Overthunk

"How many do you have?" the my-age, appropriately "thick" Avenue salesclerk inquired as I strode toward the precious dressing room, bundle of possible vestments held close to my bosom. Sure, it was late and the store was quiet and they were doing their closing activities, but they didn't actually close for an hour. "Six," I replied. "The limit is four," she said. ("Hmph. Industry standard is six. Y'all can't count higher than that?" I thought to myself.) I tried to just put 2 on the back of the door so I could swap them and not go looking for her again. She seized them away and put them on an unrelated rack an inconvenient distance away. I finished the trying ons, the selectings and rejectings, and had to go hunt her down again to find where the other two garments were. She was none too eager or swift to assist me. In the passing between however, a bait and switch occurred. She gave me the two shirts I still needed to try on...

When at Starbucks, I have a moral, jingoistic, and/or Texan instinctual thing going in which I refuse to order in Italian, as posted on and imposed by their menu. I also don't order a latte, or half-caff anything. I just say "a large coffee with cream and Equal." The other day when I did this, I actually had to explain what I meant by large: Baristo: "You mean venti?" Me: "Uhmm, yes. ::thinking to self:: " We're still speaking English. You are officially brainwashed, you clueless cog in the international corporate machine, you." -------------------------- Being part of a huge, lumbering, mammoth, inefficient school district, I occasionally have to attend trainings which seem virtually pointless. I had to do this recently. While there, someone corrected my drawing of a multiplication array. I drew this: 3 X 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Her contention was that I should've drawn this: 3 X 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . My assertion is tha...