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This journal is for my friends only. If you would like to be my friend, drop a comment and we'll talk. Thanks.

Hey - it's Mr. Rowe

This guy was my science teacher in high school.   His daughter was born the same morning of the attacks... you can read it here.


Huh... guess they made the Ann Arbor news.



I'm going to the Family Values Tour!!!  BWAAA!!!

*head asplodes*

Ganked from Theaterdivachu.

Your ABC's!

A is for age: 21

B is for beer of choice: Bell's Oberon

C is for career right now: student... with cashiering on the side

D is for your dog's name: Mr. Stoshu

E is for essential item you need everyday: a car

F is for favorite tv show at the moment: Law & Order SVU

G is for favorite game: Scrabble

H is for Home town: Manchester

I is for instruments you play: Used to play French Horn and piano... now I don't play anything at all.

J is for favorite juice: grape

K is for whose ass you'd like to kick: this douchbag at my work

L is for last place you ate: home!

M is for marriage:  Fuck that.  It's just a social institution.

N is for your favorite number: 9.

O is for overnight hospital stays: Not a single one.

P is for phobias:   *takes deep breath*  Here goes... thunderstorms, flying, heights, electricity, loud noises, biscuit cans (don't ask) and popping balloons
Q is for quote:  "That teacher was a total MILF!"  (Brian - commenting on one of the teachers while he was working on the middle school in Ann Arbor)

R is for Biggest Regret: That I didn't stay broken up with Phil the first time.

S is for status: poor college gal

T is for time you wake up: Depends on work

V is for vegetable you love: Everything but peas, onions and olives

W is for worst habit: I smoke on occassion - even though I know I shouldn't.

X is for x-rays you've had: teeth and ankle

Y is for yummy food you ate today: a bowl of soup

Z is for zodiac sign: peices

Not again.

I HATE HATE HATE HATE express lanes.  I hate running them with a passion.  I avoid them at all costs. 

Except when the boss tells me that we're super busy and we need an express and I have to go and do it because I'm one of the fucking senior cashiers.  *takes breath*

Our express lane is ten items or less.  I don't really mind if you have a dozen... maybe even fifteen.  But not when you have 40 - because then I get yelled at.  A lot.  By my bosses.

Old lady shuffles up... with probably $100 in groceries.  She starts to put them on my belt.

Me:  Ma'am!  Ma'am! 
No response.  She starts to put another item on my belt.
Me:  HEY LADY!!!!!
Old Lady:  *blinks and looks up*  What?
Me:  Ma'am - this is the EXPRESS lane *points obviously to big ass sign* it's ten items or less. 
Old Lady:  Oh.
Continues to put items on belt.
Me:  Ma'am - you're going to have to move to another lane.  I can't help you here. 
I begin to notice a line snaking from my lane and people with small purchases looking peeved.
Old Lady:  Why?  I was here first.
Puts something else on my belt.  *AEEEEEEEEEEE*
I walked over to the other side and grabbed her half dozen items she put on there.  Then I grabbed her cart, wheeled it over to another lane and said "Ma'am - if you come over here this woman will help you check out eventually."
Old Lady:  (still standing stock still in my lane)  But I was here!
Me:  Ma'am - I can't help you here.  Your cart is right there.  You have to go through another lane.  You had too many items.  I'm going to help this gentleman behind you.  Sorry.
Old Lady:  I want a manager!
Luckily he was standing nearby and when I let him know he said "Ma'am - she can help you right here." And he pointed to the spot where I put her.  Thewhole thime this was happeneing the  lines are building.
So the manager forced her to go to the other lane.


So my Mercury has been taking shits for the past couple of weeks (battery, radiator, computer, timing chain, water pump) and it's been sitting at my mom and dad's house while its been getting worked on.

I've been having to drive my old piece of shit - my old super nasty Buick.  Well, today I was coming back from the grocery store in Manchester on a quick milk run, when I suddenly had NO BRAKES.  It made this HORRIBLE crunch noise and the *low traction!* light came on.  I pretty much coasted through a stop sign on the side streets of Manchester.  Man... I'm glad Manchester's traffic level there is nil.  I would've caused an accident if this had happened in Saline.  So I'm freaking out, wondering what I should so while I'm *almost* home and coasting.  Who saw this happen?  None other than the local Manchester fucking piggy.  So the cop does a quick 180 and follows me because I'm driving erratically and I coasted through that stop.  So I get to the house and coast into the driveway, where the same thing happens again and I use the parking brake to make sure I don't smash into the garage door (Brian would be happy with that...). 

The piggy races down Schaffer Ct... and stops a few houses down and just watches me.  So I get out and open the hood of my car going "What the fuck?  Is there no brake fluid or something??"

I thought the piggy was going to come up and give me a ticket or something... or at least "pull me over" in a sense while I was sitting in my driveway.  I was so pissed.  He eventually drove off (albeit sloooooooooooooowly) and I called up my dad to tell him about this.


He'll stop by the house after work and take a look at the car.  And then I think I'll drive my still-broken Mercury, but that's only because it's less broken than the Buick.  I value brakes over dealing with an annoying clunk noise from the timing chain.

I went to the market...

I went to the grocery store to go and get some milk... and I found Mrs. Crawford's purse in the parking lot.

She gave me a hug and offered reward money - and then looked at me and asked, "Didn't you used to have blonde hair?"

I declined the reward, by the way.  I couldn't take money from her for getting her purse back.  The reward money itself felt like stealing.


Due to this HILARIOUS blog I've decided that I need to start writing about my quirky customers in here. I won't name real names, and I won't mention my work name - just to keep things, erm, careful in case someone higher up in work gets a hold of this. Plus, as a bonus, I'll make it public.

It'll be interesting.

There's a wide cast of characters - ranging from Cowboy Dave to the Stoned Duo to the Saline Hooker. There are my subjects. Bwuhahahaha.

I've come slowly to the realization that I've been working at the grocery store for close to a year now. It'll be a year at the end of the summer. And I'm surprised by how much it'll take me to get miffed at the public. I just learn to mostly tune out and go into my own little world. There are some people, however, that break me out of this reverie and stare.

One of the main creeps is Cowboy Dave. He probably has four teeth in his head, and his breath smells like rotting garbage on a hot summer's day. With whiskers that Col. Sanders would envy, he sports his gaudy trademark - a suede lavender cowboy hat. He used to come in every single afternoon, sometimes twice in one day, and as far as I know he's only bought three things - bananas, peanut butter and men's fitness magazines. Seeing as he has an enormous gut, I doubt that the fitness magazines are for, erm, fitness.

And while I realize that he most likely bats for the other team, he still exudes a level of creepiness that gets on my nerves. One evening, while stocking the feminine hygiene aisle (I do it when my one male boss works - I think he gets grossed out from adult diapers or something and doesn't have his usual guys stock that aisle) Cowboy Dave was prowling around and looking at the enemas. Finally he came up to me, and in a voice that mocks the creepy old man from Family Guy asked, "Where do ya keep your peanut butter? I just can't seem to find it tonight."

I looked up, only to shudder, and responded, "I know you've gotten it before. It's two aisles down, on your left-hand side. It's on the end - you can't miss it." I turned to go back to what I was doing, when he spoke again.

"I dunno if I can find it on my own. I think you need to help me locate summa that peanut butter."

And with a fearful look to one of my approaching co-workers, I led Cowboy Dave to right where I told him the peanut butter was. He was all smiles, "I just knew you could find it for me! I was havin' one heck of a time finding it. And I know I need my peanut butter." While he was going on a tirade about how important peanut butter was to him, I backed away and took a jogging sprint to the safety of an employee only backroom.

Only when I was sure that the coast was clear did I creep out, and saw him checking out of the lone cashier's exit. She had a greenish color to her face, and I couldn't help but grin when I walked up to her. "Do you know what Cowboy Dave just said to me?" she asked.

I knew that my grin was growing wider, and I responded, "Well, from what happened with me earlier, I'm guessing it had to do with peanut butter."

She shuddered and her eyes grew wide. "Yeah. He told me that he had to have some nice girl help him find his peanut butter - and that I shouldn't ask what he'd be doing with it tonight... He wasn't going to be the one 'eating that mighty fine peanut butter.'"

At that point we both did the icky dance.

I haven't seen him in a while... thank goodness.

Potential risk beyond control.


I just ordered tickets to go see CKY at Headliners in Toledo. I'm so excited! They were only fifteen bucks.

Man, I can't believe that I was with Phil... but at least I got a few good things outta it - like his CKY cd. ;)

I can't wait! June 19th, here I come!

Boom shacka lacka.

HAPPY 21ST TO MEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!