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I am getting really tired of crappy service. I recently sat down with pen in hand and wrote out a spate of complaint letters...something I rarely, if ever, do.

If you don't enjoy reading someone spewing vitriol for no other reason then to rant, don't read. Cause it's comin'. Oh Lawdy, it's a comin'.

Grosser! It was very chocolatey. Out-of-control chocolatey.

"Did you make this with chocolate ice cream?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, all defensive but not looking me in the eye.

"Don't chocolate malts normally get made with vanilla ice cream? And then the chocolate syrup stuff makes it chocolate?"

"They're made both ways." This was said in a tone that suggested I was wearing my underwear outside of my pants.

"Well, I didn't realize you were going to make it THIS way because you didn't ask. I need a chocolate malt made with vanilla ice cream, please."

He stomped back over to the back counter and while he whipped up another malt (made the "other" way), he whispered in a low, angry voice to the girl in the butt-shorts who was working with him. When he was done, he handed the malt to the girl, grunted something, and stood with his back to the counter while she shoved it at me.

"Here."

God bless you! Each and every one!

"I'd like a number [whatever] with an iced tea."

"Would you care to biggie-size that?" said a harried-sounding woman.

"Sure."

"OK, that'll be [whatever], just pull around."

I pulled around, paid a happy counter boy, and was handed...a tiny little iced tea.

"I wanted this biggie-sized," I told counter boy.

"Oh!" he exclaimed cheerfully. "We must have misunderstood. Well, since you've paid and all, I guess we'll give it to you for free!"

He turned to pour me another drink, and while he worked I saw Manager Babe give him a thorough tongue-lashing. When he returned to hand me my stuff I said, "I can pay for it. I don't mind." Before he could answer, Manager Babe pushed her way to the window and said,

"I ASKED you if you wanted it biggie-sized. You said no."

"Actually, I said 'sure'. But since you didn't hear me, please take my dollar." She walked away without even answering me.

Listen babe, I said to myself as I was driving away, for I am the wimpiest of the wimps, what was the point of coming over to tell me what I had said? Obviously there was a mix-up, but counter boy and I had it all resolved, why do you need to stick your big nose into it? To make me feel stupid? Well guess what? I don't! I felt justified as I finished my rant with no one listening but Steve Dahl on the radio.

I told you I'm a wimp.

I know, I know...my wedding was two years ago...but I didn't have this public forum then. (Actually, I did, but I was still a scared little bunny and only wanted to write you the happy stories of my life.)

So, this place is fancy-pants. I didn't belong amongst its patrons with their Prada shoes and their Kate Spade purses and their Betsey Johnson frocks, but I managed to get a good deal on a dress, so it became a place I had to visit quite often to get my alterations done. And really, everyone was very nice, and I remembered to wear a lot of black each time I went, and I was happy with my dress when it was done.

I took the dress home with me three days before my wedding and promptly dropped it off at the dry cleaners to be pressed. My friend's mom was going to pick it up the day of the wedding and deliver it to the country club for me to change into there.

The morning of my wedding, the dry cleaner tried calling my house to alert me to some bad news. I wasn't home, of course, I was at my parents' house getting ready for my wedding. Too bad, because this was some bad news, indeed...it seems that the alterations folks at my fancy-pants bridal salon DIDN'T FINISH SEWING UP MY DRESS. They left pins allllll along the bottom of the dress, and no one at the dry cleaners was skilled enough to finish it for me.

Because I live in a small town, the person at the dry cleaners was able to deduce who my bridesmaids were, and called around until she found one of them. Sue ran over and picked up my dress, then brought it to the lady who did the alterations for her wedding dress, then brought it to my friend's mom...and didn't tell me until after the wedding, which was a Good Thing.

But I was pissed at this froo-froo joint taking my $250 and leaving me to flap in the wind with my unfinished alterations. So I wrote them a letter explaining that because of all the stress their error had caused, I wanted a refund on the money I paid them to do the alterations. A few months passed and I didn't hear from them, so I sent another letter. A few months passed and I called them up. That week I received a check for approximately 1/3 of the money I had given them for alterations. "Because your dress was hemmed outside of our salon [as if I'd had a choice], we are reimbursing you for that cost," they wrote oh-so-generously. "We hope you will recommend Ultimate Bride in the future."

Hey. Don't go to Ultimate Bride.

• Darvocet, the pain killer that chased my gallbladder attack away
• The movie Airplane
• My groovy new doctor who listened to me and took immediate action to solve my problem
• Barnelli's, the best pasta in the world
• My mom, discussing her own gallbladder issues: "I'm just waiting for the eruption," said in a very calm, matter-of-fact way
• Five of my favoritest friends:

  I like happy lists much better than crabby lists. I'll remember that for next time.

  I'm having my gallbladder removed next Monday. Anyone ever had that done? Let me know what I can look forward to. Thanks!
  

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  Wanna be notified when I update? Send mail to amy@parsley.org and thou shalt receive!