Why. Do. I. Bother.
That's not a question.
This is my life:
So I leave work at 1PM today, an hour early. Because hey, it's gorgeous out and it's the start of a long weekend and I'm all caught up on my work.
I don't feel like walking home, so I grab a bus downtown, intending to transfer to the bus heading up to the Centre, transfer from there.
The bus is a no show, so it's a 15-minute wait. The next bus shows up on time and it's packed. It's almost standing room only, in fact. I greet the bus driver, as usual, and she's kind enough to warn me about a free seat at the back that has a milkshake spilled all over it. So I squeeze in between two other people in one of the few remaining seats by the back door. The poor mentally ill schmuck, who's carrying on quite the non-stop conversation with himself, plops himself down right onto the spilled milkshake. Gross. We finally get going. The bus hits every single red light and almost every stop, with more people squeezing on. There are construction detours. I'm looking at some teen girl's bare midriff, which is stuck in my face. I keep trying to see where we are, debating the merits of just getting off and walking. But I make it up to Tim Horton's, which isn't my stop, but is all I can stand. Off, off, off that damned bus.
Off that bus and into the LCBO for a bottle of rye. Because by this point it's 2PM, I've been a hour trying to go 3 kilometers, and my stress level is through the roof.
After the liquor store I head to the grocery store at the Centre, with 25 minutes to kill before the bus into my neighbourhood.
The store isn't too bad, really, and I go only for some club soda and oh, yeah, a Ritter's dark chocolate covered marzipan bar. Impulse buy. Head to a cash with only one person ahead of me. But there's something wrong with the till; it's put the cashier into training mode and she can't process any transactions. So I go to another line-up, because by now it's 2:15PM and I have only 15 minutes before my bus.
And guess what?
I get into the line-up with the one cashier who is slower than molasses. No, really. I hate getting into her lines. She gets distracted easily, she plays with the babies and kids around her in the line-ups, she runs off and does other stuff. Seriously. She takes forever to ring items through and bag them. I'm standing there discreetly looking at my watch, trying not to snarl, trying to remember the bigger picture, trying to be fucking happy.
Finally I get through, with enough time left over that I can run into the Wine Rack and pick up a bottle of shiraz. Great. And I do make it to the bus transfer point and get my bus without further incident.
I get home, at long last. Two hours after I left the office. You do know it's only five kilometers between my office and my home, right? Five kilometers is three miles. Not 30 miles.
I check the mail.
What's in the mail box? A Rogers bill.
But I cancelled my long distance service, back in June, effective July 29th. I even called them on August 24th to verify that the account had been cancelled and that I would not receive any more invoices. I'm looking at a $7.60 service charge dated August 28th.
I now am foaming at the mouth. The cats move away from me as quickly as possible. I call Rogers and finally get through to a real person, Cassandra. Warn her I'm upset, say I know it's not her fault . . . but even so, my voice rises and I'm coming unglued with frustration. She takes a look, eventually asks me if there is a "-" sign in front of the charge. Oh, goddess. *Headdesk* I have a credit of $7.60 from last month's (obviously erroneous) invoice.
I'm an idiot. Apologize profusely and repeatedly. You do know those calls are recorded, right? Poor Cassandra. Eventually she gets it all straightened out, says they'll send out a refund cheque and promises me that there will be no more invoices or statements coming from Rogers. I tell her I hope she has an awesome weekend after putting up with someone like me and wish her good luck with finding a new cell phone provider. Hmm, wonder why she doesn't go with Rogers?
Then I pour a copious amount of rye over some ice in a glass, grab my marzipan and a book and settle outside with the cats.
Life is good.
Right?
This is my life:
So I leave work at 1PM today, an hour early. Because hey, it's gorgeous out and it's the start of a long weekend and I'm all caught up on my work.
I don't feel like walking home, so I grab a bus downtown, intending to transfer to the bus heading up to the Centre, transfer from there.
The bus is a no show, so it's a 15-minute wait. The next bus shows up on time and it's packed. It's almost standing room only, in fact. I greet the bus driver, as usual, and she's kind enough to warn me about a free seat at the back that has a milkshake spilled all over it. So I squeeze in between two other people in one of the few remaining seats by the back door. The poor mentally ill schmuck, who's carrying on quite the non-stop conversation with himself, plops himself down right onto the spilled milkshake. Gross. We finally get going. The bus hits every single red light and almost every stop, with more people squeezing on. There are construction detours. I'm looking at some teen girl's bare midriff, which is stuck in my face. I keep trying to see where we are, debating the merits of just getting off and walking. But I make it up to Tim Horton's, which isn't my stop, but is all I can stand. Off, off, off that damned bus.
Off that bus and into the LCBO for a bottle of rye. Because by this point it's 2PM, I've been a hour trying to go 3 kilometers, and my stress level is through the roof.
After the liquor store I head to the grocery store at the Centre, with 25 minutes to kill before the bus into my neighbourhood.
The store isn't too bad, really, and I go only for some club soda and oh, yeah, a Ritter's dark chocolate covered marzipan bar. Impulse buy. Head to a cash with only one person ahead of me. But there's something wrong with the till; it's put the cashier into training mode and she can't process any transactions. So I go to another line-up, because by now it's 2:15PM and I have only 15 minutes before my bus.
And guess what?
I get into the line-up with the one cashier who is slower than molasses. No, really. I hate getting into her lines. She gets distracted easily, she plays with the babies and kids around her in the line-ups, she runs off and does other stuff. Seriously. She takes forever to ring items through and bag them. I'm standing there discreetly looking at my watch, trying not to snarl, trying to remember the bigger picture, trying to be fucking happy.
Finally I get through, with enough time left over that I can run into the Wine Rack and pick up a bottle of shiraz. Great. And I do make it to the bus transfer point and get my bus without further incident.
I get home, at long last. Two hours after I left the office. You do know it's only five kilometers between my office and my home, right? Five kilometers is three miles. Not 30 miles.
I check the mail.
What's in the mail box? A Rogers bill.
But I cancelled my long distance service, back in June, effective July 29th. I even called them on August 24th to verify that the account had been cancelled and that I would not receive any more invoices. I'm looking at a $7.60 service charge dated August 28th.
I now am foaming at the mouth. The cats move away from me as quickly as possible. I call Rogers and finally get through to a real person, Cassandra. Warn her I'm upset, say I know it's not her fault . . . but even so, my voice rises and I'm coming unglued with frustration. She takes a look, eventually asks me if there is a "-" sign in front of the charge. Oh, goddess. *Headdesk* I have a credit of $7.60 from last month's (obviously erroneous) invoice.
I'm an idiot. Apologize profusely and repeatedly. You do know those calls are recorded, right? Poor Cassandra. Eventually she gets it all straightened out, says they'll send out a refund cheque and promises me that there will be no more invoices or statements coming from Rogers. I tell her I hope she has an awesome weekend after putting up with someone like me and wish her good luck with finding a new cell phone provider. Hmm, wonder why she doesn't go with Rogers?
Then I pour a copious amount of rye over some ice in a glass, grab my marzipan and a book and settle outside with the cats.
Life is good.
Right?
Comments
"trying to be fucking happy" - I snorted my beer over that line too. :)