Friday, 3 p.m.: I go in to get some ice for my afternoon soda, and the machine is empty ... cleaning light still blinking. I was forced to drink my Diet Pepsi from the can. (For most people, this seems to be not a big deal. I also used to think it wasn't a big deal, but as I get older, I AM turning into my mom and my grandma, and I NEED the ice. Especially when I have a nice styrofoam cup waiting.)
Monday, 10 a.m.: I check the machine. Still no ice. My boss, who relies on the ice more heavily than I, expresses his annoyance and tells me that the machine is broken and someone has been called in to fix it. He went and bought himself a glass of ice, I was fortunately going out for lunch and could deal.
Tuesday, 10 a.m.: I ask my boss if the machine is working. (Yes, first thing when I arrived.) He tells me quietly that he decided to press the off button and turn it back on again. When he did this, the cleaning light stopped blinking and it filled with water. Perhaps it wasn't broken after all. We laughed.
Tuesday, 11 a.m.: My boss sadly tells me that the cleaning light is blinking again, and the machine made one, single cube of ice. I decide that I must go out for lunch again even though I had brought something from home to eat. I MIGHT be able to deal with drinking out of a can in the middle of the afternoon, but I will NOT drink from a can at meal time.
Today, 11:55 a.m.: I go to put my pizza in the toaster oven. (I was desperate enough to bring ice with me from home today.) On the door of the ice maker, there is a sign posted that says, "PLEASE FIX!" in large, blue marker. I go to ask my boss if he put that up. He says no, but we are happy we are not the only ones missing the ice.
Today, 12:02 p.m.: I go to get my pizza out of the oven. In seven minutes' time, the sign has changed. Now in green marker, the original request has been marked out, and in the corner it says, "CHILL OUT." I discuss this with my co-workers. We aren't surprised when I realize that the only other person in the kitchen with me the first time was an office undesirable we have named "the butter thief." Of course he would do something like that.
Today, 1:14 p.m.: An e-mail comes in from an office clerk.
Subject: Ice machine!!!
Good day all,
Due to a lengthy wait for cleaning solution to be delivered, the ice machine will be down for another day or so. Please do not leave any notes pertaining to the fixing of the ice machine, the problem is being worked out. If it helps any you can make ice the old fashioned way by filling up a ice tray and placing it the freezer located in the kitchen.
Sorry for the inconvenience, and thanks for your patience with this matter.
Anyway, I've had a few conversations in the last couple of days where the person doesn't understand why this ice situation is such a big problem, which is why I felt the need to write this blog to share the e-mail. Others are obviously finding this to be an issue, too. I also got enjoyment from the tone of David's e-mail. Don't judge. You just don't realize how much you love the ice until it is taken away from you.
Addison Montgomery should have learned a thing or two from Meredith about what it's like to have things stolen, but if she did, those lessons didn't transfer over to Kate Walsh ... who I saw in the Express this morning has stolen my haircut! Sorry Kate, I had you by a month. :)
No hairpieces here ... I have the bangs for real. I still like them (and Kate Walsh's for that matter, though hers are pretty thick), but I'm definitely not looking forward to growing out process when that time comes. If only we all could have stylists changing our look up for us on a whim.
NOTE: After watching tonight's episode of "Grey's Anatomy," it is ALL I can do to not rewrite my headline ... and the whole premise of this blog ... because that horrible wretch does not deserve her name anywhere near my blog. WHAT A DUMB BITCH! But I won't ... I'll leave it true to what it was.
5.17.07 - 10:17 p.m.
(NOTE: It's been nearly eight years now. Thanks to Shel for helping fill in some of the fuzzy parts here.)
We set off for Indy that Saturday for a simple shopping trip, as we had done many times before. During the hour-long trip, shopping started to seem boring apparently. Shel says I nonchalantly suggested tattoos, and when she agreed, the look on my face revealed complete surprise. This is probably quite true. I don't remember what made me bring it up, but it did sound more interesting than shopping.
So, in a matter of minutes, our destination switched from Castleton Mall to Skinquake on Keystone Avenue. (I already knew of the place from getting my nose pierced there, and despite the area, the shop was pretty nice.) I do remember thinking we'd change our minds and end up at the mall after being at the shop for about 15 minutes though.
Pause for the bubble sidebar
The day of the trip wasn't planned at all, but the scrubbing bubble idea came up about a year prior. I wanted a tattoo, but only in a location where I would be deciding if people got to see it. I wanted no part of it showing when I was in a business suit or dressed up in a nice strapless dress. That left few places.
Then I needed to come up with something "butt appropriate." Anything cliché and girlie was out. No butterflies. No dolphins. No flowers. No hearts. Etc. I wanted something few people would consider. The scrubbing bubble had started kind of as a joke in the beginning ... that I could get a tattoo of one of those, and it would "keep my ass squeaky clean." It was discussed over jello shots and Jimmy John's in the apartment the Robs once shared, I'm sure. The more it was talked about, the more it seemed that HAD to be it. Who else other than Ang would get such a thing? No one. And that is just how it should be.
And return to the tattoo shop
Shel found a design she liked ... a nice sun, and now it was my turn to decide. She says I "took forever deciding," despite the fact I had the idea already. I say that is completely acceptable considering I was thinking of putting an advertising icon on my butt. Well, I finally decided to do it, and the tattoo artist needed reference from which to draw.
Here begins my most ridiculous Target excursion ever. We walked across the street to the Target that was there at the time (not sure if it still exists) to buy a cleaning product. While we were there, I determine I don't want to buy a bottle of cleaning spray for this purpose (we were "poor college students" and all, but I can't give a good reason as to why I didn't want to shell out $3 for household cleaner that I could, at some time, use at my apartment). Shel suggests we just tear the label off and be on our way, which we did ... being overly careful to shield from other shoppers that we were going to steal a Dow label from Target. Sheesh. Don't judge me, people. :)
Anyway, three to four hours later, my right cheek had a happy little scrubbing bubble on it. Shel had her sun. I let the artist take a picture of the tattoo for the album. And off we went for dinner at Don Pablos ... I wishing that I had worn looser jeans. We never made it to the mall.
Who knows if the shop discards photos from their albums after awhile, but it was once documented for all to see. All of you Indy people, feel free to take a side trip to