two dolla

still not cookin’

I always have good intentions of cooking my own food. I can whip up something for a pot luck or fry some eggs for breakfast, but I have these glorious delusions of grandeur that I’ll put together a nice little meal for myself and maybe one day actually eat at my dining room table.

Sure, sure, the internet is full of free recipes, but sometimes those recipes are about forty-five million steps above my head. I mean, I don’t know how to do a whole heck of a lot in the kitchen, and often find myself full of pride if I can make some Chef Boyardee without burning it to the bottom of the pan.

One day, even if I have to write/build the damn thing myself, there’s going to be a website or a book geared directly towards single folk that are somewhat frightened of kitchen appliances. I just need a good name for it.

a satisfied customer for now

Last month, while at the beauty parlor, my dog was injured in the form of a two inch gash on his thigh/knee. I had major hesitations in taking him back to the same grooming salon, which is not-so-conveniently located in the dumbest, more shitty store in the world – Petsmart. The main reason I did want to take him back? Every other time he’s been bathed and groomed there, it’s been wonderful. They all love him and he always smells great and looks great when I pick him up. Most of all? He really loves going.

I called this morning to talk to them, explain what happened last time, and see how I felt after that conversation. And really, his mouth smells like he may have eaten something dead and some shit, only I know he didn’t, so clearly it’s time for that breath-freshening spray they give him. I felt so-so after I talked to them, but made an appointment for 11 a.m. anyway.

When I got there, the manager was ready to greet me at the door, and that’s when I realized that my favorite groomer of all time also happens to be the manager. Long story short, she apologized profusely. I reassured her that I wasn’t mad, just concerned, and that I trusted anyone else there with Riley, with the exception of the girl who took care of him last time. And the result? His grooming today is free. I’m going to once again insist that I pay for it when I pick him up, because I don’t feel right having them do it for free. The manager thanked me for bringing him back and I could still here everyone making baby-noises to him when I left, so I do feel a lot better about taking him there. As long as he’s not wounded when I pick him up.

I still need to formulate my strongly worded letter to Petsmart explaining that while their store is a giant turd and their employees are as friendly as a pack of rabid wolves, I still go back there because of the phenomenal service at the grooming salon (aside from last time) and the fact that Riley loves his vet so much, he forgets I’m even in the room. Because, dammit, I hate patronizing a turd of a store like that.

And who know I could get this much satisfaction out of using the word turd? Am I 12? Yes.