"Everyone was just signing Pam's shirt, so I hauled up my shirt and was like, "sign me!""

Windows Photo Printing Wizard is the bane of my existence. I just want to print some clip art, for the library. Simple, no? Print, and it prints it in actual size.

NO!

Instead, I can only print images through PPW, and it insists on autocropping and sizing the images, so most of them are unusable. Please excuse me while I beat the computer into small shreds of cheap plastic and silicon.

Okay, just had to get that one out. I am taking a break from library work to write this, because I can't take any more of trying to format the blessed clip art so that it will print.

AHAHAHAHHA! I HAVE TRIUMPHED! I opened the pictures with Explorer, and printed from that screen. *dances madly*

I just, would prefer to not have to go into pitched battle with my computer every time I sit down to use it. You know? I'm probably having a harder time than needful since I'm on a public (read- crippled) computer, I'm tired, and I'm not used to Windows, so I don't know the tricks. Still...

Anyhow, this weekend was the Public High School Graduation. Three people from McDonald's graduated, and I've been reminded once again how different that lifestyle is. The title was Kayla's explanation as to why she has permanent marker all over her abdomen. Hmmmmm. Craig, (also a grad) who came to work despite being "sick," (headache, nauseous, pale, heavy drinking the night before) accused her of still being drunk, but she said she was just hung over. Jonathan, who is the other grad, hasn't checked in to work yet. Might I point out that all of these people are still underage? The quality of parties around here doesn't surprise me anymore, but it still seems rather strange. I guess getting drunk just doesn't hold that much appeal for me. :D

I mean, I have enough trouble keeping my temper under wraps normally, I don't want to forfeit what little control I have. I'm honestly a little scared of what I might do. Anyhow! Thankfully I haven't had to deal with any really nasty people at work yet. I've heard stories of nasty people just before I came on, or after I left, but I haven't had to deal with them personally, which is good. I think I'd get mad right back at them, or dig my fingernails into my arm in an attempt to not get mad at them, since telling the customers what you think of their intelligence, reading and counting skills is not a good idea. And I get either violent or really articulate when I'm mad, so, not a good idea to get mad.

Indeed, the closest I came to that reaction was when one of the popular highschool seniors came in with a complaint the other day. The kind of boy ,~sorry~, man, common around here, who has a carefully unshaven moustache and a trucker's hat permanently attached to the back of his head. They drive around in ford mustangs and cars of that ilk, which they did not pay for. They are too cool to study, think math is for chumps and English is a waste of time, (which is obvious in their communication skills) and they are going to go on to Fort Mac when they graduate. As a group, they've been partying hard since about age 14, and they, to a man, seem to think that they are God's gift to women. They seem to have a different girl in the front seat of their cars every time they come through the drive-thru. About five ten, dirty blond hair, and jeans. I mean, seriously, it's like a group of clones was introduced into the hospital 18 years ago, and no one noticed.

ANYHOW; one of this group came through the drive-thru, according to tradition adding most of his order once he was at the window. So we parked the order, and told him we'd bring it out once it was done. This I did, running out his order when it was up. So far, so good. I commence stuffing orders into bags for the window (we were busy). But then, I look around, and to my complete absence of joy, I see this guy standing there with his receipt and and his bag.
*thinks* darn you, what do you want.
*says* "Sorry, can I help you?"
The guy goes, "You charged me for 9 chicken sauce, but I only got 8."

I should point out that chicken sauce is 18 cents a packet. And I checked in his order three minutes ago, I know what I charged him for, and it was 8 packets. At this juncture, what I should do is apologize, and hand over the demanded chicken sauce, preferably bowing and scraping in abject regret.

Instead, what I do is pull myself up to my full height, which, since I was hunched over, means an increase of about four inches, look him directly in the eye, and in my best "I do not tolerate defiance" voice say, "I charged you for 8 packets." My body language, which stated rather clearly that I would dearly love to fling the basket of sweet-and-sour portions at his head most likely didn't hurt the effect either.

At this point, he pauses, actually looks at the receipt in his hand, turns red and slinks away. I continue my work, and then spend the next hour upbraiding myself in the back of my head for my knee-jerk temper.

*sigh*

Maybe you had to be there, but since I spend most of my time at work with my grin so firmly pasted on my face I'm practically leering at the customers, and I'm most often described as "quiet" and "sweet," I think the transformation to "I-will-eat-your-heart Medusa" was rather startling. But I don't think it hurt his loyalty to the double hamburger value pick meal, since he's been back many times since then. Of course, that PARTICULAR guy may not have returned. Like I said, I can't really tell that crowd apart. Ah well. :D

Work tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and then I have two blissful days off. I intend to sleep for 48 hours. :P