I HATEhateHATE the Willowbrook Church story about the grave.  It’s so stupid.  I just want to punch that guy in the face.

I’m a fan of workplace naps.  Is there some petition I can sign for this to become a national craze?  Just let me grab a quick, 15-minute power-nap on my lunch break, and I would be so much more productive for the rest of the day.

Okay, I know I’ve been boring lately.  I can’t help it.  You’ve READ how incredibly busy I am and how much I suck at being busy lately, so it’s all I can do to stand upright most days.  But because I know you’re tired of living in a drought of Sarah’s bitchiness, I give you this:

Bryan and I stopped at Sonic before rehearsal/lobby shots on Tuesday night.  We hoped it would be a quick stop, since we had been asked to arrive early.  However, as the Bob Wallace Sonic is always prone to be, it was a L-O-O-O-N-G stop.

We even ordered easy food.

However, after about a fifteen minute wait (FOR A BURGER), the carhop comes over.  I’m in the driver’s seat; I smile happily and dismiss the fact that our wait was unacceptable, because our food is within my reach.  If need be, I could knock her over and steal away with our tot goodness.

We exchange money, and she hands me my change, and then the food is transfered over.  I toss the bag at Bryan, who is in the bitch seat and therefore the keeper of all things I don’t want to do.  She gathers up the mints on her tray (which I hate and never eat and I don’t know why they give them out), and palms two ketchup packets.

TWO.

Then she says, “Do you guys need any ketchup?”

I, myself, abhor the stuff.  But Bryan and Delle (the two people who I have lived with since I was a baby) prefer to drench their food in ketchup, as if the taste of tomato is superior to anything else they could’ve ordered on the entire menu of Sonic.  So I know the answer is always, “Yes, please.  We need a bunch of ketchup.”

She starts to stretch her hand out, the hand that contains the privilaged ketchup packages, when she pulls it back from my waiting palm and says, “You know, I think I put some in the bag.  Why don’t you check?”  And she STEPS BACK FROM THE CAR.

Bryan just sat there, blinking.  “You taped it closed,” he said.  And I think she may have been tapping her foot impatiently at this point, but my window didn’t allow me that visability.  Begrudgingly, Bryan opens the bag and says, “Yep, there’s a packet or two in here.”

And she STARTED TO WALK AWAY.

“We could use more,” I say, smiling even broader now.  And she reluctantly hands over the ketchup.

WHAT IS UP WITH THAT?!  Is there a shortage of ketchup?  Are the high gas prices driving up the price on packaging ketchup?  Does Sonic, perhaps, at the end of the day count up all of the packets of ketchup, and the ones that have been given out are docked from the carhop’s paychecks?!  Is ketchup the new crack, where the first one is free, but we have to pay after that?!

Bryan and I totally would’ve bitched about this to eachtoher in the car, but before he could get a word in edgewise, I was up to my eyeballs in a breakfast burrito.  It HAD been a long wait, after all.