Happy Meal?

A friend of mine published a truly entertaining post about the follies of McDonald's tonight, and it made me shake my head and think of grossness. Just grossness. And, I suppose, gratitude that I haven't chosen to visit that establishment in a few years.

I detest McDonald's. I shudder at the happy-faced creepster clown whose seated plastic visage with outstretched arms entices innocent children to sit on his lap. I despise the oddly crunchy-yet-old french fry smell that wafts from its doors, reminding me of late nights worked at Walgreens in close quarters with unwashed, foul-breathed clientele. I loathe the flat, uniform nature of the hockey puck discs of meat. I hate the vastly unhealthy nature of McDonalds' processed offerings, and remember vividly how vile my stomach felt after gorging on a Double Cheeseburger to soak up a blotto Saturday night into Sunday morning. And in reminiscing, I invariably stray from my staunch disapproval and shame myself in thinking how good the preservatives in those hot, salty fries tasted, and have to remind myself that I abhor the abomination that is my hated and revered Chicken McNugget. Oh, how I have flagellated myself over my long-time love of those revoltingly processed nuggets. Year after year, I think the burning memory of those crispy, tasty little chunks of crack will fade, and year after year, I can still be tempted to run to the nearest McD's at the mere whiff of a co-worker's lunch. I hate you, McDonald's. You sicken me.

(I do like these Ronalds, however.)

Actually, if I remember correctly, the last time I went to McD's was in March of 2009 when I failed my Series 4 exam for work (spectacularly-- I got a 33%; I think I wasn't including the calculations of the fourth leg of the more complicated options orders) and, after beating my head against the steering wheel repeatedly and calling my boss in a distinctly not right state of mind, I plummeted to my own personal rock bottom. Sobbing during my very unsafe drive/swerve home, I veered into a McDonald's out of sheer, desperate need to recapture some semblance of feeling good. I took the drive-thru in near wails and ordered my precious nugget meal with a strawberry shake in a voice hardly recognizable as my own. Thankfully, the soothing scent of the squeeze-tube nuggets calmed me enough to complete the drive home in mere tears instead of hysterics, promising I'd feel happy again soon and that not all was lost. I selfishly cradled my pathetic stash with a paranoid eye as I stumbled into my thankfully empty living room and flicked on the TV. There, with Steve Wilkos breaking up screeching midget fights in the background, I slowly crammed nugget after nugget into my sniveling mouth, partially-chewed crumbs and strawberry shake dripping with my tears onto my gleaming hardwood floor.

Purse Bitch

Okay. So I have this dilemma and prease help me. I promise the end of this post has a point. I have a Blackberry and it's whatever. I refuse to pay for internet service because it's like $30 and what tard is going to pay that to have internet on their phone? (read: all my tard friends I LOVE JOO) I clog my head with the internet all day long as it is, I don't need to be available while I'm in the john too. AT&T doesn't require us to buy internet for this smartphone because we got bought it before the data plan was required to be purchased along with. Anyways. A couple years ago, I lost the super special Blackberry sheath that came along with it. My cousin Bev keeps telling me to call it a "sleeve" like any other normal person, but I like "sheath," it makes me think of condoms. 

So this awesome sheath protected the phone and had some crazy magnet magic in it that automatically "slept" the phone while it was in there to conserve battery power-- and, most importantly to this gal who really likes drinky drinks with a clutch under her arm, I discovered that it also prevented my purse from roller-balling through my address book and calling random people. Yes, I am aware I have a lock feature on the phone. I use it all the time. You hold down the Mute button and it locks-- I use that all the time but it's wimpy and somehow whilst moving around in my purse any given weekend night, the lock gets turned off and then all hell breaks loose. My purses will purse-dial, purse-text and leave drunk purse-messages and sometimes it's funny. Normally I wouldn't care that much. But it is a PROBLEM and this is why: Purse doesn't like to call random people. She prefers to call one person.

More often than not, stupid ass Purse decides it would be hilarious, HILARIOUS!! to purse-dial one of my Spanish classmates (now former classmate given that I've independently graduated from the shackles of corporate schooling albeit while shackling myself to corporate America but I DIGRESS), a classmate who happens to be a very good-looking 42-year-old corporate lawyer. With a hot name. WITH A FAMILY. Of all the 200+ contacts I have in my phone, Purse thinks it's the fucking BEST to scroll down to his letter and give the guy's balls a jingle. It's happened like a million fucking times. Lucky for me she only calls his office since I have that set as the primary number. But really, if Purse can scroll to his name, she'll figure out how to scroll to the secondary number. So I changed his name to just the last name, then just his initials and then HCL (Hot Corporate Lawyer...to whom we will now refer as HCL, assuming I ever mention him again) to see if that stopped the madness, but bitch ass Purse was on to me and somehow figured it out. How does this happen in a fucking purse??? It's just getting jostled under my arm, maybe by my ass if the bar table is all wet and I tuck it behind me on the chair-- that's ALL. It's not like I'm playing catch with the purse and she decides to get revenge. I'm not losing her in the bar or dropping her on the gross ass floor. I don't spill shit on her. I take care of my things and she is just an UNGRATEFUL frenemy bitch! Purse doesn't purse-dial anyone so much as she purse-dials him because she knows he is the absolute worst person I could ever pick for a purse-dial, pocket-dial, or drunk dial. (Note: I have never drunk-dialed anyone. Wee!) Purse hasn't yet figured out how to purse-dial his cell phone instead of his office phone, so he has miraculously only received one purse-dial out of literally a dozen attempts by Purse (which was actually a pocket-dial). But really, it's just a matter of time. Purse is gonna figure it out and when she does, HCL's wife is going to crucify me and murdelize him. 

So this brings me to my dilemma. I told you there was a point and the point is that I'm looking online for a new sheath so I can contain this plague of frequent Purse-herpes and they are a whopping $29.99 on the Blackberry site. Uh, fuck you. I got mine for free with my phone, I want another for near-free. So I looked on eBay and I found the same damn thing for prices ranging from $0.99 to $3.95. I really want to buy one of those but I'm paranoid-- they're not from Blackberry dealers, what does that mean? Is there going to be some crazy software in the magical sheath that downloads all my friends' info and sends them spam? Will there be mystery charges on our bills? Obvi I don’t even get online with this phone much less access anything password-protected, I just call and text, but I still don't want anything creepy downloaded on it. Is that even possible to do with a chip thingy in a sheath?

I thought perhaps I could change the lock feature to another button that might be harder for Purse to unlock, but I did and then look what happened when all I did was go to the symphony. By the way, I'm sparing you most of this text convo since it's awesomely cat. OOH, NEW CATEGORY!


Me: DUH, vicious snub! Bitch was a bitchy bitch to me!
Ellie: Just checkin yer brain. Husband want to be nice?
Me: He always does but I am a grudgemaster. Good thing she didn't approach.
Me: 
Me:
Me:
Me:
Me:
Me:
Me:
Me:
Me:
Me:
Ellie: PURSE-DIALING!!!!
Me: 
Me:
Me:
Me:
Me:
Ellie: Tell purse bitch I'm goin to bed so knock it off!!
Me:
Me: 
Me: GOD DAMN PURSE!!!
  


So as you can see.....nipping this in the bud is of the utmost importance. 

And then I went to the bar because Woodchuck and live music make everything better.

So I'm in school because I am one of those people who thought it would be fine to have a dozen different college majors and then drop out and get a job because then I'd have all this money and live on my own, and I didn't really care for any of these subjects anyway, right? Money = better! Money = drinking and fun and your own apartment with kooky neighbors! Consequently, I have a smorgasbord of credits that technically should qualify me for some kind of Bachelor's Degree in Hodge Podge, but doesn't fulfill the requirements of any actual university. And as such, I'm one of the very few people I know without a degree, and this bothers me because it's hard to get taken seriously if you don't have a stupid slip of paper. (Wait-- do I care about this?) So I'm effectively trudging through college one painstaking class at a time for a Spanish degree because me likey speak Spanish. This is the first class I've taken in my Spanish curriculum that I think I actually hate. Which doesn't make any sense because A) I love Spanish and B) I love reading literature, so C should naturally be the love child of A and B which would be a good grade in this class. I will instead be happy to just pass it.

Last night's class was awful. I discovered that I hate talking in it because half the people in there are native speakers and speak really fast, including the professor, and I know I sound clumsy, slow and grammatically incorrect. I get the side eye and oh I know what they're thinking: "Girl can't even tell the difference when to use imperfect subjunctive instead of preterit, how did she get in this class. *snap in Z formation*" So whatever-- I just avoid it. And because it's literature, the discussion questions are things like "analyze the societal norms during which time this epic poem was written and reference the various allegories and metafors displayed in this piece to indicate the author's feelings on the political climate of the day." Which I can handle really well in writing, not so much in speaking on the spot. So of course, last night the professor called me to answer in detail just such a question and I was so flustered and taken by surprise-- even though I had just discussed this with my small group and knew exactly how to answer-- that I FORGOT. THE LANGUAGE. Seriously. How do you forget the fucking language?? I got around a whole entire country with this language and I forgot it in a tiny hot classroom??? And then in the middle of my face flaming red, my armpits drenching my non-breathable satin blend work shirt with that nasty sour sweat you only get when you're really anxious, and my blathering in broken spanglish-- SPANGLISH?!-- the super annoying gay guy next to me turned the pages of my book, laughed loudly and then said really sweetly, "Here, read the poem aloud and it will help you." And then the teacher was like "Yeah, do what he said so you don't suck so much at life." But it DIDN'T help, it embarrassed me MORE and then I blathered MORE, AND THEN I SAID I DIDN'T WANT TO TALK ANYMORE. IN FRONT OF 20 PEOPLE WHO ALL STARED AT ME. I REFUSED TO ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION. I CAN'T STOP YELLING. FML.

Then I tried not to cry in my seat because for crissake, I am almost 30 years old and haven't cried in school since 7th grade when Tramein Garris smashed me into the wall with her ass to see if I would "break" because I was "such a twig."

But at least I didn't get called the rest of the three-hour class. I guess.