The current 'medium' is the old 'biggie'

Today's been a bit of a mixed bag.

My lovely lady entangled putty in her hair and encrusted it on her pajamas, as well. The nightgown is in the trash along with a chunk of her hair. Unfortunately, the blanket and couch cushion with sticky hot pink goop aren’t quite as easily dealt with….

The bridge that never goes up for tall passing boats actually went up today, stopping traffic for a countless amount of time (lost track).

Wendy's changed how they identify their food. SO when I went to order my burger meal, I was asked a new question: medium size? Er...yeah, that sounds about right. Well, it turns out the current "medium" is the old "biggie". My sizes were all screwed up and I got an absurd amount of food. Then I found that they had given me a diet coke (a.) I don't imbibe or eat ANYTHING diet, and b.) I'd rather use coke to take the paint off my Landlady's BMW than put it in my stomach.) SO, right, I returned the drink and gently mentioned that I had been confused about the sizes due to the name change, so please give me a smaller cup, while you're getting me a new drink. The super nice Spanish/Mexican(?) lady brought out an ice cream for Noel minutes later. That made me beam. Well. Until I pondered the last time I had that happen. I went into a store and left with a ridiculous amount of complementary gifts after making a small donation to poor mothers (it was just about Mother's Day). I felt super happy that day, until I learned that the culmination of the previous 8 months, including flying myself out to meet people, landed me a job offer earning about half my current salary in an unscrupulous pharma-related company. Happy was efficiently usurped by forlorn. So I braced for more bad and moved on….

Currently, the estate agent trying to rent my apartment can’t leave me be, neither can the Landlady. Neither has a f*cking clue, and they both have made such a rigmarole out of procuring door keys, due to several blunders drawn out over the past 5 days. They keep trying to evoke sympathy out of me by discussing how many children she has (5), as well as how many houses she owns. Great….so she’s rich and propagating all of her stupid genes? Keep talking that’s helping a lot. Estate Agent: “You would die if you saw where she [the Landlady] lives.” Get the f@ck out of my house. Please.