War Damn Eagle! I never thought I’d be so excited over beating Vanderbilt, but I am, I am. I’m so estatic that we did not lose! Not only did we not lose, we creamed them. Just ignore the mess that was the first quarter, and that was the team I knew from last year, penalties included. We do like to seem to get quite a collection of those. But who cares, we won! Evil laugh: Mwahahahahaha! Football season has finally begun! Can’t believe I’ve gotta wait two weeks for another game. I get to go to that one at least; it’s at home.
And what did I do with my weekend? Steven came up here to Forted Pain, and we went down to Birmingham on Saturday, so we could get some things done in the Big City. Renton was left here, as his toliet training is still going frighteningly slowly. We mostly had wedding errands to do. Steven picked out his tuxes for himself and the groomsman (Willis, I’m sorry, you’ve gotta wear a Florida-orange tux), and I got the underthings for my dress (i.e. sexy lingerie, ha) and some shoes (I hope they work; shoe shopping sucks when you have a foot shaped as weird as mine, and all you want to do is be barefoot. Or wear flip flops). And we watched the first half of the game, and listened to the third quarter on the radio on the way to the mall. War eagle, man. And we ate, a lot. Pizza for lunch and wings for dinner, and fried cheesecake for dessert. Boy was that good; never woulda thought it. All in all, a fun-filled Saturday.
Is thirty cents really all that much money? I mean that won’t even buy you a coke. Thirty cents is something you find as you’re cleaning underneath your bed, and (unless it involves a quarter) you just throw it away with the rest of the trash cause it’s easier than finding a way to spend it. Thirty cents is not much money. Nevertheless, at the grocery store, Steven and I got behind some lady who thought otherwise. She was buying some corn meal, a box of cereal, and something else that I cannot recall. We only had a few things ourselves, and were ready to just go home. As the lady in front of us is being ringed up, she notices a discrepancy on the visual computer-screen recipt. “That rang up as $2.89,” she says, “There’s a sign by the cereal that said it was $2.59.” Oh no. So the bag boy goes to check, while we wait. He soon comes back, saying he didn’t see a sign. “Oh, I”ll show ya” says the lady, and goes off, taking the bag boy with her. Maybe she is only carrying cash, and she truly doesn’t have thirty cents. I look at Steven and whisper, “Thirty cents? I’d give her thirty cents.” But of course I don’t have thirty cents; who carries money around anymore? Not I, says the debit-card user. Finally the lady and bag boy are back, having confirmed her thirty cent claim. So now they gotta get the manager to stick her key in the register, type in some voiding code, and start over. So they ring up everything just right this time, thank goodness. “That’ll be $4.85,” says the check-out girl, and the lady hands over $5.85. In cash. So she can get a dollar. It wasn’t a matter of her having thirty cents at all. Six minutes of running around looking for price statements and holding up lines for thirty cents that she already had. Wow. Somebody make her the Secretary of the Treasury; that’ll solve the budget crap. Save us thirty cents on a new aircraft carrier, just don’t hold up the line to tour the Capitol while you’re at it.