I am so happy at this moment. Why? Because my glorious team is going to the Super Bowl!! Yes ladies, but mostly gentlemen, I am a die hard Packers fan. (My boyfriend can attest...) When I visited Wisconsin a few years ago, I made my dad stop and buy me a Brett Favre jersey, which is a size L and practically a dress on me. It, in addition to my Packers belt buckle (which my bro' gave to me.) are my favourite things to wear during football season. What makes this even better is that my dad is a Chicago Bears fan. You read that right. My father is a Bears fan, as are my older brother and my little sister, and I, the proud rebel, am a Packers fan. I'm not usually allowed to watch games with my dad when we play each other. I was lucky that today was such a big game.
Speaking of the game, I'll give my little highlights.
Opening drive: Hell yea, Pack score. Rodgers, as usual, passes like a champ, Sparks on the ground can't be stopped, and Aaron has feet faster than office workers on Friday.
The Field: I make endless comments on how crappy Soldier Field is. I mean really, it's shit. When Urlacher "supposedly" slipped on a tackle, I turned to my dad and said "wanna know why he slipped?" Dad just rolled his eyes. (I say supposedly because Aikman said he slipped, but on replay he clearly hadn't - it was just a fantastic deke!)
Bears D: What the hell happened? There is NO WAY we should have been able to walk all over them like that...
QBs: Oh Cutler... You spend more time on the ground than above it. Apparently he injured his knee early, which is why he didn't play the second half. Lord only knows why the Bears wanted Collins as their 2nd string - he was terrible!! Heinie (sp?) was the only Bears QB who did anything all game. And because he was inactive as the 3rd stringer, neither Cutler or Collins could have come back into the game.
All in all, it was a good game. Not too close to be a nail biter, but not so far that I got bored. my dad's even agreed to take me to the bar for the Bowl, and commented that he'd wear my Favre jersey. I told him the only way he was wearing this jersey was if he bought me an Aaron Rodgers. Which I really really want, but don't have the money for.
Also, for those of you that don't know or didn't get it, the Super Bowl trophy is called the Vince Lombardi trophy. Lombardi was a Packer coach in the 1960s - he was so good that they named the Super Bowl trophy after him. Not bad eh?
-
In other news, I've been reading a blog, Hooters According to Sauce. She's an employee of a Hooters in Montana, and I think it's pretty cool! I applaud women who feel confident enough in themselves to wear those shorts and tank tops and deal with creepers all day. I personally don't have that confidence - it's slowly building, but I'm not there yet. I also realized that I've never been to a Hooters, probably because my mom was a bit of a feminist. She always insisted that I pay for at least half the date, don't let a man control me, etc. I took a lot of those values she had, but I am a rebel. I would like to go to Hooters sometime (boyfriend, do not read that as an acceptable V-Day dinner) just to get the experience. I'm also bisexual, which means I do like to appreciate girls with my boys. (For all those against homosexuality and such, I'm sorry. It's just who I am, and if you don't like it, you are more than welcome to stop reading. Please no nasty comments.) I went to Virgin Music Festival with my ex one year (we were exes at the time, but we're still on good terms.) and we spent half the day girl watching. Of course, I wouldn't do anything callous at Hooters. I understand that the girls working there are doing just that - working. I very easily could have ended up in a similar situation as them, I'm just lucky that my tech program fell into my lap. (That's a story for another post.) Still, eventually I would like to go there. Part of me would even like to visit Sauce's Hooters, just for fun. Not for stalking. I'm not creepy. I think...
-
Work was one of those days that you just get completely run off your feet and you just want to drop dead when you get home. I live really close, so I'm usually able to take a half hour to go home and each lunch, but not yesterday. My PM was working with me, and he's a really nice guy, although he kind of hates Saturdays too. it seemed like everyone who rented anything in the last couple weeks decided they needed to return it. It's a bit of a hassle, but we provide a service that many people greatly appreciate.
One return in particular stands out to me. Not that it was a strange request or anything, but the cashier (who has worked at the store for at least 6 months, and knows how to do this) just had no flipping clue what was going on. And she was fucking training someone!! The way rentals work at my store are that you pay a deposit (because otherwise how do we know you'll bring it back?) then when you return it, we take the rental fee out of the deposit, and refund you the rest of the deposit. Fairly simple, right? I don't know what was up with Old Skinny Chick (new nickname) but she kept trying to charge him the deposit, then refund the charge. I had half a mind to walk behind the counter and do it for her because I've seen it so many damn times. Finally she gets it right, he leaves we move on. Until about 20 minutes later when she comes back and shows me the receipt, saying "We refunded a guy on a rental made in March??" Whoa whoa whoa. I KNOW it wasn't March, it was November. What had appeared on the receipt was the original date of rental and the cashier who was signed in: MAR 11/28/2010. What part of that looks like it was March? Yes MAR, but she's worked here long enough to know that our system prints numerical dates. Here she is, about to get me in trouble in front of my PM when I call her out on her utter stupidity. Normally I really like OSC, but I was MAD. I can do my job, she's the one not able to do hers.
I also watched Mr and Mrs Smith last night. It was awesome. And I played Peter Frampton's "Do You Feel Like We Do?" on Guitar Hero and nearly cried I was so happy.
No comments:
Post a Comment