Greg was fairly pissed at me when I showed up to work Monday night. He wanted to know why I was only clocked in for ten minutes on Saturday. He read me half the riot act — yes, he was very appreciative that I’d agreed to cut short my own plans to come in and help out on an understaffed night, but I had a responsibility to stay and do my agreed upon part and — “What?”

“What?” See, that’s what he said when he allowed me a word in edgewise. You’ll recall that on Saturday, Steve sent me home because I gave a customer a special we no longer had. At least, Steve said we no longer had it, because when I told this to Greg he sputtered, “We’ve still got that special! We’ve got it until we’re not advertising it anymore!”

In other words: I showed up for a shift I didn’t have to work, and was sent home because the store manager doesn’t like a certain special, didn’t bother to communicate properly with me, and is a prick. Good news: I still got brownie points with Greg, so hah!

Greg shifted into super detective mode and Zebulon confirmed that Steve had instructed people not to accept the special without a coupon. Wow. Let me tell ya’, ain’t no one has anything on Greg when he’s in a pissed off mood, and he was pretty hot last night.

(I’m just wondering what Steve’s reaction was when he came in this morning and found every box fliered with an ad for the special in question).

My whole afternoon and evening has been taken up with cleaning and my new Battlestar Galactica DVDs. I also made mac & cheese (the Kraft kind, y’know, in a box — first time in probably four years I made mac & cheese). I don’t cook much — I used to, in my studio, I experimented — I could make a fairly mean bowl of chili, although that was about the upper limitations of my cooking expertise. It’s something I’d like to learn how to do — cook, I mean. I get tired of microwaving everything.

Cooking in my apartment, however, presents its own unique challenge — the frakkin’ fire detector, which is located right outside the kitchen. You so much as try to cook french fries, the effin’ thing goes off, even with that vent-thingy-on the oven set to “full.” The moral of the story being, a) you can’t cook without unplugging the fire detector, b) I never cook because I’m too lazy to drag a chair over to be constantly plugging and unplugging that stupid thing in.

In other news, the fire department called today and asked if I had a fire extinguisher in my kitchen. Right after the rude cop (not his fault, I wouldn’t believe me if I was him either). I don’t. Maybe I’ll get one tomorrow.

Y’know. In case I decided to cook more often.

Where can you buy fire extinguishers from, anyway?

The strange voice on the other end of the phone said, “This is Officer So-and-So from Hillendale Station. Is Mrs. Rogers there?”

“Um. No one here by that name,” I replied.

“Yeah, right,” he snorted and hung up.

Huh.