I had to go for bloodwork this morning, which involves a 50 mile trip to the VA. With no coffee. I cannot stand getting blood drawn. It's the look the tech gives me when she tourniquets me up, thumps my veins, rubs the inside of my elbow, thumps, and frowns. "I'm sorry, I forgot to drink a lot of water last night," I apologize. Stick one-got a vial, but she's wiggled the needle and the flow stopped. She rubs my arm. Checks my wrist. Goes for my other arm. Sticks. Zilch.
"Hey Anthony!" she yells. "Ya busy?" Anthony toddles over. Checks my wrist-the main vein, then the ancillary one on the side. Goes for my "I ain't EVER gonna commit suicide by slitting HERE" wrist, and coaxes some blood out. I spring a leak. Barely. I don't donate well, either. Three sticks and I am taking a cookie, whether they get any blood or not.
Since I have to drive forever to get to my blood taken, I shop on the way home. I stop by Dillards and visit the boobologist, and buy a new bra. Then I stop at the bookstore on the way home. I beat feet to the magazine section, and see this:
I am not sure if that's funny or sad, but I'd like to talk to the guy that does the merchandise plan. He's a smartass. (The photo was taken with my phone. And sent at home! Yay!)
I was really happy to see this on the shelf. I've become a much better cook recently. Tonight we had chicken with buttered lime and caper sauce, and it was REALLY good. And freakin' easy.