Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

This morning I overslept and my favorite pants weren't clean so I was late and I had to wear the black ones that gather lint. I hate being late.

At work I was scheduled to move to a new desk, close to the window, with one short wall and a glorious view of the outside world. They got my PC and phone moved and I had started unloading my boxes when someone showed up with a bunch of tools and informed me no one was allowed to have short walls anymore. I had to stand by and watch the glorious sunlight be slowly and surely obstructed from my seat. I hate dark cubicles.

Then I had to scrunch all my belongings to one corner while they disassembled my entire desk to put up the new walls, even though no one has been sitting there for weeks and they could have made the change long before all my things had been moved in. I had a lot of work to do and none of it got done because I spent most of the day without a desk or computer or phone. I hate wasting time.

When it was finally time for lunch, I was excited to eat a turkey sandwich with honey mustard. I love honey mustard. When I asked for it, the server told me there was no honey mustard today, only plain old mustard. I'm sure they never run out of plain, stinky mustard. I hate plain mustard.

Then I was late for a meeting, my pen ran out of ink, someone ate the last chocolate, and when they moved the shelf in my cubicle all my books fell on the floor.

I finally got my desk back, sat down, and saw that my phone extension had been changed. They changed it back but acted like I didn't know what I was talking about. I hate when people act like you don't know what you're talking about.

When I got home, the house was cold, I remembered I hadn't cooked chicken to make soup, and I had to eat lima beans for dinner. I hate lima beans.

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. But I guess some days are like that. Even in Australia.

A plea to city planners everywhere

About once a month at work, I spend a couple of hours addressing birthday cards for our employees. This means I get a very close look at hundreds of addresses, mostly in Utah, and I'm noticing an alarming trend. There are several streets/cul-de-sacs/avenues/etc. that are using multiple types of street identification (for lack of a better term). For example, I would expect to see "Horsetail Trail" or "Horsetail Lane," but "Horsetail Trail Lane?" That's just redundant. What gets really ridiculous is when some city planner (or whoever the heck comes up with this stuff) gets all long-winded naming apartment complex roads. And it's even worse when it's so far south that the street number alone is unusually long. And THEN, the complex comes up with some absurd numbering system

For example: 126077 South Wasatch Rim Trail Avenue #13766 - D (not someone's real address but based on an actual pattern). Are you kidding me? It barely fits on the envelope (and looks really weird if the person's name is something tiny like Cal Brown). And are there really 13,766 units in this complex? Doubtful. Even if there were, I don't think adding the letter "D" is really going to help anyone find it.

People. Coming up with a longer name for your street doesn't make you sound richer or smarter or better educated. If we change the above to 126077 S Wasatch Rim #12 will anyone go to bed hungry? I thought not. Based on the...unusual...habits about naming children we see in Utah, I'm thinking this is a regional thing, am I right?

I realize this is kind of a weird thing to be bothered by, but I think it reflects an unfortunate lack of self-restraint in our modern culture of grammar and naming conventions. Also, I don't want to someday have to buy a ridiculously large mailbox just because I live at 543210 West Crimson Sunset View Point Lane Road.

A Rant

I hate Wal-Mart. HATE it, with capital letters. Possibly even bold capital letters. HATE. Yes. I think that sums it up. I'm sorry if you love Wal-Mart and think its low prices and mind-numbingly large inventory are worth the ridiculous crowds and 24-hour chaos, but I respectfully disagree. There's just something about the place that feels disagreeable.

Sadly, I am sometimes driven to the Mart against my better judgment. Tonight, for example, on a mission for either camoflauge or patriotic wrapping paper. I had exhausted 4 previous options to no avail (apparently holiday wrapping does not come in "USA" versions), I was also craving Honey Bunches of Oats and already in dangerous proximity to the Mart. (In my mind, "the Mart" sounds very ominous. With DUN DUN DUN drums.) I could think of only one place where I could find an unreasonable selection of wrapping paper AND my favorite cereal without driving across town again.

The regret was instant. Before I even got onto official Mart property, a fellow Wal-Mart visitor whose driving skills left much to be desired nearly boxed me out of the parking lot entrance. Then there was what I affectionately refer to as "parking hell." Thanks to Jerkstore boxing me out, I had to use the lot entrance closest to the building. There were approximately five thousand people in the 30-yard stretch between the entrance and my parking space and not a single one was looking where they were walking. I managed to park without mowing anyone over (and I found a stall with only ONE Wal-Mart shopping cart in it!) but that was about the end of my success.

I did find red wrapping paper without any snowflakes or angels on it (forget about the camo, no way am I going to SIX stores to make boxes at work look cute), but my aunt called just as I got to the cereal aisle (where there were also about five thousand people - possibly the same crowd from the parking lot following me to see how long I could keep it together) and that was the end of it. I could barely navigate the aisle and pick out my cereal (which was, I'll grant, ridiculously cheap) while holding onto my phone. I don't know what posessed me to answer my phone in a crowed Wal-Mart to begin with. My poor aunt, she probably thinks I'm either very rude or else losing my mind. Anyway, I forgot to buy the eggs my husband asked me to pick up (and a dozen eggs really isn't much to ask from your wife) and I didn't even look at the address labels I needed. It was like some kind of survival instinct propelling me out of the store.

I had to turn the Christmas station on in the car to restore my faith in humanity, which must have worked because when I was pulling out, the only crowd I even noticed was a little family of four tiny girls, all holding hands, and the one on the end was holding their dad's hand. They were dancing into the Mart and I have to admit they looked like a Christmas card (which is difficult to do in parking hell).

Still, faith restored or no, I am not planning to do my holiday shopping at a certain big box store. I got out alive this time, but you can only press your luck so much.