the living room when he arrived, and this is what I heard:

(rough banging of plastic)
"LOCK, DAMMIT! WHY WON'T YOU LOCK?! SON OF A BITCH, LOCK!!!!!"

Yeah! You tell that mailbox who's boss!