As I write this, it's Tuesday, and Val is not having a good day. Some people might call it a real crap sandwich of a day. Oh, not if you're a high-class snob who lifts your pinky-finger to sip exotic teas, and eats caviar on toast points, and rides around in a limo with a jar of Grey Poupon in the glove compartment. But if you're Val's people, that's what you might call it.
Val's crap sandwich is not contained between two soft rolls. Not-Heaven, no! Who do you think she is, Heidi's grandmother? Val's crap sandwich has moldy bread, tooth-chippingly stale, but thankfully comes without au jus (because it IS a crap sandwich, you know, and nobody wants to think about that kind of jus). It's bad enough that the main component of the crap sandwich has the consistency of potted meat, just yearning to ooze out the sides of the moldy stale bread, and drip onto your (of course) white shirt.
The sides on a plate of crap sandwich ain't that great, either. Not a crunchy baby dill, but an unseemly sweet gherkin. No sour-cream-and-onion chips, only Nacho Doritos that smell like vomit. Or perhaps a flaming Carolina Reaper. Hot enough to singe the epithelial cells right off Val's esophagus, and set her taste buds retracting like frightened turtles' heads, to pack their bags and abscond for parts unknown.
Yes, the crap sandwich day started down by the mailboxes. No shifty strangers, just a parked car, it being driven daily to the bus stop by a 15-year-old boy, to save his parents the trip. Inside EmBee, I discovered a bill for $649 for a medical test that my insurance deigned to cover. I somehow expected a little more for my $1498 per month health insurance premium. No doubt I am the victim of THE WHAMMY JINX caused when I read about blog buddy joeh's insurance tribulations only Monday. Not that he had anything to do with THE WHAMMY JINX. I suppose I just got too comfortable, thinking "better him than me."
Once I got to town, I observed the new lane changes. Seems like the only difference is the newer paint, and the lines being dotted white ones instead of solid. Because at no point did I see any arrows or instructions on the pavement, just that portable sign scrolling that the right lane is right turn only. Yes, while waiting at the light, I saw a pickup truck pulling a trailer blow through that light in the right turn lane, going straight. Silly city administrators. Nobody pays attention to lines and portable signs. You need TICKETS handed out all willy-nilly for the first month!
In line at Orb K, I let an old man (heh, heh, he was probably younger than me, just balder) go ahead of me. Actually, he was already ahead of me, wrapping up his transaction (no, that's not a safe-sex euphemism, he had already paid and then remembered he wanted something else). I encouraged him to go ahead, telling him that I was looking at the lottery tickets.
HE bought lottery tickets, though the draw kind not scratchers, and took over 5 minutes. Not like I had anywhere to go. Why rush home to bite into my crap sandwich? If there's ever any meal that you should not have to worry "Will it keep till I get home?" it's a crap sandwich meal. Elderly Dude said, upon completing his transaction, "I hope you at least get a good winner, after waiting all that time."
Let the record show that I did not. In fact, the shavings that I whisked aside with the back of my hand after scratching formed an "L" on the desk in my dark basement lair. An "L," people. Do you see the significance of that? An "L," for LOSER!
After that exercise in futility, it took me 90 minutes to scan and attach my insurance and resulting bill documents into an email to my insurance representative. Perhaps you've been let in on the non-secret: Val is not good with technology. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to do it again.
That little chore finished, while browsing the innernets, I saw the emails go from 5,856 to 5,857 in my email tab along the top of the screen. But NO, it was NOT that punctual insurance rep, but rather the bursar of The Pony's college with his monthly statement, showing the remainder of his tuition and fees over what was covered by his scholarship, and what I have already paid since July 31st for housing.
Knowing that it will be reduced by over $3000, to nearly nothing, once the remainder of his National Merit package (heh, heh, The Pony's package) is disbursed, does not make me any less annoyed at having to watch for it every day until the 25th, so I can be sure to not forget to pay the final amount. You'd think they could pin down a date for the release of those funds, rather than say "after August 31st." It appears magically in the account, and you don't get another update or reminder of the due date before a penalty kicks in.
Thevictorian people problems. I suppose if those things are all I have to complain about, I'm doing okay. I guess...
I whined because I was served a crap sandwich, but then I realized I married a man who doesn't give a crap.